“This is a new land with its own traditions, which art foreign to us, almost as much as the ladies, but thou should know women require such evidence of devotion for every conceivable reason—and some ye cannot conceive.” Arucard whistled. “Hast thou not witnessed, firsthand, my courtship of Isolde? Dost thou not notice I bring her flowers and other trifles intended to foster affection, regardless of events and circumstances? Dost thou think I do so because it pleases me, or I enjoy the baiting I get from my brothers?”
“Nay,” Demetrius answered with reluctance. Of course, he refused to admit that he indulged in his fair share of verbal jousting, at Arucard’s expense. “Thou should write a book, as thou art a fountain of knowledge, and thou mayest save our descendants a mountain of grief.”
“Oh, our future generations will know much more of romantic endeavors, so I doubt they would benefit from what I suppose they will view as archaic proficiency.” Arucard paused, as Margery delivered the refreshments. Then he peered from left to right. “I anticipate our heirs will manage their women much better, as I am the first to speak the vows, and thou art the second poor bastard to venture into the trap-infested institution the archbishop hath the nerve to call holy matrimony.” He pointed for emphasis. “Brother, thither is little holy about it, except thou wilt pray as ye hath never before prayed.”
“But I do not understand thy assertion.” Demetrius scratched his temple. “I thought ye were happy with Isolde.”
“Make no mistake, as I love her.” Shaking his head, Arucard rolled his eyes. “But a wife will test thy patience and faith as none other.”
Now that was the root of Demetrius’s problem.
It unnerved him that Arucard seized upon Demetrius’s failing without even knowing it. The secret that tore at his gut, that ripped at his soul, and kept him awake as Athel slept in his arms was simple yet absolute in its devastation, and he knew not how to recover what he had lost.
In short, Demetrius had no faith.
Since that dark day in thirteen hundred and seven, when the Knights Templar were betrayed, their order was disbanded, and they were hunted as animals, something inside him fractured and remained in tatters. Bits and pieces of his battered spirit floated in a seemingly endless miasma of anger, resentment, and guilt, and he knew not how to escape the mire.
So he wallowed in a lonely existence, confined by his secret.
Yet Athel wandered into his life, as a ray of sunlight, casting out the shadows of misery, and he adored her for it. He craved her company, and in her absence he suffered. But he wounded her, and that troubled him for scores of reasons he could not begin to discern, unless he eliminated a single undeniable truth.
In a brief period, he had formed an emotional attachment to his wife.
“How can I make amends?” Demetrius stretched upright, as Athelyna and Isolde reentered the Great Hall and made for his table. As they neared, he stood. “Athel, may I speak with ye, alone?”
“Arucard and I should resume our stations at the dais.” Isolde claimed her husband’s hand. “What say ye, my lord?”
“As always, I am thy servant.” Arucard glanced at Demetrius and winked. “Given I live to fulfill thy every wish.”
Ah, his friend was good.
“Mayhap we might stroll the festival.” Standing, he downed his ale in a single gulp. “Permit me to collect our cloaks, if thou wilt but consent to spend this auspicious day with me.”
“That sounds lovely, my lord.” Her answering smile did not fool him.
“Hither thou should wait, and I will return.” As he exited the castle’s primary meeting room, he heaved a sigh of relief.
He should have told her the truth.
He should have admitted his feelings.
But he had no interest in winning her heart, as Athel just might learn that her husband had no soul. Indeed, he was as empty as a hollow tree. It was better to keep her in the dark.
#
Another nasty winter storm ushered in the New Year, and Athel continued her study under Isolde’s tutelage. After Grimbaud’s well-timed awakening, the community of Chichester Castle deemed her a savior, of sorts, and she found her somewhat unconventional place in the collective, as various citizens sought her advice for a myriad of ailments. With the physic’s support, she tended minor maladies but always deferred to his expertise. Yet it was another tenuous bond forged of sometimes achingly tender moments and still other inexplicably strained exchanges that occupied her waking moments to the detriment of all else.
