Medieval Ever After

by Kathryn Le Veque

  With a mournful sob, she wiped a tear from her face. “But I have my reasons—”

  “I care not for thy reasons.” He waved to Aristide, who collected the mare, and they regained the main road. “Naught can justify thy actions, and thou would do well not to incite me, as I have no more patience to spare ye from a much-deserved, sound whipping.”

  The sun was high in the sky, as they retraced their steps. Ere long, they met Arucard, stopped on a curve, and a series of severe expressions gave Demetrius pause.

  “What happened?” Aristide inquired of Geoffrey.

  “Grimbaud slipped on the ice, fell from a bluff, and struck his head, as he scoured the area for thy wayward bride.” The contempt in Geoffrey’s tone stoked the flames of fury. “It took us a while to recover him. He is gravely injured, and Isolde tends him in the wagon.”

  “Mayhap I can help.” Athel stiffened her spine.

  “Hast thou not done enough?” Morgan asked, as he strolled up and untied his destrier. “If thou had not run away, he would be fine. He is a new father. Wilt thou orphan his son and widow Isotta? What hath they done to ye?”

  “Morgan, cease thy admonishment, as it is not thy place to correct Athelyna.” Arucard trotted to the front of the line. “I am sure she regrets her lapse in judgment, and it is doubtful she intended to harm Grimbaud. Let us continue our journey, that we might get Grimbaud home, whither the physic can treat him, and our friend just might survive.”

  And so they resumed their travel, in a silent march bereft of the humor and spirited conversation that previously marked the trip. Still in his grasp, Athel provoked him not, yet she wept. When the caravan approached the north gates of Chichester Castle, the group narrowed in preparation to cross the pair of bridges.

  Demetrius steered his horse through the barbican and navigated the machicolated inner gatehouse. In the courtyard, the servants stood at the ready to welcome the lord and lady of the great residence, so he drew rein to the side, in hopes of attracting little attention.

  A scream of horror penetrated the somber mood, when Isotta discovered her husband, and Margery, the housekeeper, and her husband Pellier, Arucard’s marshalsea, assisted the physic, as they moved Grimbaud to his quarters.

  At that moment, scrutiny fell on Demetrius and his bride, as word circulated of the series of events that led to Grimbaud’s wounds. Harsh perusal paired with expressions of scorn, and whispers grew to a mix of audible censure, which swelled to a cacophony of dissent.

  “Teach her whither she belongs.”

  “Ought to tan her hide.”

  “Lock her in her room.”

  “Deny her food and drink, and let us see how much rebellion is left in her.”

  Blinded by rage, Demetrius descended from the saddle, turned, and yanked Athel to the ground. With a steel grip on her arm, he all but dragged her into the Great Hall, with the angry crowd on his heels, urging him to claim the retribution she owed. When she stumbled, he roughly pulled her upright, and she cried out in pain. At a bench, he sat and wrenched her across his lap.

  “No.” Isolde clutched her throat.

  Everything went black.

  With his palm halted mid-air and poised to strike, naught but the rush of his breath filled his ears, and Demetrius glanced at his bride’s back. Lost in a strange reverie, mangled and bloody flesh covered Athel, which evoked dreadful memories of Isolde’s beating, and he jolted from the haze of indignation. A chill traipsed his spine, as he lowered his hand, swallowed hard, and shook off the miserable reflection.

  “This is not the sort of husband I would be to my wife.” Then he thrust into the present and mulled her words of contrition, I have my reasons. Heaving and sobbing, Athel shuddered violently, until he turned her over and embraced her. Rocking to and fro, he cupped her bottom and kissed the crest of her ear. “Shh. It is all right, Athel. I am sorry. I am so sorry. Never will I strike ye. But I would know wherefore ye fled, when I thought we had formed a comfortable accord in our marriage.”

  “So did I, until I overheard thy conversation with the men, when I brought ye some ale.” As she wrapped her arms about his waist and rested her head to his chest, she whimpered. “I sought only to free ye from a life of lamentable bondage, given thou dost prefer the axe to me.” With that, she unleashed a flood of misery so potent it shook him to his core.

