“I do? Hmmm. If that is supposed to reassure me, it does not. I do not know if having his look is a good thing. They say the queen, my mother, was a rare beauty.” She grew thoughtful about her mother, speaking of her aloud, and she wondered about all those things a girl who never knew her mother wondered and longed for—someone to guide her and explain her feelings and wants and needs, so many things she never could understand.
Her mind flitted from one fear back to another. “But if I looked like her, I might remind him of his loss and he would ban me from his sight. And of course if I am not beautiful enough, then he might ban me anyway.” She faced him. “ Do kings not have pride? Many say they have all too much pride--the cause of wars.” After a moment she threw her hands up. “Oh, none of this matters because once he knows me, he will probably banish me to some tower or if facing a war, he’ll marry me off to an enemy to forge an alliance. I know little of politics and the power struggles of men. How am I to survive? How?”
I only know how to steal a purse.
Panicking, she blurted out, “What if my husband is old? Or worse?” She paused, then whispered, “What if he beats me?” She wanted to bury her face in her hands and sob. Instead, another horrific image came to mind, one worst than the closing of a trap door. “Montrose?” She almost choked on his name. All her fears and feelings were stuck in her throat.
He was silent.
She lowered her voice and said, “Did you know Germans bury their wives alive as punishment?”
The oars stopped and the oarlocks grated loudly. Montrose cursed viciously. “I cannot do this,” he said, and a moment later he had used one oar to turn the boat.
As the boat spun around, racking raggedly, she gripped the sides. “What are you doing?”
“Be quiet, Glenna.”
The wind picked up and boat moved swiftly.
“Why? We are not hiding. No one is around. I can speak.”
“I am beginning to feel a great kinship with the Germans. “ He pulled the oars through the water a good three times faster than before.
“This is no time for jests.”
“What makes you think I am jesting?”
“But what about my father? Why are we turning back?” She looked around her. “Montrose? What are you doing?”
“I’m going mad. Now do not say another word or I swear I will steal a shovel and make you dig your own grave.”
“Ha! You would not dare.”
“Good. You have stopped your crying,” he said.
“I was not crying!”
The boat hit the bank. Before she could move he pulled her out, gripping her by the shoulders. “I believed I was stronger than I am. I believed I could let you go, could turn and walk away. I cannot. I do not know what you have done to me. You drive me mad. “
“I do?” she asked, suddenly warm. His hands gripped her shoulders and made her feel warm, warmer still from the look in his eyes. He wanted to kiss her. His words to her at the tree came echoing back.
He released her as if she were made of Greek fire. “Despite what I need to do, you are forever in my head, deep inside. Here.” He pointed to his temple, then to his chest. “And here.”
On his face he wore the truth: that he was not pleased aboutwhat he had just told her. But she was. “You love me,” she said, trying not to smile.
“Glenna….”
“You love me. ‘Tis true. I shall not argue with you about it, Montrose.”
There were deep furrows in his brow and his hands were in fists. He was battling something strong, and having a great deal of trouble.
She watched him pace the grassy bank like a cat caught in a pen. “Scowl all you want, my lord.”
“I amnotyour lord. I am not anyone’s lord!”
“Fine but I’m still confused. How does what you feel, Montrose--please note I did not call you ‘my lord’-- have anything to do with your taking me to my father?”
He drove a hand through his hair. “Lord above, woman! I am not taking you to your father!”
