Page 88 of Fortress of Snow

Berenger felt the blood drain from his face. Lady Bristow had beaten him to London and to the king. Of course she had, and of course she would have told the king some sad story in which she was the victim and Berenger was the villain who had wronged her.

In the letter, Berenger had told the king about his suspicions of Lady Bristow mistreating her ward, about the rumor that the child was the heir to Bristow Castle, and about finding the child being forced to eat poisonous mushrooms. He had even told him of her late-night meeting with the French sailor on the beach. How were all those things not a good explanation for his refusal to marry the woman?

“You have kidnapped her ward. What do you have to say for yourself?” the king demanded in his eighteen-year-old voice.

“Your Majesty, I have good reason for taking the child. As I told you in the letter, Lady Bristow’s servant was trying to feed the child deadly death cap mushrooms. And it is rumored that Lady Bristow poisoned her husband as well.”

The king’s expression hardened.

O God, help me.It was four years ago all over again—falsely accused, being tried before the king, the king being influenced by corrupt advisers, and Berenger and his brothers being foundguilty and sentenced to death. Had he stumbled into the same situation again? Would his brothers and sister all share in the consequences of his running afoul of the king?

“Your Majesty, in good faith I went to Bristow Castle with the Lady Bristow, intending to marry her if she proved of good character. But one thing after another after another... Surely Your Majesty knows of my loyalty and willingness to serve you, to even die for you, my king. But Lady Bristow, I believe, is selling whatever secrets she knows to the king’s enemy, France. She is selling something, for I saw the exchange with my own eyes and heard the French language with my own ears. I saw her kissing the French sailor, or ship’s captain, whatever he was.”

The king chewed the inside of his lip, his brows lowered.

“The child was afraid of Lady Bristow, and my sister’s friend helped care for the child on the journey here. The child’s welfare was of utmost concern in taking her from Bristow Castle.”

“I am hearing two distinctly different accounts from you and Lady Bristow. And now I must consider who to believe. I am sure you understand, Sir Berenger.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I understand that you must weigh what is truth and what is falsehood.”

“Yes.” The king said nothing for a moment, then waved his hand. “You may go. I will send for you when I have determined who is telling the truth.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Sir Berenger bowed to the king and made his way out in a daze of racing thoughts.

After all he had done to be the most dutiful knight, withoutfault in the king’s service, would his life once again be in jeopardy, this time because of Lady Bristow?

Mazy took Juliana with her to the marketplace the next morning, showing her all the sights, buying a sweet confection made of almond paste, and introducing her to all the friendly vendors in the market. The child smiled at everyone, her eyes sparkling, and Mazy’s heart grew full at the thought that Juliana would never have to be at Lady Bristow’s mercy ever again.

Now all would be well. Juliana could receive her inheritance, once Sir Berenger told the king the truth about the child’s parentage, and Lady Bristow would be exiled, at the very least. No one would be hurt by that lady’s treachery.

And Sir Berenger would move on to the next wealthy widow whom the king chose for him to marry. After all, wealthy widows of England’s nobility—as well as their lands and castles—needed the protection of a strong knight like Sir Berenger. Knights were too valuable to be allowed to choose their own spouse, and women were too unimportant to choose theirs.

Mazy would have to check her bitterness. What an ugly root it was, twisting around her heart, making her think angry, sarcastic thoughts. This was not who she was or who she wanted to be. She was Mazy, Knife Girl, defender of innocent women and children, helper of the poor widows who needed to feed their children. She was strong and brave, and she did not think bitter thoughts about a man she knew to be good at heart.

But when would she be loved and defended by a good man?

It was a legitimate question, but she didn’t need to be thinking it. She needed to think about her business plan, how to proceed next. Life was like a chess game, after all, always dependent on the next move.

“I’ve raised six children,” said the woman who had taken care of Mazy’s booth while she was gone, pulling Juliana onto her lap, “and I will show you how I used to make them all laugh.” The woman started making her knees jump up and down while holding Juliana’s hands out to the sides. She chanted a singsong rhyme as she jostled Juliana.

“Ride a little horsey, ride to town. Ride a little horsey, and don’t fall down!”

At the worddown, the woman dropped her knees, letting her skirt catch Juliana while she held her hands. Juliana laughed and said, “Do it again!”

While Juliana and the woman played the game several more times, Mazy caught the eye of Martin Fisher, who was talking with the old man who sold walking sticks that he had whittled and sanded to an incredible smoothness. They were staring at Mazy, smiling, then waved.

Mazy waved back as Martin broke away from the man and made his way toward her.

“Beautiful Mazy, how glad I am that you’re back at your booth again.”

“Thank you, Martin. I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Yes, it has been a while, but I have been coming every day for the last week and you were not here. I feared some harm hadcome to you, and I could not bear it.” He leaned down close to her, then sank to one knee. “It made me realize that I still want, more than anything, for you to marry me. Beautiful Mazy.” He grabbed her hand between his. “I beg of you, say you will marry me. Marry me today, and I shall dedicate my life to making you the happiest woman in London.”

“I heard a rumor a few weeks ago that you were marrying Harriet of Cheddar.”

“Oh no. Harriet was just a passing fancy.”