To her chagrin, Demetrius kept her at arm’s length. Despite regular intimate interludes, revolving around her baths, during which he washed her, he had yet to permit her to glimpse his nude form. And although they slept in each other’s embrace, he had not made love to her. In fact, he made no attempts to advance their passionate cause, and that particular realization served as the source of her quandary.
“Thou dost woolgather, my lady.” With a grin, Margery giggled. “Mayhap thou dost ponder sweet memories of thy husband?”
“Dost thou require our special potions to ease unusual soreness?” As she pounded chicken breasts in preparation to cook her special blancmange, Isolde elbowed the housekeeper. “Ah, the lady blushes, so I think we art a tad premature in our estimation.”
“Isolde, I told ye of the mystical brooch Demetrius gifted me, on the eve of our wedding.” It was frustrating that Athel’s thoughts had run full-circle, and she reconsidered her decision to put away the item. “But I have not discussed the visions it inspired, and I would do so now, if thou art willing to listen.”
“Sounds fascinating.” Margery sat at the table and stirred a mixture of flour and eggs. “Didst thou dream of Sir Demetrius?”
“Well, I am not sure.” Recalling the series of images, in detail, Athel shrugged. “No matter the time of day I sleep, the reverie is always the same. It begins with a vicious battle and the clash of swords.” She pulled up a chair and reclined. “An unknown champion defends a group of innocent pilgrims, beneath the glare of a brutal sun. With incomparable skill and speed the valiant knight charges numerous assailants, kicking sand in his wake and dispatching his enemies with lethal aim, until the enemy cowers in the shadows of the faceless warrior, but he is merciful. Anon, as he walks amid the bodies scattered across the dunes, the sweet stench of blood hangs heavy in the air, and he doffs his gauntlets.”
“How thrilling.” Isolde paused to wipe her brow. “Dost thou never glimpse his face?”
“Thus far, nay.” Athel searched her memory for the slightest oddity, which might yield an overlooked clue. “Then the activity ceases, and I am transported to a different scene, whereupon the encroaching night sky signals the advancing eventide, and the defender enters a tent. As he removes his armor, he reveals an intriguing mark etched into his flesh and barely visible in the soft light from a brazier.”
“And dost thou recognize the symbol?” With unmasked interest, Margery bit her bottom lip.
“Aye.” Athel nodded. “It is the Crusader’s Cross, black in color, and marred by a distinct scar in the shape of a jagged spike.”
In that instant, Isolde dropped her wooden spoon.
“Lady Isolde, is something wrong?” Margery started.
“Arucard bears such a badge in the spot as ye dost describe.” Isolde swallowed hard, and Athel feared she might swoon. “But it is unmarred by the injury ye dost recount.” She poured herself a tankard of ale and downed an impressive portion. “It is a brand rendered by Coptic priests outside the walls of Jerusalem, to commemorate a pilgrimage to the Holy Lands.”
“But I thought the church banned such cutting of the flesh?” Consulting her knowledge of scripture, Athel tapped her chin. “Wherefore would they commit such a breach of faith?”
“Because it serves as unimpeachable proof that they completed the religious journey, which they revere.” Isolde narrowed her stare. “And I believe all the Brethren are similarly branded.”
“Art thou aware of the capa
city in which they made the trip?” Despite repeated attempts to question Demetrius, Athel had gleaned naught from him on the subject, and his reticence only inflamed her curiosity. “He hath not been very forthcoming with his history.”
“Thy husband will tell ye when he is ready, and it is not for me to discuss.” Isolde’s curt reply increased Athel’s suspicions. “We should complete our chores.”
Thither persisted a great secret in Chichester Castle, and Athel believed only she remained unacquainted with the truth. What were they hiding?
“Would thou like to borrow the brooch, and see what it reveals to thee?” As was her charge, Athel cleaned and separated beans for supper. “I can fetch it for ye.”
“I told ye already, I need no object to tell me what I know in my heart.” Isolde pummeled the chicken with uncharacteristic fervor. “And I warned ye not to set store in illusions, as they art dangerous. They have no imperfections, because ye canst control them. They art what ye doth make of them, and that is not fair to Demetrius. He is flesh and blood, and thou wilt do well to focus thy efforts on him.”
