Chivalrous

by Dina L. Sleiman

  “I cannot say, darling.” Mother took Gwen’s hands, and Gwen clung to them as if they alone could pull her from the depths of that pool that drew her ever deeper and deeper. “True or not, the people believe it. And as hard as I know this will be for you, you must accept it. You cannot stand in the way of destiny.”

  Tears slipped down Gwen’s cheeks, but she dared not swipe at the warm trails, for if she let go of Mother’s hands, she feared she might slip into a dark abyss and never escape. “But I love him!”

  She had not quite realized it until she spoke the words, but they rang true deep in her heart.

  “Love comes in many forms. You barely know this man, and you shall find love again.”

  “Never!” Gwen spat the word. “Not with that awful Gawain.”

  “Not with Gawain. But with someone. Perhaps with Randel Penigree. I saw him speaking with your father at the banquet, and he walked away quite disappointed. I felt sure he requested to court you.”

  “But he is so . . . so . . . Randel! How could I ever get past those big feet and that gangly neck?”

  Mother patted Gwen’s cheek. “He outgrew those years ago, silly girl. He is quite nice to look at now. Not as handsome as Sir Allen, perhaps, but kind and considerate. Keep in mind that he knows of your dalliance with swords and lances, yet shows interest anyway. He would treat you well, and you could build love together.”

  Gwen had no words left. Her last hope had been dashed as a ship against the rocks. She gathered Angel into her arms and rocked back and forth in her chair, attempting to hold back tears that would do her no good.

  Warner picked up the earthenware goblet, turned it over for inspection, then flung it against the stone wall of his small castle fortress with a crash. Satisfaction filled him as the goblet smashed into fragments and rained across the floor, but the sensation lasted only a moment.

  His plan should have worked. He had justice—not to mention a goodly number of North Britannian nobles and his own army of backers—on his side. Even now he should be riding through the dukedom to declare it his own. But matters had gone completely awry.

  Sir Gaillard had been right. They should have garnered more support before making their move, particularly in the council. He still could not fathom that they had turned him away so coldly. With such utter humiliation. Now more than ever he wished he had the region’s top military leader on his side, but perhaps Lord Barnes would yet come around. One way or another they would pay for this. Every last one of them.

  Just this morning he had received the incredulous report that the duchess was to marry that lowborn Allen of Ellsworth. The people were all caught in the frenzy of some old prophecy, and no one seemed to have given Warner’s right to the title more than a passing thought.

  He wished that he could have five minutes alone with that fellow Allen. He would gladly wrap his hands around the usurper’s neck and finish him off for good. But it seemed the army of North Britannia had strengthened its watch about both the borders and the city. Even the peasant folk were rising up to help during this vulnerable time before the noble wedding.

  Unfathomable!

  And so Warner had finally done what he should have done months ago, though the decision rankled at his conscience—he had summoned Morgaine.

  He longed to think himself a better and more traditional Christian than his progressive cousin, Justus, notwithstanding the fact that he had recently committed murder—

  No, not murder. Warfare. Punishment! He sought to convince himself, despite the echo of slick blood he yet felt dripping down his palms.

  Was he not the one who scrupulously followed the rule of the king in England and the pope in Rome? While Warner knew that the black arts were not permitted, there came a time when a man had no choice but to seize every resource at his disposal.

  If he had consulted his half sister, Morgaine, from the start, surely he would have seen this coming. He might have dispatched with the despicable Allen before the trouble started. Had not even Justus’s precious King Arthur consulted with enchantresses and sorcerers? The next time Warner rode into North Britannia, he would not do so blindly.

  At that moment Morgaine swept into his chamber with that same haunting quiet that always seemed to trail in her wake, as if the stone floor retreated to let her pass. Were he to engage his imagination, he could almost picture wisps of fog spreading from the bottom of her jet-black gown.

