Broken Vows, Mended Hearts: A Bouquet of ThistlesPaying the PiperBattle-Torn Bride

by Gail Ranstrom

  “You are tricked out like a courtier,” Simon remarked. “Do you suppose your lady has a trunk somewhere full of these?”

  “I wonder that myself. But she hates needlework.”

  Simon laughed. “I would bet she persists at it nonetheless. She has a right tenacious mind of her own.” He straightened the flat links of John’s chain. “There. Fine as frog’s hair.”

  John took a deep breath. As he had in the past when geared for a tourney or a battle, he asked, “Shall we to it, Sim?”

  “On to victory, sir,” Simon replied, quite resplendent himself in a coat of dove-gray.

  The buzzing sound of gathered guests reached him before he opened the doorway. The ceremony would take place on the steps of the keep so that everyone at Hetherston could witness.

  Afterward, he, Alys, their attendants and the nobles present would return to the chapel inside for the wedding mass. Then an enormous wedding breakfast would be served to those within and without. A daylong feast would ensue, interspersed with hunting and games and would culminate in the wedding night. John worried how that would go. There would be no proof of her innocence for all to witness. Was she troubled about that?

  Simon flung open the doors and John exited to a loud huzzah. He raised a hand and smiled at the throng of castle folk and servants come to see the wedding. He knew most of them now, for he had taken Alys’s criticism to heart. He almost felt like a lord today.

  Walter, arrayed in a tunic the same color and cut as John’s, nudged him and grinned. “She will be ours in truth now, John,” he whispered, his young voice carrying to the crowd. Nods and bright smiles and a few laughs acknowledged Walter’s declaration. John grasped Walter’s shoulder and gave it a fond shake. They had become fast friends this past week.

  For long moments John waited, hands clasped behind him, trying not to rock back and forth, heel to toe, and appear impatient. She would arrive in good time, he assured himself. Pray God she would not be much late.

  A soft ooh swept the crowd and John turned to greet her.

  God’s breath, but she was beautiful! Arrayed in a gown of palest green, her amber locks flowing to her waist below a crown of white heather, she appeared almost ethereal, an angel come to life. He added his sigh to that of their well-wishers and held out his hand to her.

  It was then he noticed she carried a nosegay made of purple thistles, the stems swathed in heavy silk to protect her from thorns. Those were hardly the sort of blooms a bride should choose. Were they a warning to him of her prickly nature? The thought made him smile.

  What a wit and how unsubtle she was. He supposed the choice suited her well enough. Alys possessed a unique beauty, as did the flowers she had picked. And she did indeed show a nettlesome aspect on occasion. He quite liked that about her. She was no pale, fragile rose, his Alys, but as hardy, stalwart and adaptable as the wild flower of Scotland.

  “In honor of your mother who is with us in spirit,” she explained with a sweet smile and tenderly touched the spiky blooms.

  John could almost feel his mother’s approval embrace them. She had cared so much, he realized, and gone to great lengths to ensure his happiness. He cast a glance heavenward and prayed his parents would forgive him for ever doubting their love of him.

  Alys shifted her nosegay to her left hand and grasped his right, stepping boldly to his side. Her lips trembled slightly, adding to their appeal. John could not help remembering how soft and giving they were. He must remember not to let his passion for her take hold when he kissed her. Not until tonight.

  Father Stephen faced them and began the ceremony. “Dearly beloved, we are come…”

  John barely heard the drone of the words that would unite them before the people. When Simon nudged him and handed him the ring, he slid it half onto her forefinger, then the middle and at last the third where it would remain. Alys made a fist when it was in place, as if to hold it there forever.

  He kept his eyes upon her, unable to look away as she signed the contract placed upon the leather-bound Bible. He took the quill, dipped it and scratched his own name beside hers.

  Together they marched behind Father Stephen and heard the wedding mass. As they knelt, her hand in his seemed chilled, her fingers restless. He noted a fine bead of moisture above her lips and just below her eyes.

