A Dishonorable Knight - By Morrison, Michelle Page 0,3

marrying Anne brought him a great deal of wealth, Catherine, and the sooner you realize that is all your husband will care about--"

Catherine, short, slender, and incurably romantic turned and wailed, "Elena, please tell Margaret to stop her tiresome lectures. I came to court to escape such lectures from my mother and nurse!"

"Liar," Elena laughed. "You came to court to find a wealthy husband!"

"Is that not all you are here for?" asked Margaret scathingly.

Elena turned to face the dark-haired girl who, even seated, was tall. "I shall not settle for a husband who is merely wealthy."

"What other requisites must he possess," Margaret asked, her blue eyes narrowing with cynicism.

Elena stared across the table. "What matter is it to you? I thought you do not even wish to wed. Are you not planning on devoting you life to God?"

"'Tis the only occupation where a woman has any say in her future."

"As long as that future obeys the dictates of the pope and every bishop and priest from here to Rome,” Elena retorted.

"And I suppose Lord Edgeford will give you free reign to do whatever you desire."

Elena smiled. "Within reason, I am sure."

"And he probably will not even mind that your father is a Lancastrian earl or that your discretion where men are concerned is less than immaculate."

"I believe King Richard favors me well enough," Elena said tightly, abruptly turning her back on Margaret. Elena had always believed that sheer determination could make any dream a reality. Her father, upon realizing she was to be his only child, had lavished upon her the knowledge and schooling usually reserved for sons. She was determined to use both her intelligence and her wits to make Edgeford her husband. She had overcome her father’s ties to the Lancasters, now she had only to overcome the gossip that had plagued her for the past year.

Casually glancing in her lord's direction, she discovered him still seated in the middle of the great hall, but now his hair was tousled, his cheeks were flushed, and he seemed engrossed in a very private discussion with a shapely brunette, their heads nearly touching as they spoke. Something the woman said must have amused him because he threw back his head with laughter before grabbing the woman's hand and pressing a fervent kiss to her knuckles.

Elena scowled in anger. Men were so simple, she thought. Out of sight, out of mind, wasn't that what her cousin Sarah always said? Just this morning when Elena had walked with him in the orchard, he told her that hers was the most beautiful laugh he had ever heard and all other women's laughter would forever fall discordantly on his ears. Fortunately, she was not naive enough to believe everything men told her.

Upon first coming to court, she had quickly fallen in love with one of the king’s advisors, Lord Marchon. He was polished and worldly, handsome and dashing. They spent hours in the king’s private gardens, talking about books and kingdom politics, music and poetry. He sent her crystal bottles of perfume, posies of flowers, handkerchiefs of silk. Elena had believed his devotions of love and his promise for a beautiful life together. So fervently had she believed that she did not cry out when he woke her in her bed. The court was in York and Elena’s bed was but a hard pallet in a curtained alcove off the main hall. It scarcely offered privacy, but Marchon’s kisses were persuasive and if they could be married immediately, there would be no real harm in consummating their love, could there?

“Married?” he asked, a confused frown marring his handsome brow. “But I thought you understood, my sweet.” And in cold hard terms, he spelled out his idea for their “future together.” She would become his mistress and live in a rented house in London, available to him at his every whim, forbidden, unfortunately, from being seen with him in public, much less at court.

Elena was so angry, she shrieked and struck at him, raking his face with her nails. When she reared back to throw her fists at him again, she succeeded only in throwing herself out of the bed, out into the main hall where men were drinking, serving wenches on their laps. The uproar her arrival started only intensified when Lord Marchon stepped out of the alcove, adjusted his clothing, and left. For the rumors that flew through the court over the next fortnight, she may as well have given her virtue over.