Free The Miracle Thief by Iris Anthony Page A

do not go now, then you will be full sorry that you stayed.” I would be sorry he stayed. I would be mortified should he see me give vent to my anger through raging tears and heaving sobs.
    â€œYour father said I was to escort you to dinner when you wished to come.”
    â€œI do not wish to dine tonight.” I did not want to smile at the Count of Paris and receive the archbishop’s blessing as if they had not just sold me for the bounty of a thousand convert souls. I did not want to feel the eyes of all of the nobles upon me or watch the looks they passed me as they wondered what kind of man the Dane was and how ill he might use me.
    The knight shrugged as he took another bite.
    â€œMust you eat that here?”
    â€œWhat else am I to eat? Just because you do not want anything does not mean that I do not.”
    At such an imminently reasonable complaint, the dam that held back my tears broke, and they overflowed my eyes with the force of fury and desperate fear. “And just because the archbishop promised me to some pagan does not make it right. And just because my father cannot bear to break a promise someone else made on his behalf should not mean I have no opinion about it!” And just because the marriage was part of a treaty did not mean I would become like Poppa…did it? Could it? If she were a concubine, then I would be the Dane’s lawful wife, would I not? But as I turned that thought over, I found all I had been clinging to was a flimsy bit of straw. My worst fear was going to come to pass. It did not matter if Poppa was just a concubine. She was with the chieftain just the same. And though he had abducted her, she had stayed with him and borne him sons. She might as well be his rightful wife. And that would make me, in all the ways that mattered, his concubine.
    The knight could not say I had not warned him. When I could not staunch the flow of those pitiful tears, he finally picked himself up and left.
    ***
    My sleep that night was short. My dreams haunted by that nameless, faceless woman of my childhood and her dire warnings of the Danes. By the time morning dawned and the sun sifted in through the gaps in the shutters, I was famished. Rising before the others, I went out and begged some bread and pickled fish from the kitchen. I ate near the door, out of the way of the servants’ preparations, where I could still benefit from the warmth of the fires. I was not the only one about at such an early hour. As I was finishing, I heard the shuffle of footsteps across the courtyard.
    They drew near and then stopped just short of me.
    It was my father. I could tell by the scents of the lavender that was used to freshen his tunics and the cloves he liked to chew. “I wish you would not weary yourself over the Dane.”
    It was as close to an apology as I was likely to receive. If I hoped to gain anything, any promise from him, then this was the time to try. I turned and took his hand in mine. “I do not doubt this was the archbishop’s idea, and I know it was done without your consent, but I fear for my life. Please. Do not let me become a Saint Lucy or Saint Agnes. Please do not send me away.”
    We parted, dropping hands, to allow a water carrier to pass.
    When he spoke again, his eyes were soft with compassion. “Surely God will defend you.”
    â€œHe did not defend them.”
    His face creased with a frown. “There is nothing left for me to do and God could not disagree with this treaty. Why would He not honor a desire to convert the pagans? And in that case, why would He not protect you?” His eyes searched mine for…understanding? Forgiveness? “How could this be wrong?”
    The archbishop had brought God into these negotiations, and now my father was doing the same. But I did not want to be used by Providence. “What if it does mean certain sacrifice for me? Could we not ask for some sign from God?” For something, anything ,