He traced her face with his finger, then tipped her chin, his blue eyes brushing hers, warm and golden brown.
“We shall yet see this through, elskan mín.”
Reluctantly Ailinn withdrew from Lyting and crossed the room surrounded amid great excitement — Constantine, Ariana, and the noble ladies-in-waiting all accompanying her. Lyting watched, a host of concerns swarming through him.
A “spider” spun in the hall of the Caesars, a “scorpion” poised beneath the throne. Now, Hakon had returned. And if that wasn’t enough, the Byzantines wished to place him squarely in the marital bed with Ailinn. If they did so with as much passion as was done in the wedding customs of Francia, he just might not survive this last ordeal.
As Lyting left with Zoë and her officials, he wondered what more could possibly befall him this day.
»«
Hours later Lyting emerged from the hastily called meeting with Zoë and her Council.
He smiled grimly. Matters had become so twisted, so “Byzantine,” as his brother would say. But mayhap they had found a way to bring everything to culmination, at least concerning the conspirators lurking about the throne.
He was not overly happy with their solution, for it placed Ailinn in the midst of possible danger. Yet, ‘twould likely flush the “scorpion” and his “spider” out.
Lyting reviewed the strategy in his mind. The wedding would serve as a trap. If the “scorpion” and “spider” were truly so near the throne — possibly among those with whom he supped last night — then they already knew his identity. No longer waiting to ensnare Rurik, doubtless they readied to strike at the throne itself — at Zoë and Constantine.
The wedding procession provided that opportunity. The empress and her council wished to ensure they take it, with the Imperial net waiting to trap them.
On the day of the wedding word would be circulated that several men had been seized, whom Lyting recognized from the incident in the cemetery. ‘Twould be rumored that they were in the course of being questioned and had begun to supply names of others involved. A little later ‘twould be spread that when the wedding procession commenced at dusk, all those named would be quietly apprehended.
The Council expected — given the announcement of imminent arrest — that they would force the conspirators’ hands and that those guilty would either flee or attempt an open attack on the procession itself in which the emperor and the Augusta would be in attendance.
Zoë insisted that Constantine remain behind, safeguarded in the palace. A distant cousin who favored Constantine in appearance would take her son’s place. In full regalia and the shadows of evening, the deception might go unnoticed, and she would strive to center attention upon herself.
The Imperial spies would be watching for those who sought to flee, while reinforced guards — both Varangian and Byzantine — would protect those in the procession. Aside from their leader, they would seek all those who wore the “sign of the scorpion.”
For a second time the trap had been baited, Lyting reflected. But now it contained not only himself but Ailinn, the child emperor, and his mother. He liked it not at all. Now they must wait for the scorpion to strike, and the spider to spin out its entrapping threads.
Chapter 20
High excitement filled the gynaekeion as the women prepared the bride for her groom.
To Ailinn, it seemed she was being carried on the swift currents of a great river, moving rapidly toward the appointed hour when she would become Lyting’s wife.
She reminded herself for an endless time ‘twould not be a real marriage. But that did little to quiet the fluttery entities that had taken up residence in her stomach.
Two evenings past, after the tumult in the throne room, Lyting visited her at the gynaekeion. He explained they would need to be separated while preparations were made for the wedding. ‘Twas forbidden for the bridal couple to see each other during that time.
Ailinn’s spirits had plummeted at the thought, but she didn’t miss the tension that visibly ran through him, nor the lines that appeared periodically between his brows. He withheld something. But what?
Before leaving the women’s quarters, Lyting had assured her once more that all would be set aright. By direction of the empress, a ship was being readied for their voyage home, to leave eight days hence after the week of celebrations following their wedding.
Ailinn had not seen Lyting since. Now her hours were filled with waiting and haunted by a hollowness that only his presence could satisfy. She looked eagerly to being rejoined with him this day. Though they would share a chamber for the coming week, ostensibly as man and wife, and though it might pose a far greater trial than now, she far preferred that to this time of separation.
She whisked her glance about, bringing herself back to the sumptuousness and fervor that surrounded her. Precious stuffs draped the walls of the bridal chamber — rich satins and brocades, trimmed with gilded cordings. The ladies flitted about in various states of dress as they were bathed, massaged, and adorned for the evening.
While servants groomed Ailinn’s hands and feet, Ariana detailed to her the myriad aspects of the ceremonies to come and recounted the marvelous things Constantine had arranged for herself and Lyting. The emperor intended this to be the most glorious of ceremonies for his new friends.