  Her dark hair bound tight in braids and stacked upon her head in a serpentine manner shone brightly in the firelight and added to the eerie impression. She rarely left her reclusive tower room, and he hardly recalled the last time they had spoken.

  “Finally,” was all the greeting Warner offered his younger and less-legitimate sibling. At their widowed mother’s request, he had allowed Morgaine to continue residing in his home despite her wayward interests. Helping him now was the least she could do. “Did you bring the supplies?”

  “No proper hello for your sister? Perhaps a kiss?” Her voice rang low and hypnotic as always. She followed the statement with a wicked laugh and a flick of her wrist that showed she desired no such niceties from him. “Of course I did. Why else would I have left my sanctuary?”

  Morgaine pulled out a basin from beneath her arm, where it had been concealed by her long billowing sleeves. “Just have your man bring us some fresh water.”

  Warner waved his trusted manservant away. “Will it take long?”

  Her yellowish-green cat eyes caught the reflection of the torch upon the wall and burned like fire. “That is hard to say. The future is a fickle mistress. And like the water in which we shall view it, it is always shifting and swirling. ’Tis not set in stone, as some might think.”

  “But you shall be able to advise me?” In desperation, Warner clutched the edge of the table where she set the basin.

  “I shall do my best.”

  Warner studied his sister as she removed a satchel from her waist and opened it, sniffing the contents. An odd herbal scent wafted toward him. Better than the toads and spiders he had feared. She put a finger in the satchel and stirred the contents about, while he held back a nervous chuckle.

  The servant returned with a pitcher of water and poured it into the basin, as Morgaine indicated. Warner dismissed the man, for he did not want the innocent servant to be held culpable for what they were about to do. The man sighed with relief as he hurried out the door and clicked it closed behind him.

  Morgaine tossed a handful of herbs into the water. Then she approached Warner and reached for him, running her fingers sensuously through his hair. He felt drawn into her hypnotic eyes and sensed her evil presence wrapping about him like a snake. But he could not back down now.

  A memory of Saul in the Bible consorting with the witch of Endor flashed through his mind. Matters had not gone well with Saul from that time forward. But following the church’s commands had gotten Warner nowhere so far. He had to give this less-orthodox course of action a try.

  With a swift jerk, Morgaine plucked a single dark hair from Warner’s head.

  As he rubbed his stinging scalp, she dropped it into the basin with the herbs. Then she stirred the concoction with her finger as she had done to the herbs in the satchel. With her thick, raspy voice she mumbled words he did not understand in some ancient tongue, and that dark presence in the room increased tenfold. It threatened to choke him and nearly snuffed out the torch before it fanned back to life.

  “What do you see?” He pushed the words through his tight throat in a whisper.

  “All is not lost. There is yet a chance.”

  His throat seemed to unclench at that. Surely he was being silly, and it was only his own fear, not some evil presence, holding him bound.

  Morgaine continued to study the water, her glowing, all-seeing eyes taking her to some different sphere. “Right now you have little land, no power, and no title of consequence. You are a man dispossessed. There is a way to acquire all this and more, but it shall take daring and courage,
the likes of which I do not think you have.”

  “Did I not dispose of the duke? Yet you doubt me.”

  “That is what sisters are for.” She cackled and peered yet deeper into the basin. “I see a woman, alone, with power and land. You must seize her. Marry her, and claim them for yourself. If you can accomplish this, I believe you will stand a chance of claiming North Britannia.”

  “A chance? Is that the best you can do?” Had he come this far, risked so much, for nothing more than a chance?

  “As I mentioned, the future is fickle.”

  “Who is this lady I must seize?” Warner fought the urge to grab his sister and shake the information out of her. He grew weary of her enigmatic speech, but one did not dare anger a woman such as Morgaine.

  “That is for you to discover. But I believe her to be an English noblewoman. Perhaps once you have gained possession of her holdings, Marshall will desire you as an ally and help you defeat Duchess Adela and her young whelp. I cannot say for certain, but this is your best hope.”

