WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "Come downstairs with me, Deklyn,” the Patriarch said. “Sitting at her door will accomplish nothing. There are arrangements we must make in regard to the burial of your son."

  Dek flinched. “My son?"

  "Get up now and come with us,” the clergyman insisted in a stern voice.

  Feeling numb, Deklyn pushed up from the floor. He watched Daragh enter Ynez's bedchamber, felt the finality of the whole thing as the door closed still again.

  "You are not at fault here, Deklyn,” the Patriarch said. “Do not for one moment consider such a possibility."

  Dek looked at him. “I didn't want the babe,” he said. “This is the gods’ way of punishing me."

  "Nonsense!” the Patriarch snapped. “They are not punishing you. If there is punishment to be meted out, They are punishing her. Now. Come along and let us see to what needs doing."

  * * * *

  It was a quiet ceremony two days later that was held privately in the keep's day chapel with the interment of the little body in the family crypt. Ynez was still abed and the only other members of Dek's family attending were Jules and Guy. The two archbishops and the auxiliary priests as well as the Archmandrite and Presbyter stood quietly flanking the altar as the Patriarch celebrated the funeral mass. As soon as the interment was over, Dek left the suffocating confines of the crypt. He wiped at the tears streaming down his face. Despite what both the Patriarch and Daragh had told him, he felt responsible for his son's death.

  "What name do you give him, Deklyn?” the Patriarch had asked. “Your lady-wife would not provide one."

  Dek had stared at the Patriarch. Pure, unadulterated agony drove straight through him. It was not something he'd ever considered for he had never thought to have a child, a son, an heir to replace him when his time in the world was o'er. He shook his head. “I don't ... I can't...."

  It had been Jules who had given the little one his name.

  "Sloane Yn Baase,” he'd said quietly, slipping an arm around his cousin's back. “That is the Baron's middle name."

  "Sloane, it will be,” the Patriarch agreed.

  Cutting across from the courtyard from the chapel, Deklyn went straight on to the outer bailey and the stables. Not bothering to take the time to saddle his mount, all he took was the bridle before he led the animal into the gray gloom of the morning. Once the bridle was placed, he vaulted into the saddle and drummed his boot heels into the horse's flanks. No one got in his way as he raced away from the keep and took the road that led to Sheidaghan.

  * * * *

  News had reached Maire of the miscarriage and the emergency operation that had taken away Ynez's chances of keeping hold on her husband not long after it occurred. Though the reports of what had happened saddened her, she could not help but feel encouraged that now Deklyn at last would be free. As soon as she saw him racing toward her, she felt her heartbeat accelerating. When he reined in ten or so feet away, she realized he'd been crying for his eyes were red and puffy but there was a hesitant smile on his face.

  "You heard?” he asked and at her silent nod, he slowly dismounted, walked the beast to the hitching post to loop the reins over the crosspiece.

  "How is she?” Maire asked. She was worried about him for he looked tired and his shoulders were drooping.

  "She'll mend,” he said. “She has refused to see me which is just as well, I suppose.” He turned to her and held out his hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “I'm free, Maire."

  "You've spoken to the Patriarch?” she asked.

  "He signed the paper last eve dissolving the marriage, had me sign it, then he took it upstairs for her signature.” He looked away. “She refused to sign it but His Beatitude said it didn't matter. It's a done deal. The paper bears his seal and the signature of the entire council."

  "The marriage has been put aside,” she said.

  "It has.” His fingers tightened around hers as he began walking with her toward the cottage.

  "What now?” she questioned.

  "She has asked to be allowed to join the Mantis at Galrath and even though the Patriarch tried to dissuade her, she bid him petition the Sisters to admit her."

  "Will they?"

  Dek shrugged listlessly. “I don't know and I really don't care but the Patriarch believes they will. She will need to sign over those precious lands of hers to the convent."

  Maire frowned. “She'll not want to do that."

  "She'll have no choice if she is to become a nun. There is that vow of poverty thing. Once she's behind the gates of Galrath, she'll have no use for property or the revenue gleaned from it."

  "And us?” she asked, holding her breath for his answer.

  "The bans of our Jovnal are to be posted for the first time this Sunday.” He stopped, reached out with his free hand to cup her chin, turning her face up to his. “That is if you will have me as your husband."

  She tilted her head to one side. “I don't recall you asking me, milord,” she told him.

  He smiled tiredly then—still holding her hand in his—went to one knee before her. He kissed her hand then laid it against his heart. “Maire Barnes, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

  She placed her other hand on his cheek. “Aye, milord. I would be pleased to become your wife."

