Insurrection: Renegade [02] by Robyn Young Page A

snarled in answer and slammed the pommel of the man’s sword into his face, breaking his nose. While the guard was grasping at his face, Cormac booted him viciously into the chamber and swung the door shut. Snapping the bolts across, he followed Robert. Down through the tower they raced, out into the pale dusk.
     
    ‘Please keep still, my lady, or I’ll never get this gown laced. Your father will be wondering where you are as it is. As will your bridegroom.’
    ‘I cannot breathe, Lora,’ gasped Elizabeth de Burgh, looking over her shoulder as her maid tugged in the cords of the jewel-green gown at her back. With every pull, the stiff silk bodice tightened around her ribs and chest, threatening to suffocate her. It was a mild evening and the heavy material prickled against her clammy skin. She wanted nothing more than to strip off its weight and slip into the cool gloom of the castle’s chapel, where she could be alone with her thoughts and prayers. The gown’s buttoned sleeves bound her arms like manacles from elbow to wrist.
    ‘Almost done,’ muttered the maid, giving one final tug to the laces. ‘There we are.’
    Elizabeth stared at herself in the mirror, while Lora gathered a satin surcoat and veil from the clothes perch. The gold trim on the gown glimmered in the candlelight, filling the looking-glass with its burnished glow. Her skin was pale against its radiance. Her black hair, normally hidden beneath a coif, was sleek with perfumed oil and piled up on her head, the twisted locks held in place by gem-tipped pins. Her reflection was a stranger to her. She thought of the many guests filling her father’s hall, all the faces that would turn as she entered, her father and husband-to-be among them. Suddenly, the gown seemed even tighter, her breath harder to catch.
    ‘Arms up,’ said Lora, holding out the fitted gold surcoat that went over the gown. There was a black lion embroidered on the chest, from the de Burgh coat of arms.
    ‘I can’t, Lora.’ Elizabeth turned to her. ‘I can’t.’
    The maid’s brow knotted as she glanced at the garment. ‘Sir Richard had this made specially, my lady.’ Her tone was low, worried. ‘He will expect you to wear it.’
    ‘Not the gown. The feast.’ Elizabeth brought her hand to her mouth. Her voice cracked. ‘This marriage.’
    Lora’s face filled with sympathy. As tears welled in Elizabeth’s eyes, the maid placed the surcoat on the bed and clutched her mistress’s arms. ‘My lady, I know you are afraid, but you must have courage. You know how important this marriage is to your father, how much he needs Lord Henry’s support with the troubles growing on our borders.’
    ‘I begged him to let me enter a convent. I want to take the veil for Christ, not a man three times my age.’
    ‘Lord Henry isn’t so old,’ chided the maid.
    Elizabeth took her hand from her mouth, her face tightening. ‘He is older than my father, Lora. His first wife bore him twelve children. She died giving birth to the last.’ She twisted back to the mirror, her eyes narrowing on her reflection, feeling a hot urge to tear off the gown and rip the pins from her hair, to scratch her face until she was ugly. She had seen the way Lord Henry looked at her during that first meeting two months ago, when the marriage had been arranged. It had reminded her of the foxes that prowled around the henhouse at dusk, their black eyes intent. She remembered the liver-spots on his hands, his fingers as fat as tubers, remembered the freckled bald patch on his head and the yellowness of his teeth.
    Lora sighed gently. ‘This is your duty, as it was your sisters’ before you. Besides, you will not be going to Lord Henry alone. I will be with you. Come, my lady,’ she said staunchly, picking up the surcoat. ‘Your father and his guests are waiting.’
    Numbly, Elizabeth lifted her arms, allowing the maid to lower the surcoat over her head and smooth it over the gown. She thought of her sisters