Without further ado, the archbishop flipped through the parchment, until he found his mark. “Dearly beloved friends…”
And in the next hour, Isolde became a wife to a creature she knew not.
In true English tradition, the actual nuptials took place outside the Chapter House. Listening with determination, she made her vows, repeating the archbishop’s pronouncements with care and nary a misstep. With the King in attendance, her husband lifted her veil. For a few minutes, he simply scrutinized her. Then he bent and pressed his lips to hers.
Theirs was not the most romantic kiss, as they were, for all intents and purposes, utter strangers. But she viewed the simple formality as the beginning, of sorts, to a long journey; the destination of which she pledged would end in friendship. Again, she kept her presumptions modest, as never would he love her, and she was not so naïve to set such lofty aspirations that would only result in desolation and disappointment. If they could form an abiding connubial bond based on mutual respect, she would be content.
After the marriage mass ended, Arucard escorted her to his carriage. “Well, it is done.”
“Indeed.” As she grasped for something to say, or a bit of courtesy to impart, her mind wandered, and she started when he rested his hands at her waist to lift her to the seat. “My lord, I am quite capable of negotiating the step, and I would not burden thee.”
“Thou art displeased with me?” He chuckled, as he perched beside her, and the entire bench shifted, which sent her lurching into him. “Easy, my lady.”
“Nay, my lord. I am not displeased, as a dutiful wife would never object to her husband’s inclinations.” Brushing the wrinkles from her skirt, she scooted to the right. “But I would not encumber thee, when it is unnecessary, as I am no fragile waif.”
“I find it rather intriguing that thou dost profess an unimpeachable allegiance with my proclivities, even as thou dost express opposition to my noble actions, which were motivated by naught more than a sincere desire to attend to thy welfare, Lady Isolde.” Stunned by his reproach and her unforgivable breach in decorum, she almost swallowed her tongue, until Arucard glanced at her and winked. “I tease thee, my lady. But it is nice to see some sign of life.”
“Often my mouth has provoked trouble and brought shame to my door.” She bowed her head, as she had been married for all of five minutes and already erred. “I apologize, my lord.”
“No apologies necessary, and may I call thee Isolde?” With a finger, he tipped her chin and brought her gaze to his. “Thou art charming when thou dost blush, and I prefer thee look at me, when we speak.”
“Thou mayest address me however thou dost wish, as thou art my master.” Goodness, how had she neglected to note the clarity and compassion invested in his blue eyes? “And I wonder if thither is a pet name thou would rather I employ?”
“A pet name?” With unmasked confusion, he arched a brow, and she laughed. “I must confess I have none.”
“Then I shall have to compose one, just for thee, as a sign of endearment.” When he grimaced, her confidence flagged, and she remembered her proper place. “That is—if thou dost not protest.”
“Wherefore would I protest, unless thou dost plan to mock me?” With his elbow, he gave her a gentle nudge and narrowed his stare. “Wilt thou make me thy fool?”
“Oh, no.” As they neared Westminster Palace, the site of the wedding feast, she bit her lip. “Never would I—thou dost bait me, sir.”
“Aye.” In his booming chortle, she found refuge and solace. “And I should compose a special term of address, just for thee, but I would ask thee to confine use of such informalities to our private conversations, otherwise my men would taunt me without mercy.”
“That seems a very wise request, and I shall defer to thy judgment.” When he handed her to the walk, she demurred. “So we dine with His Majesty?”
“I am afraid we have little choice in the matter, as he insisted.” As before, he settled her palm in the crook of his elbow. “And now that we art wed, may I inquire after thy age, Isolde?”
“Of course.” Yet, as she acquiesced, she wondered if he would regret taking her to wife, given her advanced years. “I am eight and ten. And thou?”
“Two and thirty.” Having anticipated an exclamation of shock, given her declaration, his unimpaired composure rendered her giddy. “I hope the difference in our years does not trouble thee.”