When Athel peered at Margery, she shook her head, smiled, and hugged her protruding belly. “I have no need of thy bauble, my lady, as I already know what particular part of Pellier’s anatomy it would show me, and I am quite familiar with it.”
“Woman, what dost ye grouse about now?” Pellier strutted into the kitchen, followed by Arucard and Demetrius. “If thou art compelled to employ thy mouth, I wager I have use for it.”
“Whither hast I heard that before, little man?” Margery eased from her seat and tossed a cloth in his face. “And I might be temped if ye could compose something original, as I am acquainted with what ye hath to offer, and I am not impressed.”
“Did I or did I not make ye scream, last night?” Waggling his brows, Pellier smacked her bottom. “And I will do so again, this eventide.”
“That is much more than I wish to know of thy relationship, Pellier.” Isolde inclined her head, and Arucard kissed her cheek. “If thou dost insist on announcing such crude information, ye may exit my presence and return to the garrison, whither thy boasts are appreciated and celebrated.”
“Apologies, Lady Isolde.” With an exaggerated flourish, he sketched a bow. “Wife, come with me, as I am dirty after weapons practice, and I need ye to scrub my back.” Then Pellier rested his hand to Margery’s hip and pressed his lips to her forehead. “How fares my heir?”
“Much like his father, the babe gives me so peace.” Margery glanced over her shoulder. “My lady, I shall return, anon, after I attend my largest child.”
“Nay, thou hast done enough, and we can finish the work.” Isolde wrapped her arms about Arucard’s waist and rested against his chest. “Thou should take a nap, as thou dost near thy time.”
As Margery and Pellier departed, they traded a series of quips that left the others laughing. For Athelyna, the couple’s easy manners highlighted the difficulties of her partnership, but she knew not the solution to her problem.
“My lord, what brings ye hither, as thou dost never venture into the kitchen?” Mirroring Isolde’s behavior, Athel hugged Demetrius. “Dost thou require a bath, as I would be happy to assist ye?”
“Actually, I have surprise for ye.” Demetrius drew her to the side, and in strolled Briarus and Gerwald.
“Brother, wherefore art thou hither?” She tensed. “And I suppose I must welcome Briarus, though I have do not have fond memories of ye.”
“As the King’s man, I have no choice but to obey his orders, Lady Athelyna.” Briarus rocked on his heels and grinned. “Hadst thou not run away, I would have had no reason to run ye down. I trust ye art content in thy marriage, as thou dost persist within these walls?”
“And what sort of welcome is that, for thy own relation?” Gerwald rested hands on hips. “Thou should check thy tone, sister, else I might take offense.”
“Gerwald, thou art hither to learn from my example and become proficient in leadership of a large garrison, as thou art young and inexperienced.” Demetrius tightened his hold on her. “Thy assignment doth not extend to management of my wife, given I own her fealty, and she outranks ye, so thou wilt check thy tone when ye dost address Lady Wessex. Thou wilt forget that to thy sincere regret, as thou art neither her better nor her equal.”
“Of course, I am most grateful for thy good health, Gerwald, and mayhap thou wilt sup at our table, this eventide, that thou mayest apprise me of the news from court.” In that moment, Athel could have kissed her husband, as she drew herself up with noble poise. To her Demetrius, she asked, “My lord, should I help ye with thy hauberk?”
“Let us adjourn to our quarters, my lady.” His muscles flexed, and he smirked, as he offered his escort. “Shall we?”
“Indeed.” A familiar flame sparked beneath her skin, as they crossed the Great Hall, entered the narrow passage that led to the family chambers, and ascended the stairs. Near the end of a long corridor, Demetrius set wide the double doors of their solar. When he turned, Athel pounced.
Framing his face, she bit his chin and then claimed his mouth, and her man responded with a hunger that well nigh consumed her. But Athel would never complain, as desire beckoned. After a few fiery, groping, desperate minutes, during which they engaged their tongues in a searing duel, he ended their kiss and rested his forehead to hers.
“What was that for, my lady?” As he cupped her bottom, he rubbed his nose to hers.
“I require a reason to occupy my husband?” She nibbled his lower lip, and he thrust his hips.
