Chapter One
Summer 1384. Berkhamsted Castle, Hertfordshire, England.
Servants may marry whomever they want, but a king’s ward has no freedom at all.”
Evangeline broke off the song she was singing. A lump rose in her throat. Through her open window facing the castle bailey she watched the servants talking and laughing and milling about, finishing their morning chores.
A kitchen maid was drawing a bucket of water at the well in the center of the bailey. A young man approached her.
Alma gave him the dipper, and he lifted it to his lips.
The stranger’s hair was brown and fell over his brow at an angle. He was tall, and even from Evangeline’s bedchamber window on the third level of the castle, she could see he was handsome, with a strong chin and a sturdy stance.
He passed the water around to the other men who had followed him to the well. Evangeline leaned out the window to try to catch what they were saying.
“Thank you,” the man said as he handed the dipper back to the servant. He wore the clothing of a peasant—a leather mantle over his long linen tunic.
“Where are you from?” Alma asked.
“Glynval, a little village north . . . brought . . . to sell . . . and wheat flour . . .” Evangeline couldn’t make out all the words.
The man wasn’t like most peasants. Not that she had seen very many. But this man held himself upright with an air of confidence and ease she had rarely seen before.
Evangeline leaned out a little farther, hanging on to the casement. The man was moving on as the cart started forward, Alma still staring after him. He turned to say something to the other men and suddenly looked up at Evangeline.
“Evangeline!”
She jumped backward, her heart crashing against her chest.
“What are you doing, hanging out the window like a common—? Don’t you know better than to behave that way?” Muriel hurried to the open window and peered out, then closed it and clamped her hands on her hips.
“Am I not allowed to look out the window? I’m no better than the prisoners in the dungeon. You know, I feel much pity for them. I daydream sometimes about releasing them and running away with them.” She tipped her face to the ceiling as if turning her face to the sun and closed her eyes. “How good it would feel, walking free through the fields of wildflowers I read about in a poem once, breathing the fresh air, free to go wherever I want.”
“You think your jests are amusing,” Muriel said, “but when the king of England is your guardian and is planning your wedding to a wealthy nobleman, you should not expect pity. Envy is more likely.”
“Wedding? What do you mean?” Evangeline’s heart seemed to stop beating. “What do you know?”
“It is only gossip, but it is said that the king has promised you to one of his closest advisors.”
“Who?”
“The Earl of Shiveley.”
Evangeline reached out and placed a hand on the stone wall as the room seemed to teeter from side to side. How could the king betroth her to him? Lord Shiveley was old—almost forty—and Evangeline was barely seventeen. She had only seen Lord Shiveley a few times when he had accompanied the king to Berkhamsted Castle. He stared at her in a way that made her stomach sick, and he always managed to put a hand on her—on her shoulder or her back, and even once at her waist. She would always writhe inwardly and step away from him as quickly as she could.
Besides that, it was rumored that Lord Shiveley’s first wife had died under mysterious circumstances.
Evangeline shuddered.
“The king and Lord Shiveley will arrive tonight, and you must be ready to greet them.” Muriel bustled over to the wardrobe where Evangeline’s best dresses were kept. She opened it and rummaged through her clothing. “You should wash your hair. I have ordered your bath sent up, and I shall—”
“Muriel, stop!” Evangeline stared at the woman who had been her closest companion and confidant for ten years. Though Muriel was nearly old enough to be her mother, she could not be so daft.
Muriel stared back at her with a bland expression. “What is it?”
“Surely you must see that I cannot marry that man.” Her voice was a breathy whisper.
“My dear,” Muriel said, not unkindly, “you know, you have always known, you must marry whomever the king wishes you to.”
Evangeline’s throat constricted. “The king does not care a whit about my feelings.”
“Careful.” Muriel’s gaze darted about the room. “You mustn’t risk speaking against the king. You never know who might betray you.”
“I shall tell the king to his face when he arrives that I shall not marry Lord Shiveley, and it is cruel to ask it of me.”
“You know you shall do no such thi—”
“I shall! I shall tell him!”
“Evangeline. You are too old to get in such a passion. Sit down and calm yourself. Breathe.”
Evangeline crossed her arms over her chest and ignored Muriel’s order. She had to think of some way to escape. Women often married men they did not particularly want to marry, but she could not marry Lord Shiveley. She was not like other women. They might accept unfair treatment, but Evangeline would fight, argue, rebel against injustice. Other women conformed to what was expected of them. Perhaps they did not dream of freedom and a different life.
“You must listen to reason,” Muriel said. “Lord Shiveley is rich and can give you your own home. You will finally have the freedom to do whatever you wish. You will have servants and your own gardens and even your own horse. Many ladies enjoy falconry and hunting. You can have as many dresses and as much jewelry, or anything else your heart desires.”
Only if her husband allowed it.
Muriel knew her well enough to know what might sway her. But a husband did not give freedom. A husband made rules. He took away his wife’s control and replaced it with his own. A wealthy, powerful husband could order his wife around, beat her, do whatever he wished to her, and she could do naught.
Peasants, if they were not married and were free men and women, might be poor, but was it not a hundred times better to be free than to have fancy clothes and expensive food and servants to do everything for you? Freedom and independence were worth more than all the gold a castle could hold. Freedom to choose whom to marry, freedom to walk about the countryside unhindered, to drink from a cool, clear stream and gaze up into the trees, to ride a horse and eat while standing up. To bathe in the river and laugh and sing at the top of her voice—that was freedom.
And now King Richard was about to force her to marry an old, disgusting man.
“But you said it was gossip.” Evangeline began to breathe easier. “Perhaps it was only idle talk.”
Or if it was true, once she was able to talk to King Richard, he would understand. They’d been friends since they were very young, being cousins and only six months apart in age. Although she had not seen much of Richard in the past few years, surely he would listen to her pleas.
Her stomach sank. She was fooling herself. Richard would not listen to her if he had made up his mind. His loyalty to his advisors came before any childhood friendship he might still feel for Evangeline.
“At least Lord Shiveley is taller than you are.” Muriel arched her brows.
“Just because I am taller than half the men I’ve ever met doesn’t mean I want to marry this man.” Evangeline turned away from Muriel and sat on the bench by the window, placing her head in her hands. Perhaps if she were able to cry, it would relieve this terrible ache in her chest.
“There now.” Muriel sat beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do not fret about something that may not even be true. We shall wait until the king arrives and let him tell you why he’s here and if he has aught to say to you.”
But the gentle warmth of Muriel’s hand did not feel comforting. Muriel was fifteen years older than Evangeline, but they were both illegitimate daughters of important men—Evangeline’s father was the king’s uncle, while Muriel’s father was an archbishop. Both of them were dependent on the kindness of King Richard.
Fortunately for Muriel, she was not valued as a pawn in the king’s political maneuverings, to be married off to a man the king wanted to please or bribe. It was easy for Muriel to tell Evangeline not to fret about marrying a repulsive man.
A knock came at the door. Muriel opened it to a man wearing the livery of the king.
“A message for Evangeline, ward of the king, daughter of Lionel of Antwerp, Duke of Clarence.”
Evangeline stood. Muriel brought her the missive, which had been sealed in dark-red wax with the king’s signet ring. She tore it open. The words leapt off the page at her:
Evangeline, I and the Earl of Shiveley would enjoy hearing you sing for us with that famous, incomparable voice of yours. I believe you are acquainted with my advisor, which is more than most noble brides can boast of their betrothed. He became quite enamored of you the last time he heard you sing.
Betrothed.
The note slipped from her hand and fluttered to the floor.
The story continues in The Silent Songbird by Melanie Dickerson.