“Not at all.” She lied, as his youth and handsome features inspired myriad fantasies and possibilities she dared not covet. “Must confess I supposed I might disappoint thee, as most brides celebrate their nuptials at four and ten. Dost thou feel slighted?”
“By thee?” When she nodded once, he frowned. “Never.” Then he did something that surprised her. Cupping her chin, he trailed his thumb along her jawline. “Thy skin is like alabaster, and thy lips lush and ripe as a pomegranate. Thou art quite lovely, and I count myself fortunate to be thy husband.”
For as long as she could recall, Isolde had considered herself something of a wit. Forever garnering rebukes from her father, she could always be relied upon to formulate clever repartee, without notice. But in that instant, her dependable faculties abandoned her, as no one had ever proclaimed her attractive.
“Ah, hither is the happy couple.” Standing large in Westminster Hall, the King took her hands in his. “And Lord Rochester never told us his daughter was so beautiful. Wherefore have we not seen the Lady Isolde at court?”
Because he never permitted such luxuries, she longed to reply, but she would not admit the truth and embarrass herself and her father. “I prefer the country life, Majesty. But hadst thou commanded otherwise, I would have obeyed.”
Elegantly dressed lords and ladies filled the chasmal hall, which boasted opulent tapestries, resplendent paintings of kings past, marble-topped tables decorated with bird and lion figurines molded from jelly or pastry, and a massive dais at one end, beneath an intricate hammerbeam roof. The tempting aroma of roasted beef hung in the air, but a splendid fountain that produced wine and spiced pimento manifested an extravagant masterpiece unlike any she had ever seen.
Seated beside her husband, at a place of honor, Isolde devoured generous portions of miniature pastries filled with cod liver, brewets, broth with bacon, meat tiles, capon crisps, frumenty, lampreys with hot sauce, and venison. And Arucard consumed his fair share, which brought a query to mind, as she sought to win his approval and affinity via his stomach.
“The feast is delicious, is it not?” She scooted a bite of beef across her plate.
“It is outstanding.” As she discovered was his habit, he paused and gave his full attention, which she found a bit discomfiting. “And I see thou hast a robust appetite.”
“Art thou vexed?” Mayhap she should forgo the final course of sweets.
“Not at all, Isolde.” When he pronounced her name in his velvety deep tone, he carried out the ‘o’ and gave her delightful shivers. “I prefer a woman with a healthy palate.”
“Lucky for me.” She forced a laugh. “My lord, if I may, thither is any particular dish thou dost favor?”
“Thither is.” Leaning to the side, he whispered, “My mother made a most excellent blancmange, and I have never sampled its equal.”
“What a fortuitous coincidence.” At that minute, Isolde could have jumped for joy. “As that is my specialty, and more than once it hath been declared the best in England.”
“Then thou shalt cook it for me.” In close proximity, she admired his chiseled cheekbones and the thick lashes she could study for the better part of an hour, if given the chance. “And I will be the judge.”
How she wanted to believe in him. “Arucard, thou art—”
“We would ask the ladies to perform a carol for us, to commemorate the wedding of our esteemed knight.” His Majesty stood and raised high his goblet. “And we bid the Lady Isolde adieu, as she must prepare to fulfill her duties. Guards, escort the new bride to her chambers.”
#
The hour was late when Arucard, surrounded by royal sentries, returned to his private apartments in the palace. After several hearty backslaps and bellowing guffaws from his fellow Nautionnier Knights, and an unequivocal order from the King, Arucard surrendered his tankard of beer and mulled the monumental task, which neared with each successive second he counted as a death knell.
Although he posited himself no expert in such affairs, he considered the day a triumph of cooperation, and his wife bespoke a naïve charm he found unutterably arresting. To her credit, she struck him as possessed of uncommon good sense, so he approached her with a single objective, fostering and maintaining honesty, which had driven his conversation, at times, to his embarrassment, because he thought her the most striking creature of his acquaintance. Of course, he had no one with whom to compare, given Isolde ranked as the first and the last woman he would ever know beyond mere polite exchanges. Thus the prospect of marital familiarity had led him to seek advice from an unusual source—His Majesty.