“Nay.” Now he squeezed her backside, and her knees buckled. “Thou mayest storm my castle, every day of the sennight and twice on Sunday.”
“Then I shall thank ye properly for coming to my rescue and defending me against Gerwald.” With a yank and tug, she removed his chainmail, but when she attempted to strip him of his tunic, he grasped her wrists, and she gave vent to a sigh of exasperation. “Have I told ye thine eyes art of the purest silver, such that they evoke a comparison to moonlight? Much like the awe-inspiring hue, thy gaze casts shadows, behind which ye cannot hide. Thou art troubled.” Caressing the angular lines of his jaw, she fought unexpected tears. “Wilt thou not share thy encumbrance?”
“Thou dost know me so well?” With the pad of his thumb, he wiped the wetness from her flesh. “For naught in the world would I hurt ye, Athel. The load is mine to carry, but thou dost make it easier to bear.”
“Mayhap thou might claim my maidenhead, as further distraction.” How she wanted him, and she shivered with unbridled passion. “Prithee, it hath been more than a month since we wed, and I will not protest. Indeed, I would encourage ye.”
“Thou art more than a distraction, Athel. Thus I will not take ye without consideration.” The kiss with which he favored her set her head spinning, and she all but fell into his embrace. But when he nuzzled her, cheek-to-cheek, she lost all sense of time and place. “Sweet Athelyna, I care for ye too much to use ye in so rough a fashion.”
“Thou dost care for me?” That elementary yet fervent declaration brought her alert. “Oh, my lord. I care for ye, too.”
In that instant, Demetrius hugged her so tight she knew not where she ended and he began. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she struggled for breath, but in her mind she shouted for joy.
“Cherished wife, I have given much thought to the consummation of our vows, and I would celebrate the deed in a manner as befits the momentous occasion, that we might commemorate the event, every year, with fondness.” Then he grinned, the last remaining vestige of her fortitude melted, and she convinced herself he would confess his anxieties, at some point. “Remember, I am a virgin, too.”
“Then I shall rely on thy right and true judgment.” But she would conspire with Isolde to provoke Demetrius, and she would claim her husband.
DEMETRIUS
CHAPTER TEN
The sun rose on a clear day near the end of January, and Demetrius sought his bride. Given
the snow had melted, and the roads had dried, he thought it the perfect time to surprise his wife with a special outing.
After the disaster he made of Christmastide, he pondered his situation and made an overdue decision. He opted to make a success of his marriage, thus he consulted with an expert in matters of forgiveness. In short, he asked Isolde how he might recover from his mistake.
“Whither is my beauteous bride?” With a spring in his step, he strode into the kitchen, whither he knew he would find her.
“Demetrius?” Gowned in a crème-colored kirtle and a rich blue cotehardie, with long lappets, because he selected the ensemble just for the occasion, and her blonde locks plaited, Athel gazed at him from her pile of dried wortes and blinked. “Is something wrong?”
“Nay, my lady.” To her expression of surprise, he rounded the table and drew her from her chair. “But I require thy company.”
“Wherefore?” Athel clutched his hand, as he led her into the screened passage, but he glanced at Lady Isolde, who smiled and nodded.
In the entry, Margery waited with their cloaks. “Have a wonderful time.”
“My lord, what art thou about?” Despite her query, Athel glowed, and that was enough reward for him.
“It is a very great secret.” When they strolled into the courtyard, the master of the horse met them, holding the reins of Demetrius’s destrier and Athel’s mare. “What say ye, my dear? Wilt thou consent to accompany thy undeserving husband on an important errand?”
“Whither shall we go?” Yea, she bounced with unmasked excitement, which delighted him beyond words.
“I will not tell ye.” He tapped her nose, and she squealed.
“But I have a request.” Biting her lip, she inclined her head. “I would ride with ye, in thy lap, as it is cold, and thou art warm.”
As usual, he languished in a near permanent state of arousal when in his wife’s presence, and he seized upon what he considered a brilliant plan for the consummation. Only he had no idea how to broach the topic, as they had not discussed it since the morning her brother arrived, but that could wait.
Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) Page 12