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Chapter 2:- Given and received
Her hands brushed his as she gave him the shirt. The blush returned to Douglas' cheeks, perhaps thinking of the symbolic intimate nature of the traditional gift. His gaze dropped, following with unnatural intensity the path of his fingers as they traced the cuffs' embroidery. The colors of the houses of Garland and of the Roth twined like an embrace in the sewn interlacing.
Reddening even further, his eyes avoiding hers, Douglas passed the shirt to his own man. The retainer stepped back, so that the crowd of onlookers had an unobstructed view.
Douglas leaned forward slightly, as if he did not wish to step closer, and took her hand. His palm was moist and warm. Elsbeth had to keep herself from cringing. But Douglas knew his duty, as she did hers, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and even. "I accept your gift, Elsbeth of Garland, and with it, you to be my wife."
Elsbeth bowed her head. "I receive your gift, my lord, and with it, your offer of marriage." Douglas leaned forward again, further this time. Elsbeth felt his lips brush her left cheek.
A moment passed, then clapping, a few wild hoots, and one or two flatly ribald suggestions burst around them. Elsbeth saw her father turn, scowling, seeking the source of the inappropriate comments, but in the general din it was impossible. The jokesters seemed to realize this, and repeated their catcalls, enjoying both discomposing their young lord -- for surely it was men of Rothbury, not retainers of lord Garland -- and seeing Lord Garland's consternation.
Elsbeth looked back at Douglas, apple-like now, and began to wonder what shade his face was normally. He still held her hand. She squeezed his fingers gently, meaning to reassure and soothe, but at her touch his color deepened further. If that were possible.
Anxiety brushed her like a spring wind. She had wondered what it would be like to be his wife. But would she have weightier troubles than her own happiness to contend with? If Douglas found the ribbing of his own retainers, the attentive eyes of a hall full of nobles, the hand of his future wife, to be so disturbing, how would he manage the rule of Elbany?
She had been told he was proven, that he would certainly be Roth after his father, that his bravery was undoubted and his good sense unquestioned. But seeing him blush like a child caught with his mouth full of stolen sweets made her wonder.
She was surely worrying unnecessarily, Elsbeth told herself. Douglas would not be the first man to find court more frightful than battle. He would become Roth, and he would rule Elbany wisely. With as much of her advice as must be.
Lord Garland was waving at them both, signaling that they were to move to the side of the dais. Elsbeth had known that the betrothal, while the main business of the day's court, was not its only matter, although she had lost that remembrance in her own thoughts for a time.
The fosterlings were coming.
Her hands brushed his as she gave him the shirt. The blush returned to Douglas' cheeks, perhaps thinking of the symbolic intimate nature of the traditional gift. His gaze dropped, following with unnatural intensity the path of his fingers as they traced the cuffs' embroidery. The colors of the houses of Garland and of the Roth twined like an embrace in the sewn interlacing.
Reddening even further, his eyes avoiding hers, Douglas passed the shirt to his own man. The retainer stepped back, so that the crowd of onlookers had an unobstructed view.
Douglas leaned forward slightly, as if he did not wish to step closer, and took her hand. His palm was moist and warm. Elsbeth had to keep herself from cringing. But Douglas knew his duty, as she did hers, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and even. "I accept your gift, Elsbeth of Garland, and with it, you to be my wife."
Elsbeth bowed her head. "I receive your gift, my lord, and with it, your offer of marriage." Douglas leaned forward again, further this time. Elsbeth felt his lips brush her left cheek.
A moment passed, then clapping, a few wild hoots, and one or two flatly ribald suggestions burst around them. Elsbeth saw her father turn, scowling, seeking the source of the inappropriate comments, but in the general din it was impossible. The jokesters seemed to realize this, and repeated their catcalls, enjoying both discomposing their young lord -- for surely it was men of Rothbury, not retainers of lord Garland -- and seeing Lord Garland's consternation.
Elsbeth looked back at Douglas, apple-like now, and began to wonder what shade his face was normally. He still held her hand. She squeezed his fingers gently, meaning to reassure and soothe, but at her touch his color deepened further. If that were possible.
Anxiety brushed her like a spring wind. She had wondered what it would be like to be his wife. But would she have weightier troubles than her own happiness to contend with? If Douglas found the ribbing of his own retainers, the attentive eyes of a hall full of nobles, the hand of his future wife, to be so disturbing, how would he manage the rule of Elbany?
She had been told he was proven, that he would certainly be Roth after his father, that his bravery was undoubted and his good sense unquestioned. But seeing him blush like a child caught with his mouth full of stolen sweets made her wonder.
She was surely worrying unnecessarily, Elsbeth told herself. Douglas would not be the first man to find court more frightful than battle. He would become Roth, and he would rule Elbany wisely. With as much of her advice as must be.
Lord Garland was waving at them both, signaling that they were to move to the side of the dais. Elsbeth had known that the betrothal, while the main business of the day's court, was not its only matter, although she had lost that remembrance in her own thoughts for a time.
The fosterlings were coming.
