by Shana Abe
"I shall go to Ironstag. I shall seek protection there."
Longchamp let out a laugh. "Ironstag is no haven for you, my lady."
"What does that mean?" She frowned at the emissary.
"Ironstag is not yours, Lady Solange," he said condescendingly. "It now belongs to the Marquess of Lockewood, who would not be so imprudent as to allow you to go there against the wishes of our king."
"Dammit," said Damon.
Solange turned a bemused face to him. He dreaded having to explain the loss of her ancestral home to her. She was so tenderhearted, it was bound to wound her. He cursed Longchamp inwardly again for blurting out the news. "Your father didn't want the earl to inherit. He entailed Ironstag over to me instead."
She was shocked, it was plain to see. "I had no hand in this, I swear," he continued defensively. "Your father gave no indication that these were his plans."
"Redmond cannot have it?" She appeared confused.
"He would not have had it were he alive," Damon clarified.
Incredibly, he saw the faintest smile inch across her face.
Longchamp stood up again. "My lord, if you please! I need an answer for His Majesty now! Will you or will you not wed this woman?"
Damon leaned down to her. "They won't allow you to leave. If you try, they will follow you and then take you to Edward anyway. You will have to explain to him why you fled Du Clar." He ignored the stab of guilt he felt when he saw the fear in her eyes. "This is for the best, Solange. Trust me, it is not wise to cross the king. He has no patience for such things."
He gave her such a warm and tender look that she recalled her dream suddenly, vividly, the anguish she had felt when he rejected her, the desolation of being alone again.
Here was the man in the flesh, willing to sacrifice himself for her, to save both of them from the inexplicable whim of a sovereign she didn't know. To spend the rest of her days with him, every night beside him, building a future together—it was too good to be true.
If St. Peter had descended from heaven's gate and asked her the one thing she wanted most in her heart, ever, she could not ask for more than what she was being offered right now.
Damon raised her hand to his lips. He deliberately used the words she had asked him in France, but it seemed like years ago now.
"Wilt thou have me?"
It was a command from the king.
But it was a request from her love, and she knew that. Of course she would give in. She was not virtuous enough to let him go a second time.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I will marry thee, Damon Wolf."
"Excellent!" Godwin clapped his hands on both of their shoulders, then approached Longchamp. "Did you know, my lord, there is a monastery not more than a few hours' ride hence, and I am positive they will have a priest to spare us . . ." He led Longchamp and a core of his men away to the courtyard, while the rest settled down to break their fast in the hall. A regular din ensued, the sounds of men rehashing what they had just witnessed for the retelling again and again. It was the next chapter in the legend.
"How is the tea?" Damon asked Solange. "I remember how you enjoyed your tea at Ironstag."
"It is delicious. I haven't had tea for a long time."
And there it was, the first of the many questions that popped into his mind when they referred to the past. Why not? he wanted to ask. What stopped you? Who stopped you?
But he was loath to erase the half-smile she wore, sipping delicately from the mug. A single lock of hair was slipping from the silver comb. Without thought he captured it and put it back, adjusting the comb in the heavy tresses. She held motionless for him, as if it were the most natural thing for him to perform this personal service to her.
After breakfast she agreed to adjourn to her chamber to wait for the priest to arrive. Damon explained he had a few details of the castle to catch up with, and wouldn't she like a warm bath, a chance to rest an hour or two?
She said she would, and left gracefully enough. He sent a group of maids after her with instructions to provide her with a tub of hot water and whatever else she needed. And then he sent a guard to watch her door.
Just in case.
The maids reported the countess was relaxing in her bath and that she had requested to bathe in privacy so that she could align her will with God's in order to be married in peace and absolution.
Damon sent another guard up.
The priest arrived at midday with the rest of the party. He was a quiet young man who nevertheless took immediate charge of the planning. Damon pointed him in the direction of the castle chapel and was told to be ready within the hour, as both the priest and Longchamp's party were eager to ride.
He went up to his room and knocked on the connecting door.
"Yes?"
"They're ready for us," he said.
"Oh. I will be out soon."
He tried to analyze what he heard in her voice. Was that trepidation? Nervousness? Acceptance? He was driving himself mad, jumping on clues that didn't exist. Behind the door he heard faint footfalls, the rustle of cloth, and then humming. She was humming! That had to be a good sign, the buoyant little tune that reached him.
He didn't know what to wear. He had never used a valet, and most of his clothing was either serviceable or court wear. He had no idea where the trunk with the court wear would be. He hadn't been to London in over a year. In the end he kept what he already had on, but combed his hair back into a small queue, tied with a leather thong. He wondered if she was ready yet. Probably not.
He knocked anyway. "Almost done," she said. "Don't come in."
This was extremely trying. He paced his room aimlessly, examined his collection of herbs, studied the view from the window he had memorized from the first night he had spent here. It wasn't that long ago. It had taken him six years to make it back here, and another three to rebuild the castle, retill the soil, restock the sheep, and repopulate the village. It had been an uphill struggle from the beginning, even with Edward's public blessings.
