“Evangeline. You are too old to get in such a passion. Sit down and calm yourself. Breathe.”
Evangeline crossed her arms over her chest and ignored Muriel’s order. She had to think of some way to escape. Women often married men they did not particularly want to marry, but she could not marry Lord Shiveley. She was not like other women. They might accept unfair treatment, but Evangeline would fight, argue, rebel against injustice. Other women conformed to what was expected of them. Perhaps they did not dream of freedom and a different life.
“You must listen to reason,” Muriel said. “Lord Shiveley is rich and can give you your own home. You will finally have the freedom to do whatever you wish. You will have servants and your own gardens and even your own horse. Many ladies enjoy falconry and hunting. You can have as many dresses and as much jewelry, or anything else your heart desires.”
Only if her husband allowed it.
Muriel knew her well enough to know what might sway her. But a husband did not give freedom. A husband made rules. He took away his wife’s control and replaced it with his own. A wealthy, powerful husband could order his wife around, beat her, do whatever he wished to her, and she could do naught.
Peasants, if they were not married and were free men and women, might be poor, but was it not a hundred times better to be free than to have fancy clothes and expensive food and servants to do everything for you? Freedom and independence were worth more than all the gold a castle could hold. Freedom to choose whom to marry, freedom to walk about the countryside unhindered, to drink from a cool, clear stream and gaze up into the trees, to ride a horse and eat while standing up. To bathe in the river and laugh and sing at the top of her voice—that was freedom.
And now King Richard was about to force her to marry an old, disgusting man.
“But you said it was gossip.” Evangeline began to breathe easier. “Perhaps it was only idle talk.”
Or if it was true, once she was able to talk to King Richard, he would understand. They’d been friends since they were very young, being cousins and only six months apart in age. Although she had not seen much of Richard in the past few years, surely he would listen to her pleas.
Her stomach sank. She was fooling herself. Richard would not listen to her if he had made up his mind. His loyalty to his advisors came before any childhood friendship he might still feel for Evangeline.
“At least Lord Shiveley is taller than you are.” Muriel arched her brows.
“Just because I am taller than half the men I’ve ever met doesn’t mean I want to marry this man.” Evangeline turned away from Muriel and sat on the bench by the window, placing her head in her hands. Perhaps if she were able to cry, it would relieve this terrible ache in her chest.
“There now.” Muriel sat beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do not fret about something that may not even be true. We shall wait until the king arrives and let him tell you why he’s here and if he has aught to say to you.”
But the gentle warmth of Muriel’s hand did not feel comforting. Muriel was fifteen years older than Evangeline, but they were both illegitimate daughters of important men—Evangeline’s father was the king’s uncle, while Muriel’s father was an archbishop. Both of them were dependent on the kindness of King Richard.
Fortunately for Muriel, she was not valued as a pawn in the king’s political maneuverings, to be married off to a man the king wanted to please or bribe. It was easy for Muriel to tell Evangeline not to fret about marrying a repulsive man.
A knock came at the door. Muriel opened it to a man wearing the livery of the king.
“A message for Evangeline, ward of the king, daughter of Lionel of Antwerp, Duke of Clarence.”
Evangeline stood. Muriel brought her the missive, which had been sealed in dark-red wax with the king’s signet ring. She tore it open. The words leapt off the page at her:
Evangeline, I and the Earl of Shiveley would enjoy hearing you sing for us with that famous, incomparable voice of yours. I believe you are acquainted with my advisor, which is more than most noble brides can boast of their betrothed. He became quite enamored of you the last time he heard you sing.
Betrothed.
The note slipped from her hand and fluttered to the floor.
Muriel snatched it up while Evangeline’s whole body went cold. Would her blood congeal from horror? Would she fall to the floor dead? Her throat seemed to close and she was dizzy.
She could not allow herself to be overcome like other women she read about who fainted but then went to their fates like sheep with no compunction or will of their own.