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Nor did she anticipate it being crowded with so many people she could hardly see her groom, who stood at the tray-sized altar.
And she certainly did not intend to be wearing nothing more than a simple gold bliaut covered by her best cloak—the fanciest article of clothing she could grab before Gavin ushered her out of the chamber. And her hair…! She did not want to think on the sight of her hair, for surely she’d mussed the simple braids when she lay down on her bed for a nap after Tabby fixed it up after her bath.
“You look beautiful,” her cousin told her when she balked at leaving in her state of attire. “But we cannot wait. We must go now. If there is a delay, Henry may learn of the plan and put a stop to it. Once you are wed, ’tis a different matter—but if he halts it, I fear you will never be free of him. ”
This was enough of a threat to get Judith out of her chamber in a swirl of cloak—even leaving behind her gold link girdle and emerald earbobs. And when she and Gavin arrived at the chapel, Maris was there at the doorway.
Maris ordered Gavin to step aside. “I’ll set her to rights…just one moment,” she said. A twitch, a pull and a tug later, she had pinned combs bejeweled with topazes and emeralds into Judith’s hair. “There,” she said. “Now you look lovely. And your rash is all but gone. ”
Gavin took Judith’s arm and before she knew it, he was leading her down the short, narrow aisle to the altar. She recognized many of the faces who lined the route—Hugh de Rigonier and Castendown, Lord Rittendon, Alynne and Ursula…even Salisbury and Peter of Blois.
Judith nearly gasped aloud when she saw Father Anselm and the Archbishop of Canterbury standing at the small altar. Her eyes widened and she glanced at Gavin, who murmured, “Warwick takes no chance that the wedding will not be recognized. ”
At that, Judith had the courage to look at Malcolm for the first time. He stood towering over everyone in the chapel, helped by his great height and broad shoulders as well as the small dais. She noted at once that his sable-brown hair had been trimmed and was shorter than she’d ever seen it, just past his chin. It was shiny and combed neatly, and his jaw clean-shaven and smooth.
Unlike Judith, he wore fine clothing: a tunic in the colors of Warwick—gray and blue—with detailed embroidery that must have taken many hours of work. Beneath the tunic was a sherte of dark blue, embroidered at the end of the long, tight sleeves in gold, red and white. He wore a heavy, ornate sapphire and emerald brooch at his throat, anchoring a shimmering gray cloak lined with dark red fabric. His boots were well-tooled dark brown leather, more costly than a good mare. On his right hand was a heavy signet ring with a square stone of onyx.
At this imposing sight, Judith swallowed hard—for she’d never seen him dressed befitting his station as a great and wealthy baron. He was both breathtakingly handsome and intimidating all at once. She managed to raise her gaze to his, mortified that she should be presented to her future husband dressed as she was whilst he was garbed in all finery.
But when she met his hazel eyes, she saw only anticipation and blatant approval. Judith held her chin high and when Gavin transferred her hand to Malcolm’s, she gave a brief curtsy to her soon-to-be husband, then pressed a kiss to her cousin’s cheek.
Malcolm’s large hand covered hers easily, his fingers warm and steadying around hers as they turned to face the priest and the archbishop, kneeling on the prie-dieu in front of them.
The ceremony was too brief and yet interminable. Judith, who’d attended mass countless times in her life, and nearly as many weddings, struggled between nervousness and pleasure as the clergymen led them through the familiar rites. Throughout, Malcolm’s fingers remained curled around hers, offering stability and comfort.
When at last Canterbury released them to the room at large, she and her new husband faced each other. He bent to press a brief, soft kiss to her lips, then turned to present the new Lady of Warwick to their friends and peers.
And then all at once, the chapel went dead silent. Everyone was turning toward the rear.
“What is happening here?” demanded a familiar peremptory voice.
Judith went instantly cold, her insides puddling into fear and her knees weakening as she looked up to see King Henry standing on the chapel’s threshold.
“Good evening, your majesty,” said Malcolm in a smooth, calm voice. ’Twas Judith’s good fortune that he had a strong hold around her waist, else she might have sagged to the floor.
“Your majesty,” said Gavin, interrupting when Malcolm might have continued. “You have arrived just in time to congratulate Warwick on his new bride. ”
Judith swore the chamber held its collective breath as the news sunk in. Even from across the small way, she saw an array of emotions pass over Henry’s face: shock, disbelief, fury. She noticed Dirick of Ludingdon and Hugh de Rigonier shifting their position so as to be visible to the king.
“Canterbury?” the king demanded, looking about. “What have you to say?”
“Congratulate Warwick, Henry. He’s made a fine choice in wife,” said Thomas à Becket—who may or may not have been aware of the undercurrents now seething in the holy place. “I have just finished officiating the ceremony—and now I wish to eat and drink. ”
“Indeed. ” The king’s voice was frosty and his expression like granite. He looked at Judith, meeting her eyes from the other end of the aisle, and she shivered at the expression therein. She clutched Malcolm’s arm more tightly, and he gave her a little squeeze.
“Very well then,” said Henry in a falsely jovial voice, “’tis off to the hall we go, for much celebration!”
Henry Plantagenet, King of England, Duke of Anjou, had never been foiled so neatly and truly as he had been today.
He simmered during the loud, raucous evening meal, wherein he was required to pretend to happily endorse the marriage of the woman with whom he was obsessed to a wealthy baron who had powerful friends. Even dressed as she was—in a simple, loose gown, with her brilliant fire-gold hair in a variety of braids—Judith of Kentworth was magnificent. He could still taste the sweetness of her skin and feel the perfect heft and weight of her breasts. The image of her hair spread over the white coverings of his bed, and her ivory body splayed on dark, sable fur were burned into his mind.
He was not yet finished with her, and though she’d been snatched from beneath his nose by Malcolm of Warwick, Henry was not about to stand down. Nay. He was King. It had been more than a se’ennight since he’d had his fill of her, and he would wait no longer. He would not be denied.
And so as the evening progressed and his court drank itself merry and stuffed itself with the extravagant meal he provided, Henry waited. He imbibed little, ate less, and watched. Eleanor, who sat next to him at the high table, coldly ignored him. Yet she was no happier with the events of the day than her husband.
And when Judith of Kentworth—now Lady of Warwick—stood at last to go to her chamber to prepare for her wedding night, Henry noticed. And when he saw that Malcolm of Warwick seemed not to notice or care—for he appeared well into his cups and wholly entertained by Hugh de Rigonier and a raucous game of dice—Henry rose.
The hall had begun to empty out, for it was late. Men-at-arms snored, their heads resting on the tables. Most of the ladies had sought their beds. But the bridegroom seemed in no hurry to do so. Canterbury was gone as well, Henry noted with relief. He and Becket had been close once upon a time, but since being named archbishop, Becket had become holier-than-thou.
