“Aye, sir.” The guard saluted.
“And thou hast re-tasked His Majesty’s soldiers?” She scoffed. “Art thou mad? He will send ye to the block.”
“Athel, I am trying to do the right thing by ye.” He folded his arms. “Canst thou truly claim ye were happy with Demetrius, when I saw ye weeping in the courtyard, and thou didst require Isotta’s comfort?”
“Oh, thou great gulf of ignorance.” She could have screamed at the irony. “I was crying because I just found out I am with child, which deems me entirely unsuitable for a convent and the life of a nun.”
“Thou art pregnant?” Gerwald blinked. “But—how?”
“Art thou joking? How dost ye think?” At once, the ire building within her sought an outlet, and Athel reared back and slapped her brother. “Thou wilt take me home, and if thou dost refuse, I will not protect ye when Demetrius comes for me. And he will come for me.”
“But, thou cannot mean that.” Frowning, Gerwald rubbed his cheek. “Thou didst run away twice, in an attempt to evade thy wedding. Wherefore should I believe thy protestations otherwise?”
“I am well aware of my actions, brother.” Livid, she struck him again. “But I love my husband. Dost thou hear me? I love Demetrius. And I will fight to return to him, so thou wilt take me home—now.”
“It is too dangerous, as we traveled through the fields to avoid capture.” He shrugged. “Thus I know not our present location, but we are sheltered and shall remain hither until the tempest passes.”
“And then ye will convey me to Winchester Castle.” She wagged her finger. “If thou dost not do as I command, I will be sure to tell my husband of thy indifference, and I guarantee he will exact recompense.”
“Art thou certain?” Gerwald scratched his temple. “I was only trying to make reparations and gain thy forgiveness.”
“Gerwald, I am furious with ye. If thou wanted to make amends for past transgressions, ye should have left me in my warm chamber, in the safety of my husband’s custody.” The guard entered the tent and handed her a trencher, with large chunks of ham and bread, and a tankard, and a brilliant plan formed in her brain. “I cannot consume this, as the pieces art too big.”
“Thou mayest use my knife.” Gerwald yielded the utensil. “Eat and rest, and we will discuss the situation on the morrow, as thither art other options.”
She just stopped herself from arguing with him. Instead, she averted her gaze. “All right.”
Alone, Athel shoved morsels of food into her mouth and washed the fare down with ale. Huddled near the brazier, she uttered a prayer for strength, as lightning flashed, and thunder shook the earth beneath her. Staring at the knife, she wondered at the hour and peered between a small gap in the flaps.
A single soldier stood watch over her, and she considered the possibilities. In a flash, she scooted to the rear of the tiny structure, cut a hole in the canvas, and glimpsed naught. To her good fortune, no one guarded the back side of the tent.
Employing her old designs, she opted for patience.
To pass the time, she envisioned Demetrius and wondered what he must think of her absence. How she rued the missed chance at their celebration, and she longed to tell him their joyous news. Then again, he had revealed felicitous news of his own. Opening the door to her memory, she revisited his declaration and gained renewed strength. He loved her, and naught in the world would keep her from him.
So when the rain ceased, and the first glimmer of approaching dawn appeared on the horizon, she enlarged the opening in the tent and slipped to freedom with none the wiser. She found the horses tied to a tree and released her mare. Slow and steady, she walked her mount to the crest of a hill. On the verge, she climbed to the saddle and heeled the flanks of the elegant beast.
But Athel was unfamiliar with the countryside, and she could not locate a road. Given the sun’s placement, she drove east, hoping to find someone to help her. Yet, when she spied a collective of guards wearing familiar colors of a hostile force, she panicked.
Breaking into a gallop, she steered toward the coast, and the patrol gave chase. She veered left and then right, and rounded a wide bend, but she could not shake her pursuers. The ground was a muddy mess, and when she came to a small creek, she drew rein to cross the water. To her unutterable horror, the mare slipped on wet stones and launched Athel, head over heels, into the air.
