Medieval Ever After

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I mean no offense.” Arucard arched a brow. “But I chose to forgo a meal on the morn of my nuptials, as I did not wish to be ill and embarrass myself, because I was as nervous as a virgin on her wedding night.”

  “But thou were a virgin on thy wedding night.” And Demetrius remained similarly afflicted, but he refused to share that bit of information. “Shall we remove to the Chapter House, as I would not be late?”

  “After thee.” With an exaggerated flourish, Arucard bowed, and Demetrius just resisted the urge to kick his old friend in the arse.

  A carriage bearing the coat of arms associated with his title conveyed him to Westminster Abbey. With a calm façade, he strolled the cloister walk, until he reached the now familiar double-door entry topped with a Portland stone tympanum. On the steps of the Chapter House, the archbishop loomed as the specter of doom, but Demetrius reminded himself of the drama about to commence and swallowed his apprehension.

  “Welcome, Sir Demetrius.” Archbishop Cobham flipped through the pages of a leather-bound tome. “Now that all parties are present, shall we begin?”

  In that instant, Demetrius clutched his chest and, for a few seconds, sheer terror rang in his ears. Panic danced a merry jig down his spine, when his veiled bride, gowned in blue, the traditional color of purity, and escorted by her brother, marched forth. To Demetrius’s everlasting shame, he bent, vomited in the bushes, stumbled backwards, and fainted.

  “Demetrius, canst thou hear me?” Countless minutes anon, Arucard’s voice came to Demetrius amid a haze of confusion. “Wake up, as thou hast a date with destiny.”

  “Or the parson’s noose.” Morgan snorted. “Depends on his perspective.”

  “I think it safe to say he declared his opinion on the matter, by his actions.” Geoffrey chortled. “Believe me, we will not soon forget this ceremony, and neither will he, if I can help it.”

  To a chorus of laughter, Demetrius inhaled a deep breath, opened his eyes, and found himself surrounded by the Brethren, as he reclined on a bench in a small room. After a moment of utter befuddlement, he blinked, cleared his fogged vision, and sat upright. “What happened?”

  “Mayhap we should leave ye with Arucard.” Snickering, Aristide elbowed Geoffrey. “Let us join the wedding party and reassure the bride that her groom remains very much alive and eager as ever to take his vows.”

  “That will take some effort.” Morgan winked and exited.

  “How did we come to this, brother?” Pondering his predicament, Demetrius scratched his chin and frowned.

  “At the pointed end of a sword.” Arucard chuckled, studied the tip of his boot, and then cleared his throat. “And it is not so bad as thou mayest think, once thou dost accustom thyself to the idea.”

  “Thou dost say that now, but if memory serves, thou were none too pleased when faced with similar circumstances.” With a groan, Demetrius gathered his wits, stood, and paced the floor. How would he recover from the mess he made? “Eternal damnation seems an awfully high price. Surely it would have been preferable to die a warrior’s death.”

  “Well, let us not be too dramatic.” Arucard smiled. “It just requires a period of adjustment on thy part.”

  “Perchance this is punishment for Randulf.” In a flash, Demetrius transported to another time and place, vivid images played a tragedy in his brain, and he shook his head. “Never should I have left him in my wake.”

  “Wait a minute, brother. Thou art no more or less to blame for his demise than any of us, and thither was naught we could do to save him.” Arucard pointed for emphasis. “As it is, we barely escaped with our lives, and only five of us remain. Would thou rather none survived?”

  “I would have him hither.” Demetrius gazed at the ceiling and sighed, as Randulf’s screams echoed in a haunting refrain. “At the very least, I would trade places, as he was the better man.”

  “Now thither I must take exception, as such comparison is as blancmange to brewets.” Leaning forward, Arucard propped his elbows on his knees. “Neither thee nor Randulf could claim such distinction, as thou art two drastically different beasts.”

  “And yet I persist, and he is gone.” Choking on a lethal mix of anger and frustration, Demetrius speared his fingers through his hair, and then he fisted his hands. “So I am resolved to consider my situation a burden and my fate one of lifelong penance.”

  “My friend, thou art not thinking clearly, as thy judgment is clouded by misplaced guilt.” Yet Demetrius had long suspected Arucard carried their comrade’s death as a stain on his conscience and invisible wounds that had not quite healed.