According to the Sovereign, the female sex lacked the physical strength to pose any real threat, and they were singularly deficient in their ability to reason. Incapable of surviving alone, ladies relied upon men to persevere in a harsh world, and as such had been relegated to chattel, for their own protection. The lone weapon in their arsenal, and it posed a perilous hazard unlike any other, which could drive a sane man mad as a March hare, given it could consume the most ruthless warrior, rested between their legs.
It was with that thought swirling in his brain he entered the solar of his rooms. A fire in the hearth warmed the space, and the double doors to the bedchamber stood open. Then he spied Isolde, wearing a simple linen night rail, with her long hair, black as a raven’s feather, cascading over her shoulders.
“Hello.” Wringing her fingers, she shuffled her bare feet and then curled her toes. “I turned down the bed. Shall I help thee disrobe?”
“Uh—no.” In a flash, below his belt any signs of life vanished from the most necessary part of his anatomy for consummating his vows, and he sought an escape or, at the very least, a delay. “Wilt thou take a drink with me?”
“If that is thy wish.” When he stepped aside, she strolled into the solar, and he tried but failed to ignore the cleft of her bottom, just visible through the gossamer fabric. With an enviable air of calm, she picked up a pitcher and poured two goblets of wine. Facing him, she smiled, and the blaze from the fireplace reflected in her green eyes, transforming them into something altogether ethereal. “Shall we toast to our future?”
Whatever he had planned to impart suddenly eluded him. In search of distraction, he downed the contents of his glass in a single gulp. “So art thou originally from London?”
“Nay.” Sitting at the large table, Isolde shifted and tucked her legs beneath her. “I was born in Rochester, the site of my family’s ancestral pile. And from whither dost thou hail, as thy accent suggests thou art not English?”
“Thou art very perceptive.” Entranced by her beauty and the aureoles of her rose-tipped breasts, Arucard averted his stare. “And I am from Nivernais, which is north of Bourbon. Dost thou know it?”
“I cannot say so, as I have never traveled beyond our shores.” She cleared her throat. “But I should like, very much, to know how thou didst come to be in service to the Crown, if thou art amenable to sharing the details of thy history.”
“Thither is much I would share with thee, Isolde.” But could he trust her with his most intimate secrets and his dubious affiliation as a Templar? “Yet the night grows old, and we depart for Chichester with the dawn.” With that, he stood and unbuckled his belt.
A cry of alarm signaled his wife’s distress, though he knew not what caused her anxiety, and she toppled her goblet. In the next second, she flew from her seat, glanced left and then right, seized upon his halberd, which perched in the corner, and she assumed a provocative stance. “What have I done? Did I insult thee, however unintended? Wherefore would thou treat me thus, when I yielded without compunction?” With wild and jerky movements, she thrust the pointed end in his direction. “And thou didst seem so nice.”
“Calm thyself, Isolde.” Palms splayed, he lowered his chin. “Thou dost misunderstand my actions, as I plan to sleep in the solar.”
“What?” Inclining her head, she narrowed her stare. “Wherefore should I believe thee, when the King commands we consummate our vows?”
“But His Majesty is not hither, and what he doth not know will not hurt him.” What spirit she displayed, and how he admired her courage. Recalling her father’s harsh words, he realized his mistake. Moving slow and steady, he set the belt on the table and retreated. “Put down the weapon, before thou dost injure thyself, as I only seek to make myself comfortable enough to retire. Please, Isolde. I would never harm thee.”
“So thou dost not want me.” Squared off as two opponents, he drew upon the patience of a saint, as she compressed her lips. At last, she sighed and returned the long-handled, combined spear and battle-axe to its previous innocuous position. “And I suppose now I have given thee reason to spank me.”
At her sullen admission, he laughed. “Methinks not.”
“Is this pity?” With an adorable pout, she sniffed. “Dost thou grant mercy?”