  He lowered his head for a moment, and she felt his sadness and guilt. She knew he was striving not to show the happiness he had pushed aside because he was blaming himself for the infant's death. She knew him well enough to know for him, to show joy while he should be in mourning would be wrong.

  "I baked a ham for lunch,” she said, dragging his mind from his sorrow. “With red-eye gravy for the grits."

  He raised his head. “Grits?” he said, his face twisting. He shuddered. “No, no grits."

  "Not even one?” she teased, drawing him to his feet then hooking her arm through his. She held her index finger and thumb close together. “Just an itty bitty grit?"

  "Not even a smidgen of an itty bitty grit,” he replied as they continued walking. “Not even a shadow of a smidgen of an itty bitty grit or a hint of a shadow of a smidgen of an itty bitty grit, tarrishagh."

  "Have you ever eaten grits, milord?” she challenged, a twinkle in her eyes.

  He shook his head. “No, nor sand, either."

  She leaned against him. “You've no sense of adventure."

  "Mayhap not,” he agreed, surprised at how easily she had lifted his spirit.

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  Epilogue

  The courtyard was filled to overflowing with people. A bright crimson carpet had been rolled out from the steps of the chapel to the pathway down which the carriage would roll. Sprinkled atop the carpet were thousands of pale pink rose petals. It was a bright, sunny morning with just a hint of autumn in the air. A light breeze bringing with it the scent of the sea played over the hundreds of Tarryns who had gathered to greet the Cochianglt of their Baron.

  Standing on the steps of the chapel with Guy to one side of him and the Patriarch on the other, Deklyn had never felt so nervous in his entire thirty-odd years. He continually shifted from one foot to the other, plucked at his ceremonial uniform, tugged at his tie until Jules stepped up to swat his hand away.

  "It took me the gods’ own time to get that knot right,” Jules snapped. “Leave it be!"

  "Where is that carriage?” Dek asked and when no one answered, he looked about helplessly. His hands were shaking. His mouth was dry. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears.

  "Stop that infernal fidgeting, Deklyn!” the Patriarch hissed at him. “She's on her way."

  "The way from Sheidaghan to the keep is lined with hundreds of our people,” Guy reminded his cousin. “I told Hank to drive slowly so they could see her."

  Dek groaned. “Why did you have to do that?” he whined.

  Overhead a pair of seagulls soared on the thermals then banked sharply toward the harbor. Their nosy squawking garnered Deklyn's attention for a moment, then he started t
o run his hand through his hair. He didn't get the chance for Guy snagged out a hand to grab his.

  "Leave off!” Guy said. “You want to look regal, not like a scarecrow with hair spiked in all directions!"

  "I'm dying here, Guy,” Dek complained.

  "No, you are not,” Guy grumbled, “but I may kill you if you don't stop acting like a child."

  "Child is right. I half expect him to start pulling at the crotch of his pants and telling us he has to take a pee,” the Patriarch muttered.

  Dek cut his eyes across to the clergyman and could have throttled him. He hadn't thought about such a thing but now that it was mentioned, it was like letting a cat out of a bag. He ground his teeth, feeling pressure building in his bladder. He groaned again.

  "Here she comes!” a guard yelled from the barbican. “Here comes the Baron's Cochianglt!"

  The sound of harness jingling was loud on the morning air and Deklyn felt his heart speed up. Like everyone there he was craning his neck to see the white carriage Jules had designed especially for Maire's joining day to appear. He knew it was being pulled by six matching white horses wearing gleaming brass tack and the vehicle would be adorned with dozens of pale pink roses.

  "Breathe,” Guy said quietly, putting a hand to Dek's shoulder.

  Dek wasn't sure he could. His throat had closed up, and he was shaking like an untried youth. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and swallowed nervously. The moment the first horse came prancing under the raised portcullis, he thought his knees would buckle.

  "Breathe,” Guy repeated. “In. Out. In. Out."

  Those closest to the two men giggled for those words were the only other sounds save the clop of hooves and jingle of harness to be heard as the carriage came into the courtyard.

  "I'm gonna be sick,” Deklyn whispered.

  "You'd best not,” the Patriarch warned. He adjusted the folds of his crimson robe. “We'll not have it, Deklyn."

