If she had shifted or sighed, perhaps no one would have noticed.  The hall was uncomfortably full, every noble in Garland, it seemed, as well as his lady wife and heirs, having come to see the betrothal of their lord’s daughter to Douglas, eldest son and presumed heir of the Roth, lord of all Elbany. 

Not king.  The Elbish were proud of their way, unique within the Three Lands, that when a Roth died, his successor was chosen from among the men of the ruling family by the high Elbish lords.  Usually the eldest son was chosen, but not always.  But Douglas was level-headed and loyal, and had already shown his courage despite his youth.  It was a good match, and Elsbeth knew that her father had been at pains to arrange it. 

     Which did not make the betrothal ceremony any more interesting. 

     Elsbeth stifled a yawn, clamping her teeth together fiercely.  It was foolhardy to hope that because of the crowd no one would notice if she behaved inappropriately.  She was on the dais at the front of the hall, with her father and the Roth, and behind him, Douglas himself. 

     What sort of husband would he make?, she wondered again.  During the earlier, equally boring, parts of the ceremony, she had stared at him as intensely and for as long as she had dared, trying to guess what life with him would be like.  She did not love him.  She had never met him before.  Neither of which were relevant.  The nobility married for alliance and advantage, not affection.  But she would have to live with him, share his bed and bear his children, advise and assist him in the ruling of Elbany as she had been taught, and Elsbeth could not help but attempt to divine from his face whether to feel that the time that would pass before they married would be too short, or too long. 

     The young man noticed her gaze and slowly blushed beneath it.  He met her eyes for a moment, then flicked his attention away, concentrating on their fathers as if they were laying forth battle plans, not the prescribed ceremony of a betrothal. 

     Mercifully, the ceremony was nearly complete now.  Elsbeth watched the two lords shake hands gravely, then exchange gifts.  Both men stepped aside, and Douglas approached.  This was the final part of the betrothal, the couple’s gift-giving. 

     Douglas held out a small eating knife, its handle inlayed with gold.  “It was my mother’s.”    

     “I thank you, my lord.”  Elsbeth’s maid stepped forward and Elsbeth gave the knife to her and took up her own gift.  As was customary, it was a linen shirt, bleached snowy white and embroidered at the collar and cuffs.  Only his wife could give a man a shirt.  “From my own hands,” she said formally, placing it in his.