  Was Alys falling ill? Would that be the impending disaster he could not oust from his mind? Hopefully, she was only beset by exhaustion. God only knew how hard she had toiled to bring this celebration about. He would have done more to help if she had only let him.

  “Take heart, ’tis nearly done,” he whispered.

  She looked at him as if his mind had suddenly lapsed. “Surely you jest,” she snapped, her words sharp if near inaudible. They drew a glance of reprimand from the priest, though he never faltered in his chant of Latin.

  “Ahhh-men,” the priest droned.

  At last they were free to stand. John rose and assisted Alys, turning her to face him. She lifted her chin, her lips waiting for the kiss of peace, her eyes closed.

  He framed her face with his hands, sliding his fingers into the silken locks of her hair. Then he lowered his mouth to hers. He tasted her first, tracing the seam of her lips with his tongue, gaining entrance. Alys responded with a sigh of welcome John felt to the depths of his soul. In that moment, his hopes soared with hers and left behind any doubts all would be well.

  Despite his intent, desire swept him like a fire to dry tinder. Her arms encircled his waist, her fingers clutching at his back. She wanted him. Her mouth welcomed him as surely as her body would.

  He embraced her more fully, pulling her into him with such force, he felt the shape of her breasts right through his tunic and the buckle of his belt dig into his belly.

  That, in addition to the rapid and insistent tapping on his shoulder, woke him from his fog of desire.

  Well, not entirely. His breathing came in fits and starts and his eager manhood still gave clear evidence of his lapse of control. Alys was biting her bottom lip and looking up at him from beneath her tawny lashes to see what they should do next.

  He kissed her again, unable not to, this time with only a gentle brush of promise. A smattering of polite applause and it was done. They were officially wed in state and church. Man and wife for all and good. Or at least they would be after the official consummation. Judging by that kiss, the success of tonight’s endeavor seemed a foregone conclusion.

  John grinned, took her hand and led her back down the aisle, pausing only briefly to grasp an offered hand of congratulations here and there.

  They had almost reached the doorway when John saw the man he least wanted to see today. Lancaster. What the devil was he doing here? Had he come to order John back to the wars so soon?

  “Felicitations, John,” the duke said.

  “Your Grace,” John acknowledged.

  Alys had halted in her tracks and looked anxiously from him to the duke and back again.

  “My wife, Alys,” John said woodenly. “Alys, His Grace, the Duke of Lancaster.”

  She curtsied as custom commanded, then leveled a look upon the duke that might have felled a lesser man.

  John stepped between Alys and the duke and fairly dragged her forcefully out of the chapel. She relented and picked up her own pace once they were out of sight of the duke.

  “He has come for you, has he not? I did not invite him!” she exclaimed. “’Twas Thomasine, I’ll wager. Ronci has come, too, and I know that is her doing! I shall drop her in the oubliette and leave her there to rot!”

  “Ronci? Your cousin mentioned him before. He was a candidate for your hand if I reneged, was he not?”

  She turned on him, ignoring the milling crowd around them. “Only in her mind! I never considered another man. Not ever! Ronci is her lover and she only wanted me to—”

  John squeezed her arm. “Calm yourself, Alys, and let it go. To salve the memory of our wedding day, I would greet the devil himself with a smile. And so shall
you.”

  “One of my false smiles?” she asked.

  “If need be,” he replied. “Lancaster is the most powerful man in England, save his father the king.”

  That silenced her, but John could see how overset she was. The duke must have come to order him back to the campaign. Alys would argue about that, no matter that she had said she would understand his leaving. John would not like to see his overlord and his wife at cross-purposes.

  He firmly dismissed his wondering and focused on his wife. “Are you not starved?” he asked to divert Alys from her dark thoughts. “We should take our seats at table so everyone else may find theirs. Do smile,” he teased, “or else all will think our kiss set you off your feed.”

  She allowed him to lead her into the hall. He blew out a slow breath of relief and wondered if it would prove justified. Alys did not look appeased by his apparent acceptance of Lancaster’s presence.