“Archbishop Theodore will marry you,” Ariana informed, then lowered her voice. “The empress refused to consider the Patriarch, Nicholas Mysticus. They are adversaries, you know. Euphemius, the ex-Patriarch whom she does favor, is in seclusion at his monastery. Therefore, Archbishop Theodore will perform the rites.”
Ailinn blinked at the apologetic tone in the girl’s explanation. “Ariana, I assure you I am quite honored that the archbishop will preside.”
Ariana smiled. “The matter of the church was much debated. The Hagia Sophia was deemed too immense for what the emperor intends, and the Hagia Eirene too stark. ‘Tis an iconoclast church,” she added without clarification as though the word iconoclast was explanation enough.
“His Majesty next suggested the Church of Sergius and Bacchus, for ‘tis lavish in its decorations and is easily accessible, here on the palace grounds.” A perplexed look stole across her features. “Oddly, ‘tis the very reason ‘twas rejected. The Council — even the empress — insisted the procession pass out of the palace enclosure for a short distance — for the enjoyment of the populace — they said.”
The fine hairs lifted on Ailinn’s arms. She thought again of Lyting’s visit and the disturbing feeling that he withheld something.
“Where will the wedding take place, Ariana?”
“Saint Euphemia’s. It stands on the side opposite the Hippodrome and contains some of the most beautiful mosaics in the city.”
Ariana crimped a brow, winnowing her thoughts for what she might have forgotten, then brightened.
“A choir, comprising members of the Blue and Green factions, will accompany the procession in song as they escort you to the church. Such is usually provided for emperors on their wedding day, but His Majesty has brought it about especially for you and Lyting.”
“Truly, I am grateful,” Ailinn replied, secretly glad Ariana could not read the worry that surely filled her eyes. Lyting’s mission concerned the safety of the Imperial family. Why then would the procession leave the security of the palace enclosure? And could not an escort of these factions conceal enemies to the crown? Urgently she wished to speak with Lyting.
“ ‘Tis time we see you prepared,” Ariana announced happily. “At sunset Lyting will come to claim you for his bride.”
The thought sent ripples of warmth trilling through Ailinn. But as she rose, Xenia appeared, cooling the sensation.
The woman smiled, her eyes shining darkly as she slipped her hand into the folds of her gown and withdrew a crystal vial, fitted with a bright silver closure.
“Xenia brings a wedding gift — precious jasmine oil. ‘Tis her own blend,” Ariana informed Ailinn. “She say
s that men love the scent. Rurik did.”
Ailinn met Xenia’s gaze, surprised by the last comment.
“Jasmine stirs a man’s ardor.” Ariana continued to render Xenia’s words. “You will wish to stir Lyting’s this night. When you have finished your bath, the servants will massage the oils into your skin, softening you beautifully while wrapping you in its fragrance. The perfume will linger through the hours and still perfume your skin when you lay in your husband’s arms.”
The light altered in Xenia’s eyes, giving Ailinn pause.
“Rurik liked the scent of jasmine?” Ailinn asked, finding the woman a puzzle.
Xenia’s eyes glowed with memory.
“ ‘Twas once Helena’s favorite scent,” Ariana translated literally. “Ever she wore it for him. Even as she lay dying, she insisted on our applying the fine oils so Rurik might find her pleasing. The scent of jasmine lingered about her even as we laid her to rest in her sepulcher. Some say it lingers there still.”
Xenia’s words sent a chill through Ailinn.
“I noticed no fragrance while there the other night.”
Xenia’s brows rose a fraction as she received the words through the child. The light changed in her eyes once again, and her lips curved with a smile.
“‘Tis only a story that bides,” Ariana repeated for Xenia. “Since you know the brothers Atlison, I thought ‘twould interest you. But enjoy the jasmine. ‘Tis an exquisite scent. Lyting will long remember its potency.”
As the girl completed the translation, Xenia gave over the crystal, turned, and glided away.
“I am truly sorry, Ailinn.” Ariana reached out and placed a concerned hand on Ailinn’s arm. “Xenia should not speak of death on your wedding day.”
“I’m sure she did not think of it that way.” Ailinn did not betray her unease as she fingered the vial. She could not be with Lyting soon enough.
