Judith did not dwell long on that thought. She knew that, given the chance to go back in time, she would do nothing different.

William had destroyed all her dreams. He had been in a drunken stupor caused by grief over the loss of Elisabeth, and emerged from it to find that Judith had taken advantage of his drunken state and tricked him into marriage. He beat her nearly to death for this, and the small scar she bore on her left cheek had remained. She would never forgive him for it.

Vanity was her sin and her undoing. She had been so sure William would accept her as his wife and be happy about it. After all, six years ago she'd been a beautiful young woman lacking only a dowry. Her high-boned cheeks, jewel like green eyes, and heavy, dark blond hair set her apart from most other women. Many a man had wanted to marry her for her beauty alone, but none were as well landed as William of Montwyn.

But William, it turned out, did not own all Judith believed he did.

Three of his keeps belonged to his daughter. Had she known that, Judith would never have tricked William into marriage.

He was in such a rage over the marriage that Judith had had to lie and say she was with child. It was either that or be cast out immediately. Of course, Judith could never have a child. An abortion the year before had ruined her womb, but William did not know that.

To protect herself from the time when William would ask about her supposed pregnancy, she encouraged his inclination to stay drunk. And she had kept him in a state of drunken forgetfulness since then. She didn't care that she had helped to ruin the man, for she'd hated him from the day he beat her. She hated him still. He was only a drunk now. She could not bear to be near him.

Judith took charge of Montwyn, indulging her every whim, from owning costly gowns and jewels to keeping handsome lovers near her.

Everything was in her charge, and she had seen to it right after marrying William that his daughter was not at Montwyn to interfere.

It had been easy at first to tell William that Leonie was visiting relatives. Later, she found she could make him believe that he saw Leonie regularly, so ill with drunkenness and grief was he. He was, within a short time, permanently disoriented. He could be told anything, be made to believe anything.

Relatives and neighbors stopped inquiring after Leonie, thinking she had gone to Pershwick of her own choice rather than stay with a drunken father. Leonie was told that her father wanted nothing to do with her, and she was forbidden to visit Montwyn. One way or another, Judith managed to keep everyone from learning the truth.

In the meantime Leonie's dowry remained part of Montwyn and Judith spent all the profits. She turned down Leonie's marriage offers, in William's name, for she had no intention of giving up the use of Leonie's land. If killing the girl could have brought that land to Montwyn permanently she might even have killed her, but Elisabeth's acursed will left the land solely to Leonie. If she died without issue, the land would revert to Shefford.

Now, by the king's order, she was being forced to give up the land.

Who was Rolfe d'Ambert to be so favored by His Majesty? Judith had dealt with both his offers, first for Pershwick, then for the girl herself, so she knew it was Pershwick the suitor really wanted. Why hadn't he just taken the keep by force if he wanted it so badly? This was infuriating, she told herself for the tenth time as she paced her room. She had managed everything so cleverly, and now this!

"Judith."

She started. She hadn't heard William approach. When she looked at him, she was shocked. He looked horrid, far worse than usual. William was sick every morning until he'd had his first drink, but today he seemed barely able to pick up his goblet. She would have to have her say before he finished even this first drink.

"I have made all the arrangements, William, as you bid me," Judith began quietly. "We can leave for Pershwick as soon as you are ready."

"Pershwick?"

"Where Leonie is, William. We will stay the night there, then go on to Crewel for the wedding."

"Wedding?" He looked at her squarely, the whites of his eyes so heavily veined with red as to be a hideous dark pink. "I do not recall—"

"William, William, you cannot have forgotten your own daughter's wedding," Judith said with feigned exasperation. Of course, she hadn't told him and he hadn't forgotten.

"Nonsense, woman," he said, "Leonie is a child. What wedding?"

"Only a father would still see her as a child. She is nearly twenty, William. You would not see her married. You turned down every offer for her. So the king has taken matters into his hands. You read his order.

Shall I bring it so you may read it again? King Henry posted the banns himself. Leonie is to wed Sir Rolfe d'Ambert at Crewel."

William shook his head wearily. This was all too much to grasp.