  Of their set, Randulf had been the youngest and most good-natured Templar. Facing every day with a mischievous grin, a biting sense of humor, and a wild streak to match, Randulf was forever garnering additional weapons practice for himself and his brother knights for a wide variety of infractions. Still, the lighthearted gadling was a favored son. Acting as marshalsea-in-training, Randulf had been especially close to Demetrius, and the two were as siblings.

  “My guilt is well-founded, and I do not deserve happiness. In my rush to stem the tide, I did not realize he had yet to cast off, and it was too late when I noted my error. I abandoned him to the king’s guard, and his loss is my shame.” As the full import of his history dawned, Demetrius scowled. “Mayhap it is fitting that I am required to marry.”

  With an expression of astonishment, Arucard sputtered. “Thou dost equate matrimony with hell?”

  “Wilt thou argue otherwise?” Demetrius mumbled.

  “Well, in truth, it can at times be an abyss of suffering unique unto itself.” Arucard laughed aloud and slapped his thigh. “But if thou dost ever repeat that to Isolde, I will send thee to the glorious hereafter, posthaste.”

  “Dost thou find sport in my misery?”

  “I find sport in the absurdity of thy logic.” Arucard rose and came to stand before Demetrius. “Guilt is a powerful emotion, brother. It numbs thy senses and impairs thy vision, shrouding thy reality in a dense cloud of regret, which further impedes thy capacity to reap the rewards of life. Thou mayest as well be dead, as thou hast one foot in the grave, and Randulf, God rest him, would never wish that on thee.”

  “What would thou have of me? Am I to marry Athelyna and spend my days in connubial bliss?” With fists resting on hips, Demetrius inclined his head, as the situation was far more grave than Arucard realized. “And what sort of name is that? Sounds like a rather nasty infection. Canst thou not hear the boys? ‘Poor bastard caught the Athelyna, and his most prized protuberance shriveled and fell off.’”

  “By God’s bones, I will grant thee that.” Arucard surrendered to boisterous guffaws. “Wherefore dost thou not call the poor lass by a term of affection—one known only to her?”

  Demetrius shifted his weight. “And wherefore would I do that?”

  “To foster a true and lasting bond with thy mate.”

  “And wherefore would I want to do that?” Demetrius shuffled his feet.

  “Well, if for no other reason than to hasten conception of thy heirs.”

  With a look of sheer terror, Demetrius turned white as a sheet and splayed his arms as he teetered precariously.

  “Whoa, brother.” Arucard steadied his fellow Nautionnier Knight. “Have a seat before thou dost fall flat on thy face, and the fair maiden refuses to marry thee.”

  “Babes—I forgot about that.” Demetrius cradled his head in his hands. “Back up, else I will ruin the shine on thy boots, as I fear I am going to vomit.”

  “Is it safe to assume thou didst not avail thyself of a whore, as Morgan suggested?” Arucard grimaced, and Demetrius was tempted to remind his friend that he had rejected the same notion prior to marrying Isolde. “It might have put thy mind at ease for tonight.”

  “No, it would not. Call me a lunatic, but if I am to risk everlasting condemnation, then I would join my body only with whom I have spoken the vows, per the sacrament.” Yet the prospect terrified him. Mustering a stan
ce of unfailing determination, Demetrius compressed his lips. “I will have no other.”

  “Then let us be done with it.” With arms crossed, Arucard retreated a step. “So thou mayest beget thy heir, as the King commands.”

  “Am I to breed as a prized stallion put to pasture?” Demetrius grumbled with unveiled irritation. “Art we naught more than means to produce the next generation of mariners insane enough to undertake His Majesty’s bidding?”

  “Thou dost make procreation sound so romantic, brother.” Arucard blanched. “Believe me, it is not a chore, though it doth require some effort to master from the start, but the work is good.”

  “That is precisely what it is to me—drudgery.” Demetrius thrust his chin. “And I suspect we have merely exchanged one hangman’s noose for another. In short, it is naught more than the trappings of duty owed to an oath ill-pledged that I shall endeavor to persevere.”