Ironically enough, getting rid of the encroaching lords on his lands had been the easiest part of all. None of the lords had wanted to infringe on the Wolf of Lockewood's rights, none of them wanted to risk the mythic wrath it was said he carried with him. When news of his arrival at Wolfhaven sped over to them, he had received apologies aplenty, gifts of grain and gold, and all of his lands back in his control within a sennight.
It was what he had set out to do. But that young man who boldly charged to London had never anticipated the tests ahead of him. It was a blessing. He might have never gone forward had he known what lay ahead. Or maybe he would have. He didn't know. It was over now anyway. The price had been exorbitant, but the prize . . .
Behind him the door between the chambers opened. Solange was framed in the archway, standing still as a portrait as she greeted him shyly.
His prize was worth everything. She was exquisite. Somehow, somewhere, someone had found a gown of the purest white, a fitted bodice that clung to her tightly, a narrow skirt that trailed to the ground in a simple train. A singular row of pearls edged the deep neckline all the way around her shoulders. Her hair was loose and full, cascading freely down her back. The material fit her form as if it were made for her, the whiteness almost blinding, an icon of winter ice and beauty.
She tilted her head. "Will it do?"
"Yes," he whispered. "It will do very well."
"Two very nice women brought it to me, I didn't hear their names, but they said I was welcome to wear it. I thought it very sweet. They were both my age."
He had nothing to say to this; he didn't know who the women were, nor did he care. He had instructed Godwin to see to her clothing, and apparently he had. Damon's only thoughts now were of getting her down to the chapel before she vanished, before he awoke from this prolonged dream.
She waited a moment, then said helpfully, "One spoke in French."
"You will meet everyone later. We should be going.
"
She glided into the room to join him, lowering her eyes once she reached him. He took her arm and led her out, down the main hall, past a waiting crowd of servants, who cheered at the sight of them. The group followed behind them as they walked.
The chapel was separate from the main section of the castle, a secretive nook hidden away in one of the corners, buried beneath an avalanche of ivy. Belatedly he remembered that it had not been fully refinished yet, being of lower priority than most of the other rooms. The ivy was almost all gone, he recalled, but he knew nothing of the remaining progress other than that his first look of the shrouded, cobwebbed interior of the little room had been his last. There had been too many other problems to deal with first, and eventually, he supposed, he had forgotten all about it.
Please, he thought, let it at least be dusted.
But it was far more than dusted. Solange's mouth formed an O of wonder as they entered. In a season that stripped the leaves from the branches of trees and withered all vines, the chapel was a greenery of life. Pine boughs decorated each polished, chipped pew. Clean-smelling hay crunched under their feet as they approached the altar. Colorful hollyhock and mistletoe were everywhere, hiding the cracks in the walls, covering the faults of age and neglect. In front of them, beside them, were scores of friendly faces, curious soldiers, beaming women who had dropped everything and gathered to clean and decorate the chapel when they had heard of the impending nuptials.
It was simple and rustic, fragrant, a true welcoming gift from Damon's people.
The ceremony was equally simple, over almost before Solange had a chance to realize the import of what was happening. Damon looked so serious, so intently focused upon the priest and then on her. She smelled the piny boughs, curled her toes in the thin satin slippers into the crisp hay, and thought it the most wonderful place she had seen, a place filled with warm wishes, meant to cheer and encourage, not to intimidate or inspire fear.
She was open to it all. This is what God has intended, she thought, this is His great plan.
Damon kissed her with barely held passion, a complete enfolding of her to him. The crowd burst into cheers and then laughter as she wouldn't let him go after he released her, but rather leaned up and kissed him again.
The banquet hall had been decorated as the chapel had, and the cook had managed to scrape together a fine luncheon on short notice.
Longchamp, with a sour look, refused to stay and partake of the meal. His plan to entrap his old adversary had not gone at all as he had planned. He would have thought Lockewood, a confirmed bachelor, would be miserable at a forced wedding to a widow! But no, he looked anything but miserable sitting beside his bride. He looked pleased, even ferocious. He seemed to have grown another foot since the ceremony, Longchamp thought in disbelief, to become larger and more formidable than ever.
And the woman! Far from showing any of her earlier reluctance, she was actually glowing, a quiet dame whose beauty increased with every glance he took of her.
It was bitterly unfair, Longchamp thought. But at least he had done his duty and was leaving with the Wolf's gold. That was something.
Lockewood and his men insisted upon seeing the delegation off, and gathered in the courtyard to do so.
"Tell Edward I send my respects," the marquess said, "and also many thanks."
"I shall if I remember to," answered Longchamp spitefully, looking down at him from atop his horse. "To be sure, he will hear of your bountiful harvest from me. Perhaps he will increase your taxes next year." He pulled his mount around to leave.
"And give my regards to your lady wife," Damon could not resist calling out as the group galloped away.
"Well done," said Godwin.
"And good riddance," added Robert. "The stench of the man was giving me an ill stomach."