Leonie nearly twenty? What offers had he refused? Henry ordering his child's marriage? By Christ's holy blood, he could not picture his daughter grown up. He saw her still as a child, with those large gray eyes so like her mother's. Married?

"I do not remember signing a wedding contract, Judith. Were Elisabeth's stipulations met?"

Judith frowned. "What stipulations?"

"Leonie's dowry is to remain hers to do with as she will. It was her mother's wish that she be protected in this way. Elisabeth was protected in our marriage, and she was determined that Leonie have the same advantage."

Judith gasped. Would it make a difference to d'Ambert if he knew?

Probably not, for he would realize that once he had Leonie, he could force her to do whatever he wanted. He could even force her to sell the land if that was his wish.

"You need not worry about the stipulations." Judith spoke truthfully for once. "The contracts will be signed on the morrow before the vows are spoken, so you can make them known then. You can even have the contract drawn up now if you wish, before we leave."

"Yes, that would be best. Who is Rolfe d'Ambert?" He was embarrassed to be asking, for he must surely know.

"The new lord of Kempston."

"But Sir Edmond—"

"Dead these many months, William. His son fled before he could be banished. Surely you remember. You never liked him. You suspected his knavery long before others complained of it to the king."

William sighed. What good to say again and again that he could not remember? He felt as if he had been asleep for years. He set his wine goblet aside, but his hand began to shake uncontrollably. A little would steady him, and he reached for the wine again. Only a little. He must see to the marriage contract. And if he was to see Leonie, he wanted her not to see him in this terrible condition.

Chapter 6

LEONIE was told that the large group of travelers nearing Pershwick were from Montwyn. The size of the group gave her pause, but she imagined Lady Judith was paying her another visit and was, this time, traveling with more servants than usual.

She took her usual precautions, sending all her able-bodied men inside to keep to the tower quarters to pose as part of her garrison. She could not argue overmuch if Pershwick servants were recruited for Montwyn, but she protested most vehemently when it came to depleting her men-at-arms.

She sent a servant to the village to warn those who felt the need to take to the woods until it was safe. And she sent Wilda and two other young maids to her chamber, where they would remain safely out of sight. Wilda was brazen enough to protest. She did not wish to miss the excitement of having guests. Leonie snapped, "You wish to be raped in the garden like Ethelinda? Did you see how she looked after Richer was finished with her?"

Wilda was subdued by Leonie's anger and disgust. Richer Calveley treated Lady Judith with the greatest care and deference when he escorted her to Pershwick, making Leonie wonder about their true relationship. When he came to Pershwick without Lady Judith, he showed a different character, as foul as any Leonie had ever known. By Ethelinda's account, he took pleasure in hurting her, and although Leonie had sent a complaint to Montwyn, nothing had come of it.

Aunt Beatrix and Leonie joined Sir Guibert in the hall to greet their visitors. Leonie steeled herself for another unpleasant encounter with Judith, but nothing prepared her for the terrible sight she beheld as an old man approached with Judith. She barely recognized him. Her father—here? She went dizzy with a sudden swirl of fierce emotions: bitterness, hate, sorrow for his pathetic condition and the dissipation in his haggard face. His face proclaimed clearly that he had become a drunkard. But there was love in that face, too, love for Leonie.

"Leonie?"

There was surprise in William's voice, as if he were not sure she was his daughter. It brought Leonie's bitterness surging upward, blocking out all the rest. Indeed, why should he know her? She was a woman now, not a child. He hadn't seen her in six years. Six years!

"You do us honor, my lord," Leonie said coldly. "Seat yourselves by the fire and I will see to refreshment."

William was confused by her icy manner. "What is amiss, dear heart?

You are not pleased with your husband?"

The endearment sent a stab through Leonie's heart, but shock followed that. "Husband?"

"You play, Leonie," Judith interjected. "You know your father means the man you will marry on the morrow."

"What?"

"Do not feign innocence, Leonie," Judith replied wearily. "The banns have been posted. The marriage is by the king's order. You know your father sent you notice as soon as the king's messenger came." She turned to her husband. "Is that not so, William?" William played right into the performance by looking thoroughly bewildered. "Do not say you forgot to send word to her! The poor girl has only this day to prepare! Oh, William, how could you forget such a thing!"