Free The Confession of Piers Gaveston by Brandy Purdy Page B

and I could do nothing but shake my head and drink cup after cup of hippocras, hoping vainly that the warm spiced wine would melt the uneasy coldness inside. And still that crow inside my head kept cawing: “This is a mistake! This is a mistake!” and I prayed the hippocras would silence him or drown out his cries.
    Then it was time for the eagerly awaited ritual of the bride-cakes. Custom dictated that every guest bring a small, round, flat cake adorned with currants, honey, fruit, or nuts, and stack them as high as they could upon a table. The bride and groom must stand, face to face with the table of cakes between them and lean forward and kiss. If the cakes remain in place the marriage will be happy, fruitful, and prosperous, but if they topple the very opposite will come to pass. Need I even tell you that they toppled?
    Edward was at my side in an instant declaiming like a hero of legend: “Nay, my beloved Perrot, do not fear! By my life, you shall be happy and prosper, I swear!”
    At his words Meg smiled and ventured to ask shyly: “And shall we have many children, Uncle Edward?”
    Edward could not answer, so I smiled and confidently asserted “Dozens!” and kept smiling even as Edward stamped his foot down hard upon mine to show how much he disliked my answer.
    Nearby stood Warwick, Lancaster, and Lincoln.
    “Generally I do not hold with superstition,” The Black Dog growled, stroking his long black beard strewn and matted with bread crumbs and sour cherry sauce, “but this is one time when I think it will prove correct.”
    Burstbelly nodded and grunted his agreement but could not offer further comment as his mouth was crammed full of cake.
    “Aye,” The Buffoon nodded, preening in his pink and orange striped taffeta and stroking his little pointy gold beard. “Do you think The Gascon even knows what to do with a woman?”
    “Poor lass, she might as well have stayed in the convent and took vows,” War-wick answered, “for all the good this marriage will do her. Methinks being the bride of Gaveston and a bride of Christ are not so dissimilar; either way she will spend her days sequestered in the country with her maidenhead unbreached and nothing to do but ply her needle and pray!”
    Hearing their words, I had the most amusing idea for a jest and my eyes eagerly sought Aymer de Valence, the Earl of Pembroke, the wisest and most esteemed of Edward’s councilors.
    I found him standing near a window-seat, looking very distinguished in deep green velvet. His gray-speckled black hair was newly cropped and the style suited him well. Indeed, I thought him a most elegant figure, so tall and trim, and far too serious, and it was neither the first nor the last time that I found myself lamenting that he stood with Warwick, Lancaster, and Lincoln as my enemy. He is such a solemn man and guards his smiles and laughter like a miser, and this I have taken as a challenge. Someday I will make the Earl of Pembroke smile at me!
    “My Lord of Pembroke!” I rushed up to him and laid my hand upon his sleeve. “You are a married man!”
    “Yes, Gaveston,” he nodded indulgently, condescendingly, as if he were speaking to a simpleton or a small child, “as you well know, I am a married man, and yonder is my lady-wife,” he indicated a lovely silver-haired woman gowned in gray satin. “Why do you not go and talk to her? She finds you charming and amusing.”
    “Unlike you!” I pouted. “But this is something I cannot discuss with your lady-wife; if I tried you might challenge me to a duel! Lean down a little, you are too tall!”
    “Oh very well!” he frowned. “But do stop stroking my sleeve as if it were your pet!”
    He obliged me and leaned down and I whispered into his ear: “When I am alone with my wife what am I to do?”
    “Good heavens!” Pembroke straightened abruptly. “You mean you do not know? Gaveston, this is most … awkward! Can you not ask His Majesty? Given the close nature of your … ahmm