Could not argue that she had not known fully what to expect if she celebrated her union with Curan.
Yet she would not have it undone.
That truth burned in her heart. She loved Curan and could not obey her father any longer. Childhood was past now, but that did not give her comfort. Along with her newfound maturity came the knowledge that she might have to protect the man she loved from ruining himself. Curan deserved that from her. Her thoughts remained dark as the road stretched out in front of them. Curan took no wagons this time, only his mounted men. They covered the distance much faster without the infantry and archers.
All that much faster to take her where she did not want to go. Curan’s face reflected a similar sentiment, but he remained firm in the saddle, intent on answering the summons from his king. Witnessing how true he was to his honor only deepened her need to protect him. Love demanded no less.
The road to London was easier to travel since each day was warmer now. Yet it felt twice as long because she had no desire to go there. Instead, Bridget discovered herself looking back behind them throughout the two-day journey.
The night was the worst.
Her lover was missing. Curan lay next to her, but he did not touch her as he had before. He looped a hard arm around her that was more a mark of possession than tender affection. She awoke in a surly mood from kicking about most of the night. A soft grumble from her husband confirmed that his little amount of rest in the night equaled hers.
Nonetheless it was his lack of conversation that bothered her the most. His face remained in its stern mask again. Firm purpose etched into his features.
This was one nightmare she would have liked to quickly awaken from.
Instead, the road became increasingly crowded. Carts and wagons slowed their progress. They shared their path with heavy-laden vehicles that were carrying casks and barrels and sacks of grain into London from the surrounding villages. Curan’s men rode in tight formation, their colors clearly displayed. Only border barons were allowed to approach the capital with so many mounted knights. Bridget felt the eyes of the curious on them as they headed toward Whitehall Palace.
The gate guards refused them entrance until a captain appeared. He slowly read the scroll that Curan offered him, before lifting his face to survey the mounted men. Around him, the royal guards were tense. The hair on the back of Bridget’s neck stood up, and time felt frozen.
“You may enter, Lord Ryppon.”
Curan nodded and led his men forward. Whitehall Palace was huge, covering more than two full city blocks. It was Henry Tudor’s seat of government. The yard they entered was full of nobles and plainly clothed clerks alike. Horses were led away through gates that would take the animals and the smells that accompanied them away from the main halls.
The Thames ran along the back of the palace, allowing for barges to carry ambassadors to and from the great receiving hall. A mass of people hurried about. Groups of lavishly dressed courtiers climbed the steps that led up into one of the larger buildings, while their servants followed behind them. Men wearing wool and scholars’ hats headed in another direction with their arms full of rolled parchments. Stable grooms threaded their way through the newly arrived, taking horses while attendants struggled to unstrap trunks from wagons.
Bridget had never seen so many people in one place. Dust rose from their travel-stained clothing, and she suddenly craved a bath just from smelling the mass of unwashed bodies.
Her husband did not hesitate once being admitted to the inner palace grounds. He dismounted and reached up to help her off her mare. His gaze was darting back and forth around them, never staying on any group too long. There was a tense look on his face that cautioned her to remain silent while surrounded by so many ears. He led her into one of the buildings and down what seemed like an endless series of corridors before one of his men fit a large iron key into a door and swung it open.
“Now let these men come and tell me to my face that they shall take the wife the church has blessed as mine.”
The room they entered had a long table set with wide chairs. Off to the side was a cupboard, and large windows allowed the sunlight in. Curan’s men opened the windows, allowing the early spring air into the room. A staircase in the back corner promised private sleeping chambers above them.
“You cannot say such things, my lord.”
Her husband pulled his riding gauntlets off and tossed them down onto a table before answering her. Servants were scurrying to open shutters on the floor above, and their steps echoed in the room.
“I can and have. You are my wife, Bridget.” He raised his hands. “Look about, madam, these are my private chambers, kept for my use by decree of the king. I will and shall protect our union.”
Private accommodations at court were indeed a coveted thing and a mark of how much the king thought of him, but that did not wash her fears aside. Henry Tudor had married six times; the man was known to change his mind when it came to those he favored. More than one person had lost their head for forgetting that.
“A fact that you know I treasure, but that does not change the way the country works.” She clasped her hands together tightly, forcing herself to face bitter reality. “We must prepare ourselves to be accommodating to the king’s will.”
A muscle along his jawline twitched. There was nothing else that gave away his true mood to those moving around them, but she felt it.
He blew out a hard sound. “Nor does it change the fact that I will never be content to have you shelter me. I will face down those who seek to wrong me, without hesitation. You are my wife and I shall shelter you, Bridget. No matter what it takes to impress that fact on those who seek to part us.”
The man was as imposing and immovable as the moment that he had swept her away from her mother. There was part of her that could not even lament it because she loved everything about him. He was the embodiment of a noble knight—that fabled creature that so many talked about but few ever became.
Nevertheless, this love opened the door to fear. Its icy touch roamed over her, setting off all manner of horrible possibilities inside her mind. She began to notice every single sound, cringing when she heard anything that might be a knock upon the door. The chancellor’s men might be on their way with an arrest warrant in hand to take Curan