  In that instant, he recalled the various witticisms of camaraderie, uttered at her expense. While Arucard made no effort to temper his regard for Isolde, heedless of the ensuing baiting, Demetrius had used Athel as a whipping post, given he lacked the fortitude to do otherwise.

  “I did not mean it, as I spoke in jest,” he explained as much to her as to the witnesses. “My friends made light of our union, and I had not the courage to proclaim the truth, but I do so now, for all to understand.” He lifted his chin and addressed the throng. “Let no one doubt my commitment to my bride, and I take full responsibility for what happened to Grimbaud, given I dishonored Athelyna, when my first priority as her husband is to protect and defend her. Indeed, I failed her. If anyone hath a quarrel with what occurred, thou wilt take it up with me.”

  That ended the discussion.

  “Back to thy chores, everyone.” Arucard frowned, splayed his arms, and led the Chichesters from the cavernous room. “Thither is naught to see.”

  Adjusting Athel in his hold, Demetrius stood and carried her into the narrow passage and upstairs, to their private quarters, which Isolde and Arucard had constructed from two separate accommodations and furnished with lavish appointments. In the solar, he set his wife on her feet, framed her face, and kissed her.

  Initially, she did not respond, so he parted her lips with his tongue and intensified the exchange. While he intended to comfort and console her, somewhere in the midst of the moment, he struggled with an overwhelming sense of remorse. In ignorance, he hurt his gentle bride, and that knowledge wore on him as a relentless battle he could not win. Yet he vowed not to repeat the mistake.

  When his lady at last reciprocated, he thrust his hips, and she moaned. “Thou art aroused, my lord.”

  “Wherefore, I know not.” He chuckled, as she nipped his nose. “But I would make amends, Athel. Canst thou ever forgive me?”

  “Thou dost ask, and it is done.” Sorrow invested her green gaze, and she offered an unconvincing half smile. “But I am also to blame, and I would vouchsafe my promise never again to run away from thee, if thou wilt have it and be satisfied.”

  “Ah, I am content.” Lifting her, he whirled about in circles, claiming her mouth in a searing affirmation. A knock at the door brought him to a halt, but he refused to yield his bride. Instead, he tightened his grip, and she giggled. “Come.”

  “We brought thy trunks.” Morgan sidestepped, with Geoffrey at the rear, as they carried the heavy chest. “And we would extend our regrets to Lady Athelyna, as we goaded our brother.”

  “The misunderstanding was our fault.” Aristide cleared his throat. “And we know better.”

  “Thus we humbly beg thy pardon.” Geoffrey dipped his chin.

  “Grammarcy, good sirrahs, but thou dost owe me naught.” Athel relaxed in his hold, and she speared her fingers in his hair. “Let us forget the unpleasantness of today and move beyond it.”

  In unison, his brothers bowed.

  “Isolde wanted us to ask if ye preferred to dine in thy quarters.” Aristide peered over his shoulder. “What say ye?”

  “Lady Isolde is a wise and generous soul.” Now Athelyna favored Demetrius with a playful smile he savored. “And I would have a bath, if it is not too much trouble.”

  “I shall belay thy request to Margery.” With that, Aristide exited with Morgan and Geoffrey.

  “So, my lord.” Athel licked the curve of his jaw. “I believe ye dost owe me a thorough washing, in fulfillment of thy promise, and I would have what I am due.”

  “Then it is providential that I always pay my debts.” He suckled the tender flesh of her neck. “But I would
have ye know that I truly no longer regret our union, and I speak not in jest.” She stilled, and he met her stare. They loomed on a precipice that posed two options. One, he could persist on his current path, which rendered her unsure of their future and caused only added strife. The alternative necessitated the nerve to admit what he had denied to himself, despite fledgling emotions to the contrary. “I am grateful thee art my wife, as I would have no other.”

  #

  In the days since arriving at Chichester Castle, Athelyna settled into a routine that mirrored Isolde’s schedule as chatelaine, which occupied much of Athel’s time and revolved around the various meals. After a morning prayer, she ventured to the kitchen, to assist the staff with food preparation, and then she learned the myriad duties required to maintain the castle and its collective of servants and soldiers.

  The task was daunting.

  With ruthless attention to detail, Athel balanced the household accounts, ordered provisions from a local merchant, and ensured the dry stores in the undercroft remained free of spoilage. And while the community aided her, an undercurrent of tension marred an otherwise exciting experience.