  “Oh, come now.” To Demetrius’s agitation, Arucard succumbed to a full-blown belly laugh. “As I have seen Athelyna, she is nice duty, if one can get it.”

  “Then thou should take her to wife.” Of course, he did not mean that.

  “Alas, I am in love with Isolde,” Arucard replied, with the hint of a smile.

  “Be that as it may, I am obliged not to enjoy the experience.” Given his fears, he doubted he could physically manage the task, as a particular part of his anatomy had taken shelter.

  “Thou dost forget thyself.” Arucard wiped a stray tear from his eye. “As I explained last night, thou must enjoy it, to some degree, in order to conceive a child.”

  A knock at the door gave them pause.

  “Oh hell, it is time.” Demetrius paled in an instant and swallowed hard. “Come.”

  Morgan peered inside and cast a playful grin. “Ready to face the enemy?”

  Once again, he tottered, and Arucard all but carried Demetrius to the chair. To Morgan, Arucard said, “Brother, we have a problem.”

  “What is this?” Morgan closed the oak panel. “Didst thou not pay a visit to Matild, as I instructed?”

  “She hath a groat-sized wart on her nose.” Demetrius flinched, as an image of the woman intruded on his thoughts. “And she is missing two front teeth.”

  “Indeed, she is, and that is what makes her proficient in her most popular service.” Morgan clucked his tongue. “And wherefore would I care for a wart? Matild’s reputation precedes her.”

  Demetrius snorted. “Thou must know I am not entirely comfortable with thy lustful embrace of English customs.”

  Morgan waggled his brows. “As they say, when in Rome—”

  “We art not in Rome.” Demetrius smacked a fist to a palm.

  “And we art no longer Templars.” Levity aside, Morgan said, “Art thou still going on about Randulf?”

  The room was as silent as a tomb.

  Morgan glanced at Arucard, and he shrugged.

  “Thither thou were not when he disappeared into the sea.” Demetrius closed his eyes. “Screaming for his mother, the lad went down with his ship.”

  “And, apart from the screaming, he would have it no other way,” Arucard stated softly. “Randulf was a fine mariner and man, albeit a young one, and thy steadfast refusal to let him go doth no credit to his memory.”

  “Arucard is correct.” Morgan cocked his head. “But if thou art truly unwilling to wed the lady, I shall be too happy to take thy place, as the woman is handsome and the title generous.”

  Demetrius snapped to attention. “She is my bride—already promised.”

  “And I suppose the earldom means naught?” Morgan rocked on his heels.

  “I would have her without it, but the King gives me no choice,” Demetrius asserted without hesitation, as he coveted not wealth. “His Majesty seems intent on corrupting us.”

  “Then wherefore art thou waiting?” Arucard inquired. “Do thyself a favor, brother, and leave the past to yesterday.”

  Demetrius opened and then closed his mouth, as the problem was not so elementary. After a minute, he sighed heavily and mustered a smile. “All right. Bring on the archbishop, for I am to wed. But thou must promise me something.”

  “Whatever thou dost require, know ye shall have it.” Arucard slapped Demetrius on the back. “Now, let us get thee to the altar.”

  “Wait.” Demetrius halted in his tracks. “At the first opportunity, thou must help me compose a pet name, as Athelyna is not something I imagine myself uttering in the throes of passion.”

  #

  Fidgeting beneath the heavy folds of her wool gown, Athelyna prayed Sir Demetrius had been struck by some foul but not fatal illness, that she might be spared a most unpleasant wedding, until she could design another escape. When the door to the Chapter House swung open, and her husband-to-be appeared, robust but less than enthused, her heart sank in her chest.

  “Well, it is about time.” Gerwald shuffled his feet, settled a hand to the small of her back, and thrust her forward. “Now put a smile on thy lips and do thy duty, else I shall disown ye.”

  To her shame, she stubbed her toe and tripped, but Sir Demetrius caught her with his hands about her waist. “Thank ye, my lord.”

  “Thou art most welcome.” Then he frowned and gripped her chin. “What happened to thy face?”

  “My brother dispensed much required discipline, after he caught me attempting to run in the night,” she replied, in a low voice. “I have disgraced our name, and I am sorry I failed ye.”

