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 stance 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 be
en 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.
“Art thou chilled?” Demetrius lifted her to the seat. “I can offer my cloak.”
“Nay.” She scooted to one side, but his massive frame occupied more than half the space, and his thigh brushed her skirts. “Rather, I am nervous, as I know not what to expect.”
“Then thou should follow my lead, as I suffered the pomp and pageantry before, when Arucard wed Isolde.” He squeezed her fingers, and she started. “If thou wilt but trust me, I shall endeavor to spare us any missteps and embarrassment.”
“But we scarcely know each other.” A rut in the road jostled her, and she almost landed in his lap. “And thou didst profess no desire to take me to wife.”
“And as I recall, thou didst share my sentiment, so thou art one to talk.” His nostrils flared as he gazed at her, and she cowered. “But the deed is done, and I am thy lord and master. Given thy strict upbringing at the convent, I suspect ye art proficient in following commands. Henceforth, thou shalt hold thy tongue until thou art given permission to speak.”
Now that stung, but she could not argue his point, as the law defined her as property and his authority reigned supreme over her. So she remained silent, as they negotiated the narrow streets of London.
Soon the caravan neared the palace, and they passed through the main gate and came to a halt in the bailey. In silence, Demetrius handed her to the drive, and together they followed the crowd into the massive royal residence.
In the Great Hall, musicians played an elegant tune, as the revelers piled high their trenchers, with tempting selections of fish, meat, and chicken and an array of boiled roots. To her dismay, her master prepared another ample portion for her and collected two goblets of spiced clarrey from an opulent fountain unlike anything she had ever seen, as she remained in his wake.
On the dais, the King rumbled with mirth, and merrymakers spread infectious cheer, yet Athelyna joined not in the celebration of her nuptials. As a dutiful bride, she held her tongue just as her husband bade. But inside she screamed at the unfairness of her situation.
“Thou dost not eat, sister.” Isolde sampled a bite of fish covered in a thick wine sauce, closed her eyes, and hummed. “Oh, pykes in brasey, my favorite. Thou should take a taste, as it is divine.”
As Demetrius had not yet granted permission to dine, Athelyna awaited his consent, for fear of inciting his temper. When Isolde studied Athelyna for a few minutes, she shifted beneath the scrutiny.
“Is somethi
ng wrong, my lady?” Arucard inquired of his wife. “Shall I fetch ye a sweetmeat?”
“Wherefore doth our relation not speak?” The graceful noblewoman stared at Demetrius, who cleared his throat but responded not. “Sir Demetrius, hath thy mate been struck by some mysterious illness that hath rendered her mute?”
In that instant, Demetrius leaned to the side and whispered, “Thou mayest converse.”
“Thou mayest converse?” Isolde set down her glass, with a thud. “Did I hear ye correctly?”
Arucard winced. “Isolde—”
“Nay.” She shook her head. “Sir Demetrius, thy lady is neither slave nor servant, and thou wilt not treat her as such, else I shall never again cook another brewet in this lifetime.”
Athelyna feared she might swoon, as a heretofore-unknown ally defended her.
“Isolde, it is not thy place to intrude on their privacy.” Arucard peered at Demetrius and frowned. “My brother must define the terms of his union, as he sees fit.”
“Is that so?” Isolde exhaled and rolled her shoulders. “Well the same goes for my blancmange, if the lord of Chichester Castle allows such an affront to humanity and virtue to occur beneath our roof and to stain our conscience, and neither shall I participate in nor condone the indignity.”
Arucard grumbled and rubbed his temple. “Demetrius.”
That was it.
A singular invocation imbued with a wealth of meaning in a name.
Painful quiet fell on their little gathering, and Athelyna braced for her husband’s response, which she suspected might involve violence. Would he tumble the setting? Would he initiate a brawl?
To her unutterable shock, her spouse propped his elbows on the table and sighed. “My lady wife, I revoke my previous order.”
The swift reversal of fortune played as some divine comedy, and nervous anxiety bubbled forth as uncontrollable laughter, until she held her stomach and gasped for breath. Wave upon wave of mirth swept through her, and she yielded to the tittering spasms, which alleviated her stress. The tension investing her spine loosened its iron grip, and she relaxed.
“Art thou unwell?” With an expression of sympathy, Isolde clutched Athelyna’s fingers. “Dost thou prefer Adam’s ale?”
Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) Page 4