  Warner ran through a number of calculations in his head. If he were to find such a noblewoman and kidnap her, once he had cohabited with her, they would be wed by default. If he hurried, it could yet be accomplished before the noble wedding.

  Of course such actions were frowned upon, yet they happened from time to time. It would be an opportunity to demonstrate his determination and his might. And since he already counted William Marshall a friend, it just might work. If nothing else, as Morgaine had said, it was his best hope and well worth the gamble.

  Swiping against the thick presence in the room, he planted his feet firm upon the stone floor. “I will do it.”

  And at that moment the darkness seemed to enter him—filling him, choking and strengthening him all at once until he gave way and accepted it as his own.

  Chapter 17

  Allen sat in his newly appointed chamber and stared out the window at the setting sun that streaked the sky with shades of turquoise and pink. The same colors as Gwendolyn’s gowns. Why must everything remind him of her? As if God had designed the very nature surrounding him to conjure the lady. Or perhaps it was his own mind playing such tricks upon him.

  He shuffled about the papers he had been staring at for the past hour, thankful for the privacy of his personal sanctuary, the luxury of which he had never known before. As a lad he had lived in a one-room cottage, and then with all the boys of the survivors of Ellsworth, and finally in a large communal room as a soldier in Lord Linden’s garrison. He must accustom himself to such niceties and more, as he would soon be the duke of North Britannia. His brain still could not quite process such a ridiculous notion.

  But one thing he had discovered during this last week, privacy allowed one a troublesome amount of time with one’s thoughts. He glanced down at the ten pillars of chivalrous conduct he had copied from the official annals of North Britannia in order to memorize.

  Love God and love His church

  Protect the weak

  Show respect and honor to women

  Display courage at all times

  Seek peace but battle evil

  Stand for right

  Promote justice

  Serve your region

  Be truthful above all

  Demonstrate generosity

  He must continue to focus on his duties and not allow his errant heart to sway him. He must love God and the bishop’s instruction more than himself. He must be courageous to serve and protect the dukedom. He must honor the duchess by accepting her, even if he must deny his heart to do so. He must seek the peace that this marriage would bring and battle his own selfish desires that might stand in the way. He must be generous with his love and his very life.

  The dukedom needed him. Him! Lowborn Allen of Ellsworth had arrived just in time to save the day, and he would not shirk from this awesome responsibility.

  With the duke’s grand funeral finally behind them, tonight Allen would meet the duchess for a meal alone in her solar. The first of several planned for them to become better acquainted, although the poor woman remained in the throes of mourning for her husband.

  Allen picked up the second sheet of expensive paper before him. He had wished to write a courtly love poem to the duchess in hopes of cheering her. Surely the exceptional woman deserved, nay expected, such a fine and chivalrous gesture. But images of Gwendolyn’s soft golden form continued to push past those of the duchess’s sterner, darker variety of beauty, and he had at long last admitted defeat.

  The time had come. Gazing into his very own mirror, Allen straightened his new burgundy silken tunic over fine black woolen leggings. He had never dreamed of such luxuries. Nor of the fancy window seat, the paned glass, nor the bizarre indoor privy that his chamber boasted.

  As he passed a brush made of fine metals inlaid with colorful stones through his wavy brown hair, he couldn’t help but picture Gwendolyn’s thick silky tresses of spun gold. He slammed the brush down on his table and sighed. Gripping the back of the chair for strength, he attempted to banish her from his thoughts once again.

  The irony of the situation did not escape him. He had come to this modern-day Camelot in search of legendary glory, but he had never expected to play Guinevere to Gwendolyn’s Lancelot. However, unlike the weak Queen Guinevere in the story—who cheated on her husband, Arthur, with Lancelot, the knight she dearly loved—he would not betray the duchess. He would not allow his heart to bring his downfall.

