Lavender Vows
I.
“ Father, are you mad? Beatrice of Callaway is barely ten years of age!” Bernard of Derkland frowned and finished off his tankard of ale, wishing his father would leave off grousing at him. If they’d only have one conversation where the man did not bring up suitable wives…!
“Aye, but if one judges by her mother, in five years she’ll be a good breeder—and a generous dowry she brings.” Lord Harold turned to look out over the rows of diners eating in the great hall of Wyckford Heath. They were guests at the week-long celebration of the wedding of the Lord of Wyckford’s youngest daughter. “What of Theresa, daughter of Lord Enderman?”
Bernard gaped. Was not his parent supposed to have some care for him? “Father, would you have that horse-faced shrew in your wedding bed? An’ she hasn’t a brides’ portion big enough to make one forget that her temper is worse than a goat in heat.” He drummed his fingers on the rough trestle table.
His father chuckled and traced the outline of his mouth with a thumb and forefinger. “Mayhaps you speak the truth on that. Even the dogs slink away when she walks thither.” He chuckled again and bit off a chunk of roasted venison from its cross-shaped bone. Chewing thoughtfully for a moment, he drew his bushy grey brows together as if deep in thought. A moment later, his brows sprang apart as a new idea lit his face. “Mathilda, Lady Cretton, has a generous bride’s price an’ she is not hard on the eyes. What say you that, Bernard? I’ll speak to her father on the morrow.”
“Only if you would like to find your firstborn son dead of mysterious causes,” Bernard shot back. “All the wagging tongues say that she helped her first two husbands to an early grave. I’d as lief not be the third.” He stood, stepping backward over the long bench that lined the trestle table at which they ate. “Father, I know that ’tis important that I wed, but I should prefer to choose a bride of my own liking.”
“An’ choose her you shall, if you make a decision anon. ’Tis past time you wed, and if you do not make your choice, I will make one for you.” Harold’s countenance took on a firm cast that brooked no disagreement from his son.
In truth, Bernard knew that the time for equivocating was gone. With his younger brother Dirick haring off with the new king in Aquitaine, and their middle brother wearing the robes of a simple monk, the necessity of wedding and breeding weighed heavily upon him. At one score and seven, Bernard had no excuses to offer. Duty beckoned.
“Aye, Father. I’ll begin to attend to it during our stay here.”
With a curt nod, he strode off, out of the hall, pushing past the throngs of people and stepping around the begging hounds. He took long, hard steps that bespoke of his height and solid build, and as he left the noise of the hall behind him, his boots made echoing thumps in the empty passageway.
If ’tweren’t dark, and he weren’t in unfamiliar territory, Bernard would mount his stallion and ride to clear his head. As ’twas, he could only visit the stables and talk to his favorite horse, Rock, and save the ride for daylight.
At times, the weight of being heir to the vast lands of Derkland weighed so heavily upon him that he wished for the freedom of his brother Dirick, who could travel and live his life as he wished. But then that weight would lessen as he recalled that his own brother had naught to bring to a beautiful lady whom he might wish to wed, and that his prospects would not be near as numerous as Bernard’s own.
And he did love Derkland, Bernard reflected as he slipped into the stables, with all of her rolling green hills and thick forests, tiny thatched huts and fat woolly sheep. But most of all, he loved the soft brown noses of the fierce destriers that Derkland bred—the heavy, stamping hooves that made even his bulk seem insubstantial, and
I.
“ Father, are you mad? Beatrice of Callaway is barely ten years of age!” Bernard of Derkland frowned and finished off his tankard of ale, wishing his father would leave off grousing at him. If they’d only have one conversation where the man did not bring up suitable wives…!
“Aye, but if one judges by her mother, in five years she’ll be a good breeder—and a generous dowry she brings.” Lord Harold turned to look out over the rows of diners eating in the great hall of Wyckford Heath. They were guests at the week-long celebration of the wedding of the Lord of Wyckford’s youngest daughter. “What of Theresa, daughter of Lord Enderman?”
Bernard gaped. Was not his parent supposed to have some care for him? “Father, would you have that horse-faced shrew in your wedding bed? An’ she hasn’t a brides’ portion big enough to make one forget that her temper is worse than a goat in heat.” He drummed his fingers on the rough trestle table.
His father chuckled and traced the outline of his mouth with a thumb and forefinger. “Mayhaps you speak the truth on that. Even the dogs slink away when she walks thither.” He chuckled again and bit off a chunk of roasted venison from its cross-shaped bone. Chewing thoughtfully for a moment, he drew his bushy grey brows together as if deep in thought. A moment later, his brows sprang apart as a new idea lit his face. “Mathilda, Lady Cretton, has a generous bride’s price an’ she is not hard on the eyes. What say you that, Bernard? I’ll speak to her father on the morrow.”
“Only if you would like to find your firstborn son dead of mysterious causes,” Bernard shot back. “All the wagging tongues say that she helped her first two husbands to an early grave. I’d as lief not be the third.” He stood, stepping backward over the long bench that lined the trestle table at which they ate. “Father, I know that ’tis important that I wed, but I should prefer to choose a bride of my own liking.”
“An’ choose her you shall, if you make a decision anon. ’Tis past time you wed, and if you do not make your choice, I will make one for you.” Harold’s countenance took on a firm cast that brooked no disagreement from his son.
In truth, Bernard knew that the time for equivocating was gone. With his younger brother Dirick haring off with the new king in Aquitaine, and their middle brother wearing the robes of a simple monk, the necessity of wedding and breeding weighed heavily upon him. At one score and seven, Bernard had no excuses to offer. Duty beckoned.
“Aye, Father. I’ll begin to attend to it during our stay here.”
With a curt nod, he strode off, out of the hall, pushing past the throngs of people and stepping around the begging hounds. He took long, hard steps that bespoke of his height and solid build, and as he left the noise of the hall behind him, his boots made echoing thumps in the empty passageway.
If ’tweren’t dark, and he weren’t in unfamiliar territory, Bernard would mount his stallion and ride to clear his head. As ’twas, he could only visit the stables and talk to his favorite horse, Rock, and save the ride for daylight.
At times, the weight of being heir to the vast lands of Derkland weighed so heavily upon him that he wished for the freedom of his brother Dirick, who could travel and live his life as he wished. But then that weight would lessen as he recalled that his own brother had naught to bring to a beautiful lady whom he might wish to wed, and that his prospects would not be near as numerous as Bernard’s own.
And he did love Derkland, Bernard reflected as he slipped into the stables, with all of her rolling green hills and thick forests, tiny thatched huts and fat woolly sheep. But most of all, he loved the soft brown noses of the fierce destriers that Derkland bred—the heavy, stamping hooves that made even his bulk seem insubstantial, and
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