  Alys could scarcely contain herself. Her feelings flew in all directions at once. Fear of Lancaster and what he might require of John. Wary and almost desperate hope for eventual love from John at her left. Fury skipped down the table to her cousin, Thomasine, while her immense gratitude encompassed all the Hetherston folk who considered her their own. She hardly knew what expression to wear or where her eyes should wander.

  In deference to John, she pasted on a smile and signaled for the meal to begin. He leaned closer and stroked her sleeve. Alys shivered, but could not isolate the cause of it. Her whole body seemed balanced on a wire as if awaiting a fall in one direction or another.

  She tasted not one bite of the pickled quail eggs or fresh white bread. The flavor of the fine rhenish wine she had so looked forward to escaped her notice. She even ate eels, which she abhorred. Keeping her mouth filled might prevent any errant words falling out that should not, she figured.

  But Lancaster seemed determined to engage her in conversation. “How is it you and John have put this off for so many years?” he asked pleasantly.

  Because you demanded he stay at your side without a visit home for a decade perhaps, you selfish bag of wind? She wanted to fling that at him, but felt John’s strong fingers suddenly grasp her leg just above her knee. His grip did not feel as if it had to do with wild desire for her, either. It was definitely more in the nature of a warning. So she took a deep breath before answering Lancaster. “It seemed politic to wait,” she replied instead.

  John rewarded her with a satisfied pat beneath the table. The warmth of his hand seeped right through the heavy silk of her gown and the chemise beneath it. She tried to hold her mind on that pleasant bit of intimacy.

  Lancaster persisted. “Ah, but if he had known such beauty awaited him, I feel certain he would have headed home without my leave and I could not have faulted him for it.”

  Was the duke trying to charm her so he could take John away without a scene? Alys refused to look at him. “It would be hard to fault a man such as John for anything.” She stabbed a portion of eel as if it were trying to escape.

  “And I do not. He has been all a knight should be these many years.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Good of you to admit that. He did save your life, or at least prevented your capture.”

  “Just so, and for this happy occasion, I have written a poem set to music in John’s honor describing his valor.”

  Was he baiting her apurpose? Did he want a charger of eels dashed at his head? If he began to sing, she would do it, so help her God. Alys could stand it no longer. She took a deep breath, laid down her eating knife and faced the duke squarely. “Have you come to order my husband away from me? On our wedding day?”

  “I came to wish you well, Lady Greycourt.” The duke looked past her to John. “But also to inform John that the new campaign is underway. I knew he would want to go.”

  “Nay, Your Grace,” John said in a loud, firm voice. The clink and rattle of knives against plates and all conversation ceased. John’s words rang clear in the silence. “I do not wish that. In my stead, I offer the services of three of Hetherston’s knights. Do you know Sirs Bran Copely, Robin Nithing and Royston of Gale?”

  The duke nodded, quite obviously shocked by John’s reluctance to ride with him.

  Alys gasped. If the duke knew those knights who had come to their knighthood and spent their entire lives at Hetherston until six months earlier, then he knew of her ransom attempt. He had intercepted it! “You will return the gold they carried, of course,” she said.

  “Gold?” the duke repeated, turning his frown on her.

  “Aye, that which I sent by them to ransom my husband.”

  The duke swallowed hard and looked away. “I could not allow Trastamere to acquire so much. It was thrice what a knight’s ransom should be and would have funded yet another foray against King Pedro.”

  Alys stood and shoved back her chair, facing the duke with all the fury she felt. “My husband is worth at least three knights on any occasion, Your Grace, and I would not care if Trastamere gained the entire continent of Europe if he had but let John return! You owe me for thwarting my honest attempt to gain his freedom!”

  The duke stood, too, shoulders drawn back and chin up, his glare daring her to continue. For a long moment, he did not speak. Then he looked away. “Perhaps. But it is not you, a mere woman, to whom I owe a boon. What would you have, John?”

  John surreptitiously tugged on the back of her gown, urging her to sit down, as he spoke in a calm voice, devoid of anger. “The return of the ransom gathered by my wife since it was in great part her wealth. I wish a knighthood for Simon Ferrell. And leave from the king for Sir James Ronci to wed Thomasine du Aubrey, my wife’s cousin.” He paused.