  Determined to improve relations with the Chichesters, she checked her appearance in the long mirror, smoothed her plaited hair, and tied the laces of her cloak. In the solar, she gathered her little bag of medicaments and strolled from the chambers she shared with her husband, who had long since departed for weapons practice.

  A biting wind cut through her wool garments, as she raced across the courtyard to the more modest accommodations that quartered the guards and their families. After several wrong turns, she located the correct portal and knocked on the door.

  When Isotta discovered the identity of her visitor, she furrowed her brow, frowned, and granted entry. “My lady, what can I do for ye?”

  “I have come to see what I can do for ye.” Athel assessed the dank lodging. “It appears thou art in need of help.”

  “We can make do with what we have, my lady.” Isotta’s tone conveyed barely masked resentment. “Given I am a maid, it is not thy place to tend my needs.”

  “Nonsense, as I know no rank during moments of strife.” Athel set down her bundle on a small chair and surveyed the patient. “His coloring has returned, and I detect no fever.”

  “The physic expects my husband will wake soon, as the bump on his forehead has gone down, but it breaks my heart to look upon him thus.” Isotta sniffed, as she sat on the edge of the bed. “He is the mightiest lancer in Chichester, yet he seems so frail, and it frightens me.”

  “I am so sorry.” A glance conveyed numerous shortcomings, and Athel dusted off her hands. “Until thy spouse has made a full recovery, I am at thy service. And thy residence would benefit from a thorough cleaning, but I shall work quietly, that I do not disturb Grimbaud.” After doffing her cloak, she rolled up the sleeves of her gown. “If thou wilt fetch a couple of maids, we will make things right.” A baby cooed and then cried, and Athel noted the infant in a cradle. “Mayhap thou canst take thy beauteous son to the kitchens, as thither is a warm place for ye to nurse thy hungry child and fresh bread and hot tea to sustain ye. And I shall stay with thy man until ye dost return.”

  For a minute, Isotta hesitated, and then she lifted her babe. “Wherefore art thou so kind to us, my lady? Thou art a member of the nobility, and I was born into poverty.”

  “I may be a product of privilege, but I was raised an oblate, thus I am no stranger to hard work and sacrifice.” Athel found a broom. “Go, and be sure to sample the roasted ham, as it is delicious.”

  “Thank ye, my lady.” Isotta swaddled her son. “Thou art most kind.”

  “I owe ye a debt, which I intend to repay.” Athel smiled and commenced her chores. Soon a trio of young girls joined in the labor, and they swept, mopped, dusted, and tidied the lodging in but an hour. With their assistance, Athelyna changed the linens, using great care as she shifted Grimbaud—until he groaned.

  “Oh, dear.” Supporting his head, Athelyna grabbed a pillow. “Fetch the physic,” she said to one maid. To another, she remarked, “Summon Isotta, as hither she should be, when her husband wakes, and someone should notify his lordship.”

  As the servants rushed to do her bidding, Athel wet a cloth and wiped his brow. When Grimbaud opened his eyes, he gazed at her and grinned.

  “Am I dead?” He blinked. “Art thou an angel?”

  “I am no angel, Grimbaud, but I suspect ye dost know that.” When he propped on an elbow, she helped him sit upright. “Go slow, else thou mayest suffer additional harm.”

  “I would kill for a drink of ale.” Wincing, he rubbed his temple.

  In a flash, from a pitcher she filled a mug with cool water and held the cup to his lips. “Take a sip.”

  He did as she bade and quickly spat the contents. “God’s bones, that is Adam’s ale. Art thou trying to kill me, my lady?”

  Just then, the physic thrust open the door and rushed into the room, followed by Arucard, Demetrius, and Isotta. To Grimbaud’s wife, Athel surrendered her place and assumed her rightful position at Demetrius’s side.

  “What happened?” Demetrius slipped an arm about her waist.

  “I know not.” She shrugged. “He woke as we put fresh sheets on the bed.”

  “Isotta told me of thy generous deeds, and I am proud of ye.” His single statement made her efforts worthwhile. “Mayhap I should give ye a good scrub, after a long soak in a hot bath, as a reward for thy toils.”

