Her life seemed suspended. He had ruled her since she married him ten years ago, at thirteen, and she had never known another man, nor felt herself anything other than his chattel. His castle, his servants, his beasts, his wife. They were all his to do with as he willed.
And now he was gone and she was alone, and every day she found herself doing things, saying things, that she had never thought to do. The castle was hers to rule, the servants must be given their orders, the beasts must be cared for, and the wife . . . The wife was now the master at Arbuthnot Castle.
And yet despite all that it was as if she’d still been in a dream. Suspended and waiting. Until today, when the troubadour—Simon; his name was Simon—when Simon blurted out those words to her and she looked at him, saw him, and something stirred in her heart.
He was handsome, she knew that, all her ladies sighed over him. But he was also manly, with his strong jaw and broad shoulders. And he was young, perhaps very near her own age of twenty-three. It would be strange to hold a man in her arms who was her own age, rather than a husband who was so much older.
Sir Edward Arbuthnot had been a grizzled middle aged man when she married him, full of nothing but fighting and war, and when he went on the Crusades with King Richard, she had kissed him goodbye and wished him safe return, and yet she’d been secretly glad he was going.
But s he hadn’t expected him not to return.
She hadn’t imagined for a moment that might happen .
He’d left his steward in charge, and when word came that Sir Edward had died in Cyprus, and been buried there, the steward had expected to carry on as before. Yolanda might even have allowed that to happen, but one day she caught him abusing a young kitchen boy who had burnt the roasting meat, and she dismissed him.
He’d laughed in her face, not believing her capable, and she had called on some of her more trusted servants to throw him bodily from the castle gates. She’d had to scream at them, in the end, to make them do her will. No one had believed her capable. For so long Sir Edward had ruled her and everyone else that she had become a shadow in her own life.
After that, her people looked at her with more respect. They accepted that Yolanda was now the master of Arbuthnot Castle.
And yet there was something else, something beyond her control, something no one seemed able to help her with. No one she dared to ask, it was so shameful.
Until today, when she saw Simon the troubadour, and thought: Perhaps he is the one.
Simon had believed her husband was unfaithful to her, but he had misunderstood her words. Yolanda’s husband had remained true to her until he died, but his love was a suffocating, jealous thing. But all her life she’d hoped that somewhere there was a love so perfect it would live forever, the sort of love she’d believed Eleanor and Henry had, and that one day she would find it, too.
Except that Edward had made that impossible.
Involuntarily her hand slid down to her waist and then lower, feeling the outline of the metal casing through her skirts.
The chastity belt.
In the weeks before he left for the Crusades, Edward had seemed preoccupied. A man she had never seen before had come to visit them several times, and the two men were often shut up together. Taskill, that was his name, was disliked by the servants and Yolanda alike, and when she looked into his eyes she saw nothing but blackness.
“ I have heard he can perform feats of magic,” one of her maids whispered, with a glance over her shoulder. “Some of the Crusaders go to him to ensure their ladies will not cuckold them while they are away.”
“Sir Edward would not do that,” Yolanda gasped. “He knows I would never cuckold him.”
Nevertheless fear seized hold of her. She knew Edward well, and it was not so much his fear of her straying that drove him, but his insatiable need to control her, even while he was away.
And now he was gone and she was alone, and every day she found herself doing things, saying things, that she had never thought to do. The castle was hers to rule, the servants must be given their orders, the beasts must be cared for, and the wife . . . The wife was now the master at Arbuthnot Castle.
And yet despite all that it was as if she’d still been in a dream. Suspended and waiting. Until today, when the troubadour—Simon; his name was Simon—when Simon blurted out those words to her and she looked at him, saw him, and something stirred in her heart.
He was handsome, she knew that, all her ladies sighed over him. But he was also manly, with his strong jaw and broad shoulders. And he was young, perhaps very near her own age of twenty-three. It would be strange to hold a man in her arms who was her own age, rather than a husband who was so much older.
Sir Edward Arbuthnot had been a grizzled middle aged man when she married him, full of nothing but fighting and war, and when he went on the Crusades with King Richard, she had kissed him goodbye and wished him safe return, and yet she’d been secretly glad he was going.
But s he hadn’t expected him not to return.
She hadn’t imagined for a moment that might happen .
He’d left his steward in charge, and when word came that Sir Edward had died in Cyprus, and been buried there, the steward had expected to carry on as before. Yolanda might even have allowed that to happen, but one day she caught him abusing a young kitchen boy who had burnt the roasting meat, and she dismissed him.
He’d laughed in her face, not believing her capable, and she had called on some of her more trusted servants to throw him bodily from the castle gates. She’d had to scream at them, in the end, to make them do her will. No one had believed her capable. For so long Sir Edward had ruled her and everyone else that she had become a shadow in her own life.
After that, her people looked at her with more respect. They accepted that Yolanda was now the master of Arbuthnot Castle.
And yet there was something else, something beyond her control, something no one seemed able to help her with. No one she dared to ask, it was so shameful.
Until today, when she saw Simon the troubadour, and thought: Perhaps he is the one.
Simon had believed her husband was unfaithful to her, but he had misunderstood her words. Yolanda’s husband had remained true to her until he died, but his love was a suffocating, jealous thing. But all her life she’d hoped that somewhere there was a love so perfect it would live forever, the sort of love she’d believed Eleanor and Henry had, and that one day she would find it, too.
Except that Edward had made that impossible.
Involuntarily her hand slid down to her waist and then lower, feeling the outline of the metal casing through her skirts.
The chastity belt.
In the weeks before he left for the Crusades, Edward had seemed preoccupied. A man she had never seen before had come to visit them several times, and the two men were often shut up together. Taskill, that was his name, was disliked by the servants and Yolanda alike, and when she looked into his eyes she saw nothing but blackness.
“ I have heard he can perform feats of magic,” one of her maids whispered, with a glance over her shoulder. “Some of the Crusaders go to him to ensure their ladies will not cuckold them while they are away.”
“Sir Edward would not do that,” Yolanda gasped. “He knows I would never cuckold him.”
Nevertheless fear seized hold of her. She knew Edward well, and it was not so much his fear of her straying that drove him, but his insatiable need to control her, even while he was away.
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