Free At The King's Command by Susan Wiggs Page A

metallic clank echoed through the cavernous dining hall, with its tapestry hangings and the hammer-beam ceiling arching like giant ribs high above. The table was laid with fine plate and crockery for a sumptuous meal. Spiked on wrought-silver holders were beeswax tapers, their flames bending gently from the breeze through the tall, slender windows.
    Great princes, learned scholars and dour clergymen had dined at this table, Stephen reflected. But never a half-wild vagabond. No doubt she had the manners of a sow.
    Blowing out a sigh, he decided to tell Jonathan the truth. “Her name is Juliana, and she claims to be from the kingdom of Muscovy or Rus. No doubt ’tis a fiction she invented. She has been traveling with a band of gypsies.”
    Jonathan’s eyes widened. “I had heard the king saddledyou with a foreign wench, but I thought ’twas another of Havelock’s embellishments. Or a jest of the king.”
    “To Henry, it was a jest.”
    “The king has a passion for amusement—at the expense of a good man’s pride.” Jonathan rested his thick forearms on the table and leaned forward. “So what’s she like? Sloe-eyed and passionate? I’ve heard the Romany folk are a hot-blooded race.” He jiggled his eyebrows.
    Stephen scowled over the rim of his goblet. “She is rather…” He groped for a polite term. “Rustic.”
    “Ah. An earthy beauty, then.”
    “Not quite.”
    “She’s not earthy?” Jonathan’s gaze moved past Stephen; he seemed to be studying something behind his friend.
    “She’s not a beauty.” Stephen realized he had little notion of what his wife truly looked like under all the grime and tangled hair. She had been too wild during the bathing, and he had glimpsed only raking fingernails and a red mouth spitting foreign curses.
    In his mind’s eye he pictured her: dark strands escaping two thick braids, a dirt-smudged face, a small shapeless form draped in rags. “Her looks hardly matter to me. I intend to be rid of her once the king has had his fill of tormenting me.”
    “I see.” Merriment gleamed in Jonathan’s eyes, and his lips thinned as he tried not to smile. “She is truly a humiliation, then.”
    “Aye, a bedraggled wench with all the appeal of a basin of ditch water.”
    “Why, thank you ever so much, my lord,” said a soft, accented voice behind Stephen. “At least I haven’t the manners of a toad.”
    Jonathan wheezed in an effort to stifle a laugh.
    The gypsy. How much had she overheard?
    Slowly, still clutching his cup, Stephen rose from the table and turned. His fingers went slack. The pewter goblet dropped to the table, spilling wine across the polished surface. Stunned into silence by the vision that had entered the room, he could only stare.
    She wore a gown and kirtle of dusky rose brocade with a high-waisted bodice and fitted sleeves, and an overgown with a long, trailing train. The square neckline of the bodice revealed her bosom—fine-textured and rosy, as inviting as a ripe peach.
    Had it not been for her vivid green eyes, he would not have recognized the face. Every trace of dirt and ash had been scrubbed away to reveal a visage as exquisite as the delicate blossom of a rose in springtime.
    Eschewing the usual fashionable French hood, she wore her hair long and loose, dressed with a simple rolled band of gold satin. A thorough cleansing had turned the indistinct dark color to deep, rich sable ablaze with gleaming red highlights. The endless length and fine, billowy texture of it made Stephen’s hands itch to bury themselves in it.
    If I were to touch her now , he caught himself thinking, I would touch her hair first.
    And with a dreadful, sinking awareness, he knew he would not stop there.
    “You must be the lady Juliana, the new baroness.” Jonathan bumped against his chair in his haste to get up. He swept into a dramatic bow. “I am Sir Jonathan Youngblood of the neighboring estate of Lytton Mount.”
    “Enchantée.” With a slim white hand, Juliana