  “Is that all?” the duke asked with a wry grimace.

  John smiled. “And your continued goodwill, Your Grace.”

  The duke took his seat since Alys had plopped back down in hers, astounded that John would make the demands he had. Lancaster propped his elbow on the table and flopped his hand in a negligent wave. “Goodwill you have and you know it. Are you mad to request Ronci for any woman of your acquaintance?”

  “I would have it so,” John insisted, “But you should dower her first.”

  The duke shook his head. “Madness, I say, but a small enough favor. As for the other, Ferrell shall have his spurs. And I will return half the gold.”

  “Three-fourths!” Alys snapped. “You cannot have spent so much of it!”

  The duke slapped his palm on the table and ground out, “Two-thirds! And do not press me further, lady!”

  Alys figured that was the best she could get. “Done,” she agreed with a satisfied nod.

  The duke blew out a noisy breath between his lips and sat back, addressing John. “Are you certain she is not a Scot?”

  John shrugged. “Trained up by one, Your Grace.”

  “Now do me a favor, if you please,” Lancaster grumbled. “Get on with the bedding so I can quit this place. I have a war to wage.”

  Alys jumped up, grasped John’s hand and tugged him to his feet. They barely escaped the laughing, grasping guests who hurried toward them, suspecting her intention.

  Alys waved as she ran. Thomasine was jumping for joy, shouting her thanks. Ronci sat unmoving, dumbfounded, his eating knife suspended halfway to his mouth.

  “Bedding for breakfast!” someone shouted and others took it up, determined to stay and make witness to the event if they could get inside the bridal chamber. At the very least they would aid in the disrobing. Not a thing to look forward to!

  Dashing for the solar instead of the stairs as the crowd expected, Alys and John got clean away. He quickly barred the door to prevent intrusion, gathered her in his arms and swept her up. She laughed wildly as he tossed her onto his bed and followed her down with a rambunctious kiss.

  “You were wonderful!” he declared with feeling. “Truly magnificent!”

  Alys kissed him back, then drew away so she could look into his eyes. “Well, I do have faults, you know,
but I shan’t make you list them!”

  “No faults that matter, my heart. You are perfection and I love you. I do, Alys, with my whole heart and soul.”

  “A bit late coming to that conclusion, John, but I forgive you.” Totally happy, she melted into his arms and pressed her cheek to his. “What made you decide not to go with Lancaster? You said yourself you were a warrior born and knew naught else to be.”

  “A foolish notion formed in childhood, sweeting. It was past time to grow up.” He trailed kisses down her neck and tugged at her bodice with his teeth.

  “As you have shown me so recently, childish dreams certainly can be improved upon!” Alys tugged playfully at the links of his belt and managed to unfasten it. “Welladay, now that we are both matured sufficiently, could we put our forms to better use than displaying all this silk and velvet? Help me unlace this cursed thing!”

  “I’ve been meaning to speak to you concerning your wicked eagerness,” John said with a rumbling chuckle that tickled her neck.

  “Contagious fault, is it?” she asked with a breathless sigh.

  “Catching as a wind-borne plague,” he admitted. “Ah, my sweet girl, I shall never, ever have enough of you.”

  “I will see to it,” she promised. And she did.

  PAYING THE PIPER

  Gail Ranstrom

  Dear Reader

  Have you ever put off dealing with a problem until it caught up to you? Or have you tried to run away, and found that it followed you? That there’s no escape? If so, you’ll understand Chloe Faraday’s dilemma in PAYING THE PIPER.

  My favorite stories are about men and women who, through adversity, find the courage, strength and integrity to face their greatest fears, no matter how difficult. I’ve always found it a paradox that in confronting what we fear we sometimes find our greatest reward. And that is a risk worth taking.

  I hope you enjoy reading about Chloe and Anthony, and how, when they were willing to risk everything they held dear for the promise of love, they found each other.