"I for one wish him a good journey," said Damon mildly as they walked back inside. "He'll return to Edward with a tale that will delight the court for months, of how his enemy was forced to wed the widowed countess."
"He'd best not spread too wide a rumor about my lady," added Aiden. "If he wants to live, that is."
"Nay, I wouldn't worry about that," replied Godwin. "Edward will take care of it."
"Aye," said Robert with a grin. "Edward knew about her all along, didn't he, Damon?"
Damon took in the sight of his new wife conversing with a group of his men by the stairs. "Edward, that conniving old bastard, was the one who confronted me on my marital status years ago. He was determined to wed me off to the chinless daughter of one of his earls. After I saved his sorry hide at Glencairn, he owed me a boon."
"Really? I never heard of this," said Aiden.
"He didn't want it known he was so careless as to let a group of rebels sneak up on him during the night. It was just luck that had me passing by bis tent at that moment, and my broadsword and I evened the odds."
"Routed them," Robert interjected with satisfaction.
"But my boon was for the king to let me be as an unwed man. Naturally he wanted to know why."
Solange was looking across the room at him now, a still and striking beauty amid the curious throng of people.
"So I told him," Damon concluded. "I told him that my heart was taken by a married woman and I wasn't free to marry until I could resolve it, one way or another."
"Edward let you by with that?" Aiden asked incredulously. It was common knowledge that the king was eager to populate his realm with loyal subjects, and was notorious for matching up the daughters of his nobles with any eligible lord.
Damon smiled. "Beneath that grim exterior our king has a very soft heart for romance, I fear. He wanted the entire story, and I gave it to him. After that he left me alone about it. Until now."
"Oh, wise king," Godwin said.
"Yes," Damon agreed, and then went to join his bride.
"Good day, my husband," she greeted him. "I was just learning of a few details of court life from these good men."
Damon's glance encompassed the group of suddenly quiet soldiers, who scattered as soon as he turned back to Solange. She didn't seem upset, so he didn't think they had told her anything too scandalous. He realized there were a few things he needed to go over with his men about what to say and what not to say in front of his extremely astute new wife.
"I had no idea there were so many beautiful women in Edward's court," Solange was saying. "And so many of them kind enough to, let me see, how did they put it? Oh, yes, to 'guide' you when you first arrived."
"Contrary to popular belief, none of those women 'guided' me when I showed up at court. Instead, I was put right to battle with a contingent of other unseasoned young men that marched north and stayed north for at least a year. And it was only after that assignment that Edward was willing to see me at all to hear my request for Wolfhaven."
Something in this speech gave her pause, more than the closed look on his face, more than his defensive response to her teasing. "Edward put off hearing your request," she said carefully, "even though my father backed you?"
Damon wanted to ignore her question. He wasn't ready to get involved in this bitterness so quickly, not on his wedding day. All that he wanted to do this day, he decided, was to investigate more thoroughly the charms of his bride. He took her arm and began to escort her up the stairs. "Allow me to show you to your rooms, my lady, where you may change into something more comfortable."
He got her halfway there before she stopped, staring up at him. "Damon Wolf, answer me." Her voice was a little too high. "Edward refused to hear you out, even with the Marquess of Ironstag behind you?"
Damon sighed. "Solange, your father had nothing to do with it. I went to London alone the morning after you left with Redmond."
"Alone?"
"Your father didn't know." He began to pull her up the stairs again. "So when I arrived to see Edward, it was just a brash youngster demanding his time and attention. He said he would hear my petition after I had fulfilled
a quest for him, so that's what I did."
She said nothing in response, allowing him to lead her back to her chamber. She seemed stunned by what he had said, and although he considered it carefully, he didn't know what would be so surprising. The story of his arrival at court had become just another segment of the legend. It was no secret.
But she was laughing, laughing with wide, teary eyes, a strange thing that sent a chill up his back. It was not amusement that made her hiccup into her hand, it was not happiness that sent big, silent tears spilling down her cheeks like nothing he had seen since she was a child. She kept one hand over her mouth as if to keep in the sound and moved over to the windows.
He followed her, appalled, reaching for her. "Solange, what is it? What's the matter?" Her body was stiff in his arms, not resisting his embrace, but more as if she were unaware of him altogether, which was far worse.
He rocked her gently, murmuring her name down into her hair, willing the strangeness to leave her, willing her to talk to him, to tell him the problem so that he could fix it for her. Finally she relaxed enough to lean her head back onto his shoulder. A great sigh took her, leaving her to wipe her face with her fingers.
"All this time," she whispered. "I was misled."
"Misled about what?" He began to stroke her hair, absently enjoying the smooth feel of it against his palms.
"It doesn't matter now. It's over."
He wasn't willing to let go of it that easily. "It matters to me that my bride would dissolve into odd fits and tears at the most innocuous of conversations. Tell me what made you cry."
She debated about this, wondering what the best course would be. She knew he would be too stubborn to yield until he was fully satisfied with her answer. If she had been more in control of her emotions, he never would have realized what he said to her had devastated an assumption that had sustained her for so long.