“And thou dost believe they hailed from Winchester?” Geoffrey inquired.
“Aye.” Aeduuard nodded. “We chased them across the border of our lands. And this is not the first raid, as we have suffered numerous such incursions, which have become regular, of late. Given thither is no one to govern the territory, disorder reigns supreme in Winchester.”
“That will change, soon enough.” Arucard glanced at Demetrius. “His Majesty intends to install the new Lord Wessex in Winchester Castle, and his first order of business is to bring the rule of law to the region.”
“And when will that happen?” asked Aeduuard.
“The King did not specify.” Arucard scratched his temple. “But I am to instruct Demetrius in the day to day demands of rule, and Isolde is to tutor Athelyna in similar fashion, that the happy couple will be prepared to assume their positions, at the appropriate time.”
“So how doth our merry friend enjoy thy union?” Rocking on his heels, Aeduuard snickered.
“Judging from the peculiar noises that emanated from his tent this morrow, I would argue he finds it quite well.” Morgan chuckled, until Arucard slapped the back of Morgan’s head. “Ouch. That hurt.”
“Good.” Arucard arched a brow. “As that is what I intended.”
“Arucard, that is not fair.” With a frown, Aristide folded his arms. “In light of recent events, it is only natural that we art curious, as it appears we art all for the altar.”
“Not I,” Geoffrey proclaimed with a scowl. “I shall resist to my last breath.”
“I suppose His Majesty will accommodate ye, when the time comes.” No matter how many arguments the unwed Brethren posed, Arucard always defended his occupation. “But do not be so impetuous, as thou mayest find a lady of estimable worth. And if thou art truly lucky, ye mayest find love.”
“Is that how ye dost view Athelyna?” Aristide inclined his head and snorted. “Or dost thou wish ye had opted for the axe?”
“Oh, it is not so bad, as Arucard suggests.” Demetrius tugged at his tunic and tried to ignore Geoffrey’s mocking countenance, Morgan’s wink, and Aristide’s smug confidence. If only Demetrius could muster the fortitude of Arucard’s conviction. Instead, he failed. “But I suppose one woman is much the same as the next, and thither art moments when I would have welcomed the axe.”
#
The rumble of mirth on the heels of Demetrius’s bold remark struck Athelyna as a cruel blow to the cheek, and she bowed her head in shame. So he preferred an axe to her? In truth, he regretted their marriage, despite the sweet moments they shared, and that knowledge cut like a knife, given her change of heart.
Holding a tray bearing several tankards and an ewer of ale, she waited until the laughter subsided to enter the tent and make her presence known. Clearing her throat, she set the items on a small table. “Isolde thought ye might favor thy beverage of choice.”
“Ah, that is my wife.” Arucard clapped his hands once and then smacked Demetrius on the back. “Enjoy thyselves, good gentles, and I shall see ye on the morrow, which is not so far off. Now I believe I shall retire to my warm bed and my lady, as a simple drink cannot compete with Isolde, and I am not embarrassed to admit it.”
“Rest well, brother.” Morgan elbowed Arucard. “If thou dost rest at all.”
As the men traded insults, Isolde filled the mugs and ignored her spouse. To her chagrin, he did not pay her the same courtesy.
“Hast thou completed thy duties?” Demetrius settled his hand at the swell of her hip, in a shocking display of familiarity, in the company of his friends, which conflicted with his proclamation. Yet she recalled his hurtful words. “Shall we keep our scheduled activity?”
“I should tend my patients, my lord.” In that instant, she could not abide his touch, and a plan formed in her mind. She would run. To spare him further discomfit, she would flee to an abbey or a convent and beg for refuge. “And as Arucard remarked, ere long it will be dawn, and I would assist Isolde by preparing the wounded for travel to Chichester Castle. Mayhap we can postpone our respite, as I can hardly justify such luxury as a bath, in the midst of so much turmoil. Perchance, another time.”
“Indeed, Arucard insists the injured recover under his protection.” Demetrius frowned, cupped her chin, and brought her gaze to his. “Art thou unwell?”