Athel landed in the soft grass but fought to breathe. Her ears rang, and her vision blurred. As she spiraled into a dark chasm, she pondered her husband, their months of marriage, and the unique gift he presented her on the eve of their wedding.
In the beginning, Athelyna wore the ancient brooch in hopes of discovering her one true knight, in obeisance of the associative lore. But she had long ago ceased such behavior, because she required no fancy bauble or mystical visions to proclaim what she knew beyond all doubt.
Demetrius was her man—her only love, and she bore his name, etched upon her heart, as proof of her unimpeachable devotion. No power, of earth or the hereafter, however estimable, could breach the overwhelming force of her commitment to her husband. And she would tell him so, if ever again they met.
DEMETRIUS
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The lush green countryside, which he once enjoyed with his wife in what he thought were happier times, served only to mock Demetrius, as he searched for Athelyna. And with each successive parcel of ground they covered, his anger festered. Burning in a steady flame just beneath his flesh, the ire spread, infecting every part of his fiber until nothing escaped its foul touch, and he choked on the bitter taste in his mouth.
The love he cultivated with care, the faith he dared to invest in their marriage—and Athel, taunted him, and he cursed himself a fool for believing again. But his worst imprecations he saved for his devoted bride.
Better it would be for her, if she broke her neck in some unfortunate fall, as opposed to enduring untold years in servitude, as his despised spouse. And loathed was she. No matter how long it took, he would ensure she reaped her just rewards in recompense for her crimes. She would suffer for her betrayal, as she had taken the one thing he had left to give. Indeed, she stole the most valuable gift of all.
She robbed him of hope.
Demoralized, he heeled the flanks of his destrier and drove his mount harder and faster, as he tore over the hills and across the valleys. When he spied three riders in the distance, he halted and waved at his party.
“Briarus, look yonder.” Strange, it appeared the unknown group neared. “They journey in the wrong direction.”
“Aye.” Shielding his eyes from the sunlight, Briarus narrowed his gaze. “And they are men, as thy wife is petite, thus Lady Wessex is not among them.”
“Mayhap they have seen her collective.” Demetrius nodded. “Regardless, we should question them.”
Following in his path, the patrol closed ranks. To his surprise, the small contingent actually altered course and steered straight at him. A sense of urgency burgeoned in his chest, and he raced across the uneven terrain, without care for his neck.
At last, he gained a clear vision of his target, and pure rage coursed his veins. A familiar face came into view, and he veered to the left. Within striking range, he hugged his mount with his thighs, thrust his arm, and hauled Gerwald de Moutiers from his horse, in a single sweep.
The young man rolled on the ground and scrambled to his feet, but he was not fast enough to evade Demetrius, as he leaped. “Whither is my wife?” With fistfuls of the gadling’s tunic, Demetrius bared his teeth. “Tell me whither I may find Athelyna, else I will rip out thy throat with my hands.”
“I know not, my lord.” Her brother appeared on the verge of tears, as he clutched Demetrius’s wrists. “In fact, she declared her intent to return to ye, in a rather spectacular fashion.” Gerwald swallowed hard. “But I asked her to sleep on her decision. Instead, she took flight from me, in the middle of the night, and I have been trying to recover her, without success. So I s
et course for Winchester Castle, when I came upon ye. I presume she is home.”
“Thou dost make no sense.” Confused, Demetrius eased his grip, and his thoughts ran rampant. “Wherefore did she leave me, if she intended to return, as thou dost say?”
“Because she never left ye.” Bowing his head, Gerwald slumped. “Sir Demetrius, I forced my sister to marry ye, in a quest for power and prestige, and I was wrong to do it. Spending these months in thy company, I have made many mistakes, and I wasted the chance ye gave me. But in the past sennight I discovered I want to be like ye and the Brethren. I want to be a good man, so I endeavored to correct my error, but I went about it the wrong way. In my haste to make things right, I failed to realize Athelyna loves ye, and I made what I assumed was a bad situation worse. Given she is with child, I planned to bring her back after dawn, when it was safe to travel, as I would take no risk with the babe.”