  Rolling to a stop before the chapel as the horses flung their heads where white plumes adorned their bridles, the carriage was a priceless piece of work. The painted white enameled doors bore the gilded Yn Baase family crest and the oversized wheels had garlands of pink roses embellishing the gilt-rimmed spokes. Along the high-rolled gilt sides, pale green ribbon fluttered in streamers from beneath clusters of the roses. Hank sat perched atop the driver's seat decked out in a dark green uniform, top hat sitting cocked at a jaunty angle on his head. Beside him Caro wore a silk gown of the same shade of green, her broad-brimmed silk hat a fabulous creation of ribbon, silk flowers and pale green net that dipped to just below her nose.

  However, it was the woman sitting in the topless carriage that drew Deklyn's eye and kept it upon her. She was looking at him with such love—such glorious love and promise—in her beautiful eyes that he felt his knees threatening to buckle still again.

  Two scarlet-clad AnÉilvéis guards stepped forward to open the door of the carriage and pull down the flower-bedecked steps. It was Damian—the captain of the AnÉilvéis mercenaries—who held a white-gloved hand out to Maire for her to descend the carriage steps.

  "Oh, sweet merciful goddess,” Dek whispered when she stood, her satin gown falling in delicate scalloped folds around her.

  "Breathe,” Guy advised.

  "I can't,” Dek said. “Look at her, Guy. Look at her. She takes my breath away."

  Every eye there was on the beautiful woman in the coach. The gown she wore had been crafted by her own hand and was the most beautiful thing any woman there had ever seen. It was pale green with a high collar fashioned of Chalean lace. The long sleeves were made from the same lace and came to a soft point over the tops of her hands. Lace edged the deep scallops of the skirt and tiny crystal beads had been sewn across the bodice in a crosshatch pattern and were scattered along the hem. In her upswept hair was a circlet of the sparkling beads and from the circlet a wispy pale green net fell to her waist, veiling her glowing face.

  "Beautiful,” Dek heard the Patriarch say. “Surely the most beautiful bride I have ever seen."

  A hint of green silk slipper showed beneath the hem of her gown as Maire came carefully down the carriage steps. With one hand in Damian's and the other lifting her full skirt, she looked graceful, regal, and a fitting bride for the man who waited at the end of the crimson pathway for her.

  Maire held her head up though she felt as though she might melt into a puddle of warm goo at any moment. Her knees felt rubbery and her mouth was dry. Her heart was stuttering beneath her breasts and seemed to skip a beat with every step she took. She kept her eyes on Deklyn but when the little girl stepped out of the crowd and curtsied to her, she stopped, looking down into a pair of shy cornflower blue eyes.

  "For you, milady,” the little girl said, holding out a single blood-red rose.

  "Nuala!” a woman who must have been the child's mother gasped, reaching out to draw her daughter back.

  Maire held up a hand then sank gracefully to the carpet before the child. “Nuala, is it?” she asked.

  Bashfully, the little girl nodded, the rose still clutched in her hand.

  "How thoughtful you are, Nuala,” Maire said. She took the rose then drew the child forward to give her a light kiss on her pudgy little cheek. “Thank you for your gift. I will press it between the pages of my diary and keep it always."

  The little girl smiled broadly. “You're pretty,” she said then ducked behind her mother's dress.

  "Not as pretty as you,” Maire said, allowing Damian to help her to her feet. She looked about the crowd. “Thank you all for coming, for welcoming me. This is the happiest day of my life."

  Cheers went up all over the courtyard and Dek could stand it no longer. He left the safety of the chapel steps and hurried toward his lady. He wanted no other man's hand in hers save his own. He wanted to sweep her up in his arms and carry her as quickly as he could into the chapel, to the altar, and rush the Patriarch's words over their Joining. When he reached her—put out his hand to take hers—he had to refrain from crushing her to him.

  "Are you ready to make me an honest man, milady?” he asked, his eyes locked with hers. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

  "Aye, milord,” she said then lowered her voice so only he could hear. “We'd best hurry before the babe arrives."

  Dek blinked. “Excuse me?"

  "Too late to ask now, milord,” she said, gazing at him with so much sweet adoration he felt his heart swell.

  He stared at her for a long moment then all the color bled from his face as realization set it. He blinked again, yet again, and then began to smile. The smile became a grin. The grin gave birth to a whoop of joy that had everyone around them laughing.

  "What the hell is he doing?” Jules demanded as his cousin swept Maire up in his arms and started toward them.

  "I believe the Black Baron is in a hurry to see this Joining said,” the Patriarch replied. “And I believe we'd best accommodate him else he's going to bowl us over in his haste to get it done!” Chins wobbling, porcine eyes shining, the fat man moved quicker than he ever had in his life, leading the procession into the chapel and the happy ever after ending for which he had prayed so fervently for Deklyn Yn Baase.

  The End

  * * *

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