Rowena stood on the castle wall, on the little tower section where the west wall met the left side of the gate-wall and waited.
He had to wave. If he didn’t turn, didn’t see her, didn’t acknowledge her silent farewell with one of his own, then it was over. He didn’t care, and she would move on. Leave. Find a life somewhere else without him.
He emerged from the tunnel they called a gate, easy enough to spot in his deep red cloak when all around him dressed in the dull tones of the winter forest. His laugh floated up to her as he leaned towards the person riding on his right. As they always did. Lord Geoffrey and his councillor, Maude, the wise woman of Deren Keep. Although how could a woman be ‘wise’ when she was scarce two summers older than Rowena?
She stood, clutching her own cloak of midnight blue around her, as the travelling party clattered over the bridge and onto the trade road. Geoffrey’s attention remained on the woman beside him, her bright red braid a slash of colour down her back. Rowena’s hair was brown. And she stood a forehead’s width shorter than the so-called wise woman, although her figure was fuller and rounder.
Would he turn? Would his hand raise to her in farewell? Did she want him to?
That thought was unexpected. She’d been raised to marry, and all her family had been delighted when the match with Lord Geoffrey had been announced. So young, and handsome, and rich. He had the ear of the king and the favour of the queen. He also had a red-headed wise woman at his right hand and no time for his bride.
If he didn’t wave, where would she go? To her grandmother most likely. Her mother’s mother, who was a force of nature no man would dare cross. She’d be safe there. She could continue her studies, improve her knowledge of herb lore and healing, but she’d not be the mistress of her own household.
Not that she was mistress here. Not truly.
Lord Geoffrey’s head remained facing forward as they spurred the horses into a canter, not something they could keep up for long, but it would look impressive as they passed through the village.
She’d wait until they’d passed the first houses, until he was blocked by their whitewashed walls and thick thatched roofs.
Just a little longer, and she’d return to her rooms, pack her belongings, and order a cart and guards to take her to the Duchess of Gransmere. Just a couple more moments…
Her husband’s head turned.
The DNA of Stories 