“Wait.” His ears rang, like the bells in Westminster Abbey, and Demetrius almost stumbled. Reflecting on their final exchange, he wondered if that revelation constituted Athel’s special celebration, which she mentioned in accompaniment to her cherished pronouncement. “What babe?”
“Thou dost not know?” Gerwald blinked. “But Athelyna was adamant about her condition and took me to task. In fact, she struck me.” He rubbed his jaw. “And never has my sister resorted to violence, which convinced me she was in earnest. She insisted she loves ye, and she is convinced ye dost love her. I suppose that is why she fled.”
“She loves me.” Demetrius gazed at the horizon and shuddered.
No one ever claimed that love was easy or sensible, but everyone insisted it possessed incomparable strength, and its compelling force manifested soothing warmth, which pervaded his flesh, mending the invisible cracks and fissures in his frame. As if by some mystical power, his wounds, save one, healed with the knowledge that Athelyna’s declaration was true. But Demetrius knew no joy, his heart remained broken, and his grief compounded tenfold, given the curses he rained upon her. In his ignorance and anger, had he doomed his bride to an as yet unknown and horrible fate?
Then he jerked alert. “To Winchester we ride.”
As a madman, he led his haphazard patrol for the castle and Athelyna. Heedless of Briarus and Grimbaud’s caution for restraint, Demetrius left a trail of dust in his wake, as naught would delay a prized reunion.
Nay, he did not deserve her, and he would find some way to atone for his weakness. Never again would he doubt his wife, and in silence he rescinded his curses, but he knew that was not enough. While he would prefer not to confess his utter failure as a husband, he had to apprise her of his temporary foundering and, if necessary, beg forgiveness.
Traveling in opposition to the sun’s journey across the heavens, he heaved a sigh of relief, when the crenellated towers of Winchester Castle rose above the hilltops, and he hastened his pace. With all manner of sweet welcomes dancing in his brain, he soared through the main gate, rode to the other side of the bailey, ignored the waiting master of the horse just shy of the double-door ingress, and jumped from his steed before the beast came to a full stop.
In the front hall, he spied Isotta and grabbed her by the forearms. “Whither is Athelyna? Hath she returned?”
“Nay, my lord. We have had no sign of her.” With fear in her countenance, the housekeeper shook her head. “I had hoped ye might have located Lady Wessex, as eventide approaches, along with another storm, and I am worried for her safety and her health.”
“Did ye know she is with child?” He released Isotta and raked his fingers through his hair. “Were thou aware of the babe?”
“Aye, my lord.” A tear streamed Isotta’s cheek, and she shuffled her feet. “Though I was sworn to secrecy, as my lady wished to deliver the felicitous news, that no longer matters. The night she disappeared, I prepared the special feast, among other things, at thy wife’s request, that thou might mark the occasion with fond recollections.” Then she clutched his wrist. “Prithee, Sir Demetrius, thou must find her. Do not abandon her to the wild, as Lady Athelyna is an angel of mercy, and she is too gentle to brave the unknown on her own.”
At that instant, Briarus, Grimbaud, and Gerwald rushed into the castle.
“Is she hither?” Gerwald asked.
“She is not.” Even as his spirits sank to new depths, Demetrius smacked a fist to a palm. “Let us saddle fresh horses and resume the search.”
“My lord, it will be dark soon.” Briarus lowered his chin. “I know ye art concerned, and thou art correct in thy instincts, but we will not find thy lady in the rough terrain of thy lands, without benefit of light.” He wiped his brow. “Let us sup, rest, and retrench. At dawn, we may continue the task.”
“But somewhere she persists, and she is alone.” Pain threatened to consume him, as he pondered his sweet Lily, without escort to protect her. Rubbing his temples, he considered the possibilities, none of which inspired confidence. “We can take torches and move slow.”
“My lord, thy insistence speaks well of thy affection for and devotion to Lady Wessex, but thou canst support her not if ye art injured, or worse, in the quest to locate her.” Grimbaud pulled Isotta to his side. “No one could understand more thy apprehension than an equally enamored husband, but Briarus grants sage advice. We should delay until the morrow, and we should employ twice the guards to cover more territory.”