  No, he would choose duty, the good of the whole dukedom, over some romantic notion of love. He would marry the beautiful Duchess Adela and be patient as love grew between them.

  Allen offered up a brief prayer, as he so often did—but ever since he had arrived to Edendale Castle, his prayers seemed to bounce off the strong stone ceilings. Perhaps he should get out of doors again to experience God’s presence. Or perhaps it was the cloud of conflicting desires and motivations in his own mind keeping God’s direction at bay.

  He braced himself and tugged at the gilded laces of his tunic. He could do this thing.

  During his trip across the inner bailey he continued mumbling prayers. As he crossed through the outdoors, the sun took its final rays of light and hid behind the horizon for good, but he would not accept it as an omen of night falling in his own heart. Once to the tower, the steward led him up a mammoth marble stairway and into the duchess’s private solar.

  There the graceful woman awaited him. She looked stunning as usual in a gown of the finest black wool with a gilded circlet holding her matching veil in place over her dark hair. A huge fire roared in the hearth, chasing away the chill on this fall evening. Torches and candlelight set the room aglow. A centerpiece of late blooms festooned the table, creating the perfect environment for a man and a woman to discover one another.

  The duchess smiled up through watery eyes. Allen couldn’t begin to understand how hard this must be for her. Yet the duchess had been reared a noble, reared to put duty and honor before personal desires. Meanwhile Allen had always expected he would choose a simple peasant girl whom he loved and desired. So in some ways his situation was no easier.

  The duchess stood and offered her hand. “Welcome, Sir Allen.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it with compassion and admiration, but with none of the fervor, none of the longing, with which he had kissed Gwendolyn’s. Perhaps this was better. Perhaps this more logical, prescribed sort of relationship could last long after the flames of romance might have been extinguished.

  “Your Grace,” was all Allen could choke out.

  She took his hand in hers now and patted it in a motherly sort of way. “I am relieved to see this is no easier for you than it is for me. Perhaps in such circumstances, we shall be able to navigate this unexpected path together.”

  Allen took a fortifying breath. “I am honored to be your espoused husband. Nothing could please me more.”

  A small laugh escaped her. “While I suspect that is not true, I thank you for s
aying so. This decision has taken us both by surprise.” She indicated to a chair and sat across from him.

  “Of course it is true.” Allen smiled ruefully. “’Tis simply complicated. And unexpected, as you mentioned. And far too fast.”

  The duchess blinked back a few tears. “Yes, far too fast.”

  She gazed deep into Allen’s eyes. “But there is something about you I like. A goodness of heart. On that issue at least, the council is correct. And a forthrightness as well. I think we shall deal well together.”

  Gwendolyn had also liked his forthrightness, but he could never say as much. “I do not wish you to feel rushed, Your Grace. I realize we must marry soon, but know that I will allow you as much time as needed before . . .” He sensed heat rising up his cheeks but needed to say this for both of their peace of mind. “Before we must express our love physically to one another.”

  “Yes, you are as thoughtful as I had hoped.” The duchess gestured for the servant to begin serving the meal.

  As the man heaped the ornate table with pheasant, meat pies, fish, and roasted vegetables, Allen struggled to think of what else he might say. He fiddled nervously with his goblet of wine, swishing it about in the cup and then taking a few fortifying sips. Perhaps rather than talking he should ask questions and listen. “So, did you grow up in Edendale, Your Grace?”

  The duchess daintily chewed and swallowed a piece of warm crusty bread before answering. “Not far from here. I was a third cousin of the duke. DeMontforts have always liked to keep matters in the family. I had a charmed childhood in a pleasant castle, but always I was so scared of the imposing man I knew would someday be my husband. He seemed too big, too serious.”

  At the memory she giggled, the first truly joyful sound she had made that evening. “Then he came to visit when I was seventeen years old. And suddenly the ten years between us melted away. He was handsome, gallant, and charming. He wooed me as any other suitor might, and I fell deeply, intoxicatingly in love.”