  “Thou did not fail, so do not be sorry.” With his thumb, he caressed the curve of her jaw. “It would seem the Lord wishes us to wed, else thou would have succeeded, and thus we shall never mention it again.”

  “I had not thought of it like that, and I am sure of naught.” Then she considered the brooch, which she had pinned to the bodice of her garment, and she reflected on the strange dreams. The archbishop cleared his throat, and she realized she had no choice. She would marry Sir Demetrius. “Shall we take our respective places?”

  “Of course.” Was it her imagination, or did he pale at the prospect? “And fear not, dear lady, as everything will be all right.”

  “Art thou trying to comfort me or thee?” Did her attempt at humor fool him?

  “Both,” he replied, with a wink.

  “Wait.” She gripped his arm. “If we art to live as husband and wife, I should know they preferences.”

  “Thou dost wish to question me now?” He quirked his brows. “Whilst the King awaits?”

  “Aye.” In earnest, she nodded. “I would know something of ye, before I become thy property and lifelong servant.”

  “But I must correct ye.” As the archbishop flipped through the pages of his prayer book, Sir Demetrius bent his head. “Thou shalt be my mate, not my property or servant, despite English law. Dost thou understand?”

  “As I am thine to command, I shall not argue thy assertion, but I would have some sense of thy partialities prior to the ceremony.” So he did not approach marriage as did most men, and for that she was grateful. “As I know ye dost choose ale over wine, what is thy favorite food?”

  “Brewets.” As the archbishop coughed, Demetrius shifted his weight. “And I would be most appreciative if ye learned how to prepare Lady Isolde’s special recipe.”

  “I promise, I will do my best, though I should warn ye, I am no cook.” Then she recalled he coveted a bag of the pounded and spiced meat cutlets the night they met, and in silence she pledged to master the fare. “And what of thy preferred color?”

  “Green,” he responded without hesitation.

  The archbishop signaled, and she gulped. “Light or dark?”

  “The shade of thine eyes.” In that instant, she decided she liked her mountainous groom, although he still scared her, to an extent. “Then thou should know, aside from wine, I love bryndons, burgundy, and roses.”

  “Noted.” A strong gust of wind almost toppled her, and he offered his escort. “Now can we marry?”

  Perched on an invisible
but nonetheless perilous precipice, in her heart she bade farewell to the convent and her dreams. “Yea, my lord.”

  And so Athelyna took her vows, amid a blustery gale and falling snow, on the steps of the Chapter House, repeating with care the sacrament that would forever bind her to the estimable knight. But was Demetrius her one true knight, as the brooch foretold?

  When her new husband lifted her veil, she swallowed a shriek of trepidation and chided herself. But she cringed when he bent and pressed his lips to hers, sealing their nuptials with a kiss, and the modest gesture struck her as an ominous omen, just as the bells rang in a mournful toll.

  “What a lovely ceremony, and now we are sisters.” Isolde produced a handkerchief and daubed Athelyna’s cheeks. “And fret not, as I wept at my wedding to Arucard.”

  The full import of the events dawned, and Athelyna burst into tears.

  “I see my brother’s charms have already impacted his bride.” Arucard chuckled. “But I wish ye glad tidings, Athelyna. No doubt, thou wilt need it.”

  “Arucard.” Isolde elbowed her husband. “Do not tease her, else thou shalt find thy wife not so accommodating this eventide.”

  Anticipating a sharp rebuke, Athelyna was stunned when the enormous and intimidating man softened his expression and tickled Isolde, who giggled and whispered in his ear.

  “Art thou ready to depart for Westminster Palace, my lady?” Demetrius adjusted her cloak, in a gesture that impressed upon her the truth of his rightful ownership. In short, she was his to do with as he chose. “The King hosts our wedding feast, and we do not wish to keep His Majesty waiting.”

  “Of course, not.” Immersed in a new and foreign existence, in more ways than one, she rested her hand in the crook of his elbow, and he accompanied her to his carriage. “Whither are we to spend the night?”

  “Well that did not take long.” Beneath her palm he tensed his muscles. “We are to share a luxurious accommodation in the official residence, at the Crown’s insistence, but we shall discuss that, anon.”

  “Thither is something to discuss?” Terror weaved its subtle web about her spine, and she shivered.