  “My lord, I would love that.” When the physic pronounced Grimbaud well on the road to recovery, Athel glanced at Isotta and nodded. To Demetrius, she said, “Now I must meet with Isolde and continue my study of her duties, but I look forward to our interlude in our chambers.”

  As the gathering celebrated Grimbaud’s improving health, she retrieved her cloak and bag of medicaments and retraced her earlier steps. After crossing the Great Hall, she skipped into the screened passage and turned right. In the kitchen, Isolde lingered near a steaming pot.

  “I am sorry I am late.” Athel hung her outerwear on a wall peg and dropped the bundle on the floor. “Grimbaud is awake.”

  “So said the maid, when she called Isotta.” As had become a habit, Isolde did not glance at Athelyna. “Thither is thy ledger on the table. Pellier just delivered a selection of furnishings for ye, in preparation for thy move to Winchester Castle. Tally the figures, and we can verify the purchases in the storage room.”

  Without complaint, Athel eased to the bench and opened the leather-bound book. Grasping the goose pinion, she dipped the end in ink and made calculations, just as she had been taught. But all was not well with her friend, and Athelyna decided she had been quiet long enough.

  “Isolde, thou hast always been my supporter, but I know something is wrong.” She put down the quill. “Have I done something to offend ye?”

  “Dost thou wish me to speak freely?” Isolde pulled a small bowl from a shelf and proceeded to clean and chop some onions.

  “I should hope ye would extend naught less.” Athel gulped. “Thus I have vexed ye.”

  “Nay, I am not vexed.” Arucard’s wife frowned. “Rather, thou hast disappointed me.”

  “How so?” Her spirits sank, as she feared she might have lost her greatest ally. “Pray, what have I done?”

  “Thou dost have to ask?” Then Isolde peered over her shoulder. To the sculleries, she said, “Leave us.”

  “Whatever distress I have caused ye, know that I am sorry.” Athel bowed her head. “But I am trying to find my way.”

  “And that included abandoning thy husband and breaking thy oath, sworn before the archbishop.” Isolde compressed her lips and sighed. “What have I told ye? His Majesty arranged thy marriage. If thou dost not honor the commitment, thou dost place not only thy neck but also Demetrius’s in peril. Canst thou imagine what he would tell the King, regarding thy disappearance, had ye succeeded in thy endeavor?”

  “I did not think of that.” Her mind ra
ced. “At the time, I believed him sincere in his desire to be rid of me, and I sought only to comply with his wishes.”

  “Even if that were true, thou must remain hither and perform thy duties.” Isolde stood, poured two mugs of hot tea, and returned. “My dear, life is not fair, and it is often cruelest to the female sex, as we are but chattel in this world ruled by the male sex. Yet, when it comes to thy husband, thou art his foundation. Thou art the source of his strength. Without ye, he hath no home, family, or love. He hath naught to protect and defend, thus no reason to exist. Even if Demetrius’s affections are not fixed, thou must keep thy word, else ye art both for the block.”

  “Thou art wise, my lady, and I defer to thy sage counsel.” Athel gazed at her reflection in the full cup and set it aside. “Wilt thou excuse me, as thither is something I must do, at once.”

  “Did I speak too much honesty?” Isolde furrowed her brow. “As that was not my intent.”

  “On the contrary, I appreciate thy candor.” Athel clasped hands with her advocate. “But thou hast forced me to confront an uncertainty that I have avoided until now, and I would resolve the situation, without further ado.”

  With that, Athelyna pushed from the bench, gathered her belongings, and strolled to her private quarters. In the inner sanctum, she stored her bundle of treatments and draped her cloak on a chair. Then she faced herself in the long mirror.

  Garbed and styled as a noblewoman of estimation, she hardly recognized herself. Yet she belonged to a wealthy and powerful man who would soon demand her most intimate gift, to seal their union in obeisance of a royal decree. But she mistakenly held tight to the dreams of an unattached oblate, which might rescue her from the situation, when she could do so no more. Thither was no redemption, not that she desired it, and that unexpected development she had to acknowledge. Her fingers shook, as she untied the neckline of her gown, reached beneath the heavy fabric, and unpinned the mysterious brooch from her chemise.