“Nay, my lord.” To avoid suspicion, Athelyna drew on the obvious response. “But it hath been an eventful and onerous day, thus I am tired.” To ease his worry, she offered a kiss as compensation, which exacted far greater payment from her than she anticipated. “Go, and gain thy earned respite.”
“Do not overtire thyself, my lady.” He wagged a finger, and she almost believed him sincere. “If thou dost take ill, I shall be quite vexed. I suppose I should surrender ye to thy duties, but I shall miss thy warm and soft body in our bed.”
“And I shall miss thee.” Yet he could not know the significance of that statement.
After forcing down a meal of beef broth and bread, she tidied the cooking area and prepared a few items for the morning meal, so Isolde would not be too burdened by Athel’s absence. Waving to the guard standing watch at the perimeter, she walked to the tent she shared with Demetrius.
Inside, he dozed, as evidenced by his light snore. Cautious not to wake him, she donned an extra surcoat to shield against the bitter chill, as she would travel without him, and collected a few belongings. At last, she unpinned the mystical brooch from her chemise and placed the precious bauble on the table, as it was no longer hers to claim.
So Athel returned to her charges. She changed bandages, administered horehound tea to quiet persistent coughs, and wiped many a fevered brow. With a final check of her most vulnerable wards, she restocked the brazier and then secured the flaps of their accommodation.
The first streak of gold on the horizon signaled it was time to depart, and she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. Strolling, slow and steady, so as not to garner undue attention, she reached the horses. It took her a while to locate her original mount, but she tied down her small bundle of items.
“What art thou doing hither, Lady Athelyna?” a guard inquired, and she almost jumped out of her skin.
“But I am out of mint, and I spied a hearty patch nearby.” Maintaining a calm composure, she jumped into the saddle. “I should pick a decent amount to treat my patients, before we continue our journey to Chichester Castle.”
“Mayhap I should escort ye, my lady.” His polite acquiescence reminded her that she outranked him. “If thou wilt give me but a—”
“Nay, as that is not necessary, and I would not leave the encampment susceptible to another attack, while so many remain abed.” Athel drew rein. “I have not far to travel, and I shall return in but a brief moment.” With that, she heeled the flanks of her mare.
DEMETRIUS
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dawn came far too soon for Demetrius, and he stretched and yawned. As usual, his body called to his wife, and he ached for her capable hands to ease his morning discomfort. Glancing about his tiny abode, he discovered Athelyna never returned and surmised she remained with the injured, much to her credit. Tossing his leg over the side of the mattress, he scooted to the edge of the bed and stood.
On the table, he noted the broach he gave her for a wedding present, and he frowned. Toying with the unusual piece of jewelry, he wondered wherefore she left it. Then it dawned on him that she might not want to risk losing it, amid her work with the wounded.
At the washstand, he soaped and rinsed his face and then cleaned his teeth. While he donned his garments, he kept glancing at the flaps, as Athel always brought him a light sop and warm bread, about that time. Mayhap she slept, and he decided not to disturb her, as he strolled to the temporary kitchen.
“Good morrow, Isolde.” He dipped his chin and claimed a trencher.
“And the same to ye, Demetrius.” With a smile, she ladled the thick mixture and handed him a chunk of bread. “How is Athel? Hath she n
ot yet risen?”
“I know not, as I have not seen her.” An unwelcome notion plagued him, as he filled a mug with ale and sat on a nearby bench, but he quashed the odious supposition. “My bride is dedicated to her work, and she wished to stay with her patients.”
“But she is not in their tent, as I assessed the condition of the injured before I prepared our food.” Standing watch over a steaming pot, Isolde tapped a wooden spoon on the lip of the pan and paused. “I thought she was with ye.”
“Art thou certain?” Mid-chew, he set aside his repast.
“I am positive.” Isolde wiped her hands on her apron and frowned. “Whither could she have gone?”
“I know not.” Then he recalled the brooch and leaped to his feet. Just as quick, he inhaled a deep breath. Thither had to be a logical explanation for Athel’s absence, and he would not jump to unsupported conclusions without proof of objectionable deeds. “But I should find her—now.”