“All right.” Another part of Demetrius died to yield, but he had to defer to their logic. When thunder rumbled through the castle, any lingering protest faded, as it was madness to venture into a spring tempest during the night hours. Dejected and drowning in a sea of remorse, he tugged off his mail coif. “Isotta, bring my meal to my chambers, as I will dine in solitude.”
“Aye, my lord.” She dipped her chin and rushed toward the kitchen.
As the gathering dispersed, and a series of whispers swept into the Great Hall, Demetrius trod to his quarters, whereupon he doffed his hauberk. At the washstand, he scrubbed and dried his face.
The small table bedecked with his wife’s appurtenances caught his attention, and he picked up her brush and inhaled the subtle scent that was uniquely hers. Then he noted the smooth blue stone he gave her, to commemorate the day he spent with her in Chichester, after he neglected to purchase a Christmastide gift for her.
A box sat at the other end, and he lifted the lid. Tucked inside, he found a bundle of dried flowers and recognized them in an instant. It was the remains of the bouquet he collected in the glade, the afternoon they made love in the woods for the first time. And beneath the less than elegant spray, he found the brooch and reminisced of Yordana’s prediction.
Thou dost have dark days ahead, Sir Demetrius, as thou dost call friend those who would smile to thy face and sink their sword in thy back. But fear not, as thou wilt not meet thy end on these shores. Rather, thou wilt rise again, and a mighty legacy is thine to claim, if thou wilt but seize it. And know thy bride-to-be is thy equal, in every measure.
Upon reflection, her preceptive words posited not polite conversation, or the unhinged ravings of an aged fool, and he should not have discounted the curious divination. Indeed, taken as a whole, the foretoken should have comforted him. But in light of his actions, the last part of the old woman’s prophecy mocked him. If he were honest with himself, Yordana overestimated the fortitude of his character. Indeed, Athelyna possessed unfailing strength, courage, and faith, whereas he doubted her at the first test of honor, and he would never forgive himself.
Closing the miniature chest, he glanced about their private accommodations and beheld so many signs of Athel’s tender care and nurturing spirit—the quilt she sewed for their bed, the pillow she stuffed with goose feathers just for him, the tapestries she selected to keep their rooms warm, and the furnishings she purchased to create their sanctuary, and he wondered how he missed them. Of course, he never really bothered to look. He took it for granted that she built a home from the cold and unremarkable stone structure, never unders
tanding she labored to please him. That, in her way, she never missed an opportunity to declare her love, again and again, with what he viewed as commonplace details.
“My lord, I brought thy sup.” From the solar, Isotta peered into the bedchamber. “Dost thou require anything else?”
“Nay.” Before he embarrassed himself, he waved to her. “Thank ye. That will be all.”
Alone, he strolled into the outer quarters.
A steady rain played a gentle drumbeat on the lancet windows, and he gazed at the landscape, briefly illuminated by a bright flash of lightning. From his perch, he caught glimpses of the meadow, which led to their secret place in the midst of the coppice. A symphony of her breathy sighs and achingly sweet moans echoed in his memory, as he revisited those treasured afternoons, wherein he made love to her amid nature’s splendor.
And then Demetrius broke.
Dropping to his knees, he wept, clasped his hands, brought them to his chin, and did something he had not dared since that fateful day, more than six years ago, when he set sail from La Rochelle and stood helpless as Randulf died.
He prayed for the Lord’s grace and munificence.
He prayed for Athelyna’s safekeeping.
He prayed for his unborn child.
He prayed for forgiveness.
He prayed for courage.
He prayed.
What previously posited naught but an empty intercession burgeoned from his chest, and he invested a wealth of devotion into his supplications. And in that simple yet profound act, he found faith restored. And in faith he found salvation. And in salvation, he found strength. And in strength he found determination. And in determination, he found comfort mixed with unquestionable certainty, because he would reclaim his wife or die trying.
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