She said aloud, “He is Severin of Langthorne, Baron Louges. He, Lord Graelam, and their men will dine here. MacDear, please return to the kitchen and keep basting the pork with the mint sauce. Alice, see that the bread remains warm and crisp. Allen, fetch the sweet wine Lord Graelam prefers.” She shut up. They were all staring at her, all filled with questions. She raised her hands, splaying her fingers in front of her. “I believe,” she said finally, “that Lord Severin is here to wed with me.”
She didn’t listen to the babble. She was frankly surprised that everyone, all the way to the scullery maids in the kitchen, hadn’t known who he was or why he was here. A well-kept secret. She knew he had just returned from France to find his older brother murdered, his estate beggared, his peasants starving, nothing there but devastated fields destroyed by marauding outlaws.
Aye, he was here to wed her, the heiress of Oxborough. She’d heard this when her father had asked Graelam what he knew of the man, what he thought of him and his honor and his strength. A ad Graelam had praised him, told him how King Edward had requested Severin ride at his right hand when they had been in the Holy Land during those final battles with the Saracens. He had stood beside Edward on the ramparts at Acre.
He was called Severin, she’d heard Graelam say, then he would add as he rubbed his callused hands together, “Aye, Severin, the Gray Warrior.”
“Severin is here, Fawke.”
Fawke of Trent, Earl of Oxborough, wished he could see the young
man more clearly, but the film that had grown over his eyes was thicker than it had been just this morning, blurring everything, even his daughter’s face, which was good since she looked so much like her mother, and it pained him to his guts to look at her. Too much pain, and now death was coming to him. He hated it, yet he accepted it. At moments like this, he welcomed it, but first he had to see this through.
“Severin,” he said, knowing he sounded weak and despising himself for it.
The young man gripped his wrist, his hold firm and strong, but it didn’t hurt Fawke. It felt warm and powerful, a link to both his past and the future, a future of many generations, and his blood would continue to flow through those warriors who would come after him.
“You will wed my daughter?”
“Aye, I will wed her,” Severin said. “I thank you for selecting me.”
Graelam said, “I have told you she is comely, Severin. She will please you just as you will please her.”
Fawke of Trent sensed the young man freeze into stone when he said in that damnably weak voice of his, “All I ask is that you take my name. I have no son. I do not want my line to die out. You will own all my lands, all my possessions, collect all my rents, become sovereign to all my men. You will protect three towns, own most of the land in the towns, accept fealty from three additional keeps. I have nearly as much coin as King Edward, but I have told him I am barely rich, for I don’t wish him to tax me out of my armor. Aye, you will wed my daughter.”
“I cannot take your name, Fawke of Trent.”
Graelam said, “Severin, you need not efface your own name. It is long known and you will continue to wear it proudly. Nay, what is to be done is that you simply add the family name of Trent to yours and the earl’s title to your current one. You will then become Severin of LangthorneTrent, Baron Louges, Earl of Oxborough. King Edward agrees and has given his blessing to this union.”
It would serve, Fawke thought, wishing again that he could see the young man clearly. His voice was deep and strong. Graelam had assured
him that he was of healthy stock. He said, “My daughter will be a good breeder. She is built like her mother. She is young enough, just eighteen. You must have sons, Severin, many sons. They will save both our lines and continue into the future.”