“Never have I known anyone less in need of mercy.” One after the other, Arucard tugged off his boots, under her wary gaze. “And as I have never shared a bed with a woman, I thought it best to allow for a period of adjustment, for both our sakes. When the time is right, we will secure our vows in obeisance of the Crown’s dictates—but not tonight.”
“Wait.” With an expression of confusion, she blinked. “Art thou telling me that thou art a virgin?”
“Aye.” He knew not what he expected in her reaction to his revelation, but she neither snickered nor laughed. “My faith is such that I will join my body with whom I have taken the sacrament and no one else. To do otherwise is an abomination.”
“Dost thou speak in truth—not in jest?” She opened her mouth and then closed it. “Dost thou mock me?”
“My dear Isolde, I know naught but the truth, and never would I treat thee with such condescension.” Arucard walked into the inner chamber and retrieved a blanket and a pillow. Then he opened his trunk and located a particular item of importance. In the solar, he handed his bride the canvas bundle. “A wedding gift for thee.”
“Thou hast brought me a present?” She tugged on the twine. “But I have naught for thee.”
“At the risk of again ending up on the wrong end of the halberd, I must confess the King proclaimed thee my gift.” When she unwrapped the illustrated book of Psalms, he situated a rudimentary pallet on the floor. “I hope thou art pleased, as it belonged to my mother.”
“It is a psalter.” With reverence in concert with a mix of hushed gasps, she fingered the parchment. “The pictures art so colorful, and never have I owned anything so grand.” When she glanced at him, she started. “Prithee, thou art not going to sleep thither.”
“Indeed, I am, and I will be fine.” To his chagrin, she hugged the family heirloom to her chest and marched straight toward him. “Isolde, I have endured far worse conditions.”
“Not in my presence, and thither is no need for thee to do so now, because the accommodations art generous.” A hint of a feminine smile graced her lips, as she bent, snatched the cushion, and returned it to the large four-poster. “Let us divide the mattress, as thou mayest take one side, and I will recline on the other, unless thou art incapable of controlling thyself.”
“I beg thy pardon.” Wounded by her insult, he leaped to his feet and dragged the blanket behind him, determined to prove her wrong as he stomped to the bed. “I am no godless heathen to molest thee.” Then he noted her impish grin, as she slipped beneath the covers. “Now thou dost bait me.”
“Yea.” She peered over her shoulder. “Art thou vexed?”
“I am verily so.” In play, he wrinkled his nose and scowled. “Mayha
p I should spank thee, after all.” The abrupt change in her demeanor, the sheer horror in her once appealing gaze had him cursing as he eased beside her. “I am sorry, Isolde. I quipped in haste, but I can see from thy countenance I failed. Please know that I would sooner cut off my arm than strike thee.”
“Would that all men were so chivalrous.” Inhaling a shaky breath, she flinched when he cupped her cheek. “And I have known little kindness in this world, so I pray thou wilt forgive me.”
“Thither is naught to forgive, as I should not have frightened thee.” Whereas he had prepared to experience ardor, passion, or even base lust on his wedding night, he had not anticipated the altogether different sensations waging war within him, at that moment. The urge to protect her, to comfort her, to hold her in his arms, and to defend her to his death burned as an unquenchable flame in his chest, and he longed to reassure her. “Sleep, sweet Isolde. And I shall guard thy slumber with my life.”
#
A sharp pounding on the door brought Isolde abruptly awake and alert. Warm and cozy, she yawned, cuddled closer to the unfamiliar heat source, and relaxed—until she realized she rested against her husband. With his chiseled features softened in repose, at some point during the night he had draped an arm about her waist, and she had curled to his side. Curiosity beckoned, and she availed herself of the opportunity to admire his magnificent profile. Another loud rap brought a frown to his full lips, and Arucard opened his eyes.
“Good morrow, Isolde.” With a finger, he tapped the tip of her chin. “It appears we have an unwelcomed intruder. If thou wilt remove thyself from my person, I will answer the summons.”
“Of course.” Embarrassment burned in her cheeks, and she scooted to the opposite end of the bed. “I should apologize for impinging on thy territory, in breach of our arrangement.”
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