Nagging thoughts swirled in his brain, as he trudged through the heavy snow to the lodging wherein de Cadby’s men recovered. A swift survey revealed no sign of Athelyna, and anxiety gripped his spine, but still he refused to believe the worst.
In mere minutes, he made the rounds of the encampment and discovered no one had information regarding his wife’s location. It was not until a guard flagged Demetrius that he had any idea of his next move.
“My lord, I understand ye dost seek Lady Athelyna.” He rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled his feet. “I caught her taking a horse, just before dawn.”
“To what purpose?” Demetrius’s blood ran cold, as he again pondered the brooch she left behind and the implication of that seemingly innocent act.
“The lady claimed she needed mint for medicaments.” The soldier opened his mouth and then closed it. “Sir, she said thither was a patch, nearby, and she would return anon.”
“In the middle of winter, thou didst believe her assertion?” In that instant, Demetrius turned and hastened to his destrier.
“I am sorry, my lord.” The hapless fool bowed his head. “I offered to escort her, but she ordered me to remain hither.”
“Sir Demetrius, what is wrong?” Grimbaud dashed alongside. “My lord, thou cannot venture forth, alone, as it is dangerous.”
“I must find Athelyna.” When Morgan and Aristide darted from the kitchen, Demetrius shouted, “My wife has run away.”
The Brethren sounded the alarm, and a small party gave chase, with Grimbaud tracking Athel’s mount in the heavy snow. “Dost thou know her destination, Sir Demetrius?”
“Nay, and I believe neither does she, as she is a stranger to these parts.” The bitter taste of ire filled his mouth, as he counted her behavior a grievous betrayal, and he spat. “Given she knows not the terrain, I presume she has not gone far.”
And she would suffer his wrath when he found her. Because, while the men said naught, more than once Demetrius caught Morgan fighting laughter, and that did not bode well for Athelyna’s bottom. With each successive valley they crossed, his fury grew.
“It looks as though she lost her way.” Grimbaud pointed. “Mayhap I should search the ledge near the crags.”
“But the tracks continue to the south.” Aristide shielded his eyes. “Perchance she proceeded to Chichester Castle.”
“Could be the horse without its rider.” Morgan peered over the edge of a steep bluff. “We should be sure she hath not tried to trick us, too.”
“I do not think that is her intent, but let us divide and conquer more ground, as I would recover her sooner rather than later.” Actually, Demetrius would wager his tortured soul that Athel sought an abbey or a convent in which to seek sanctuary, and it was her ill fortune that the nearest alternative was in Chichester. “As we should arrive home just after the noon hour, and I would not delay the caravan any more than necessary.”
“Then Grimbaud and I will survey the cliffs and head to the east,” said Morgan.
“All right.” With Aristide, Demetrius led his destrier along the ledge and continued toward the town. To say that he was angry was to say too little. Seething beneath the surface, he drove his stallion over a hill and spotted his wife in the distance. “Thither she flees.”
Thus the chase ensued.
Like a madman without care for his own neck, he pushed hard and fast through the thick snow, determined to catch Athel. When she paused and glanced over her shoulder, he knew, without doubt, she spied him, because she urged her mare into a gallop.
Given the landscape was foreign to her, she did not realize she rode toward a steep outcrop, which would force her to veer north, and thither he would snare her. So he adjusted his course and hugged the verge. With his heart hammering in his chest, he soared up a hillside and bared his teeth when he met Athelyna’s gaze, as he forged straight at her.
Emitting a shriek, she attempted to redirect her horse, but she possessed not the strength to maneuver the beast, and the mare reared. In a flash, he pulled alongside, wrapped his arm about her waist, and lifted her to his lap.
“Let me go.” She mounted a pitiful resistance. “Thou dost not want me.”
“Hold thy poisonous tongue, as I will not tolerate further outbursts from ye.” What had once been a pleasurable arrangement, with his wife tucked in his embrace, now served only to further aggravate him. “Thou hast shamed thyself and embarrassed me, and I will have recompense, but anon, as thou hast wasted precious time, and we must rejoin the procession.”
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 s
he 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.
Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) Page 10