Just then the ladies-in-waiting came forward in two columns and surrounded Ailinn, smiles wreathing their faces. Each wore spotless white gowns, and their hair was caught up identically — parted at the center and wound into plump rolls encased in jeweled silk nets. Golden circlets sat above their straight brows, each affixed with a star-shaped diadem.
“ ‘Tis time to prepare you for your husband,” Ariana said brightly.
Ailinn lay the vial on the small table beside her, then allowed the women to conduct her to the sunken pool. There she gave over her towel and entered the heated waters. A lute sounded in the background, and the women began to sing as they lined the pool and strewed petals over the water.
Ailinn realized that this, too, like most aspects of Byzantine life in the palace, was to be ensconced in ritual. She sank deeper into the water, relishing the extravagance as her thoughts went to Lyting.
Sometime later Ailinn emerged from the waters, feeling marvelously relaxed and refreshed. The women wrapped her in towels and led her to a cushioned bench for her massage.
Ariana returned to the table to retrieve the jasmine oil. As her fingers moved over the top, she found naught but the squat jars of cosmetics. The vial was gone. She bid over a servant who quickly scanned the room for her and answered her questions.
“Comita,” Ariana fumed. When the servant apprised that Xenia was also absent, Ariana instructed for her personal tray of oils to be brought. Rejoining Ailinn, she explained the vial’s disappearance with great regret and offered her own preparations.
“‘Tis not precious jasmine but a delicate floral blend that you will hopefully find pleasing. Comita has slipped away and is hiding somewhere, but she shall be punished, I promise you.”
Recalling her horrid experience in the forum, Ailinn feared the servant might be dealt with harshly.
“Mayhap we should forgive this one transgression. After all, ‘tis my wedding day.” Ailinn stretched out so the servants could begin applying the perfumed oils. “Let us not spoil the day with such matters.”
Subsequently, when the servants finished their ministrations, the ladies-in-waiting led Ailinn to an elegant silver table. There, one had been selected to enhance the bride’s face with cosmetics with the others gathered to advise.
Ailinn allowed only a light touch — just enough kohl to bring out her eyes and a trace of color on her lips. She refused the proffered drops of belladonna. ‘Twas meant to contract the pupils of her eyes to small dots, like theirs. She did not find it becoming and held firm against it.
Next they dressed her hair. Ailinn’s dark auburn tresses were allowed to flow freely as a symbol of her virginity. Only the sides were swept back from her face and woven with strands of pearls.
The women then bid her rise and stand upon a small stool. The ladies-in-waiting brought forth the extravagant wedding garments, presenting each piece to the bride and then dressing her in it.
First came the stola, an undergown made of lustrous emerald-green silk with long, close-fitting sleeves. Deep borders of costly embroideries embellished the sleeves and hem. Over this they added a sumptuous tunic, constructed of a richly patterned brocade, stiffer than most fabrics, for ‘twas woven with threads of pure gold and garnished with a profusion of gemstones — rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, adorning it with lavish abandon so that the garment was one of dazzling splendor, shining like a field of brilliant flowers. On her feet they placed jeweled sandals.
No sooner had the women finished dressing Ailinn than the empress Zoë entered the bridal chamber unexpectedly, joining her women there.
Ailinn forgot the lavishness of her own dress, for to see Zoë was to see sheer majesty in splendor. She moved regally beneath her heavy gown — a deep, magnificent purple silk, emblazoned with gold, silver, and jewels. The edge of her mantle bore the tablion, a large square encrusted with a profusion of gems and marking her Imperial rank as the Augusta. About her shoulders and neck she wore the manilas, the great jeweled collar, and on her head a priceless crown with cascades of pearls flowing downward over her shoulders.
All the women began to sink to the floor, but the empress stayed them, especially the bride, who still stood on the stool.
When the servants aided Ailinn down, Zoë kissed her on both cheeks. She then gifted Ailinn with a pair of fine gold filigree earrings. Ailinn thanked her, setting the earrings to her ears.
From outside came a medley of male voices, lifted in song.
“They approach!” Ariana exclaimed. “The wedding procession brings your groom, Ailinn.”
The women moved to where the doors opened onto the balcony but remained slightly back so as not to be seen. Below, scores of torches capered above the men’s heads, licking back the shadows of evening and illuminating those of the procession. All, save the groom, wore snowy-white garments.
Ailinn’s heart began to beat solidly, her pulse accelerating, as her eyes alighted on the tall, handsome figure striding in their midst. He towered above the rest, his bright head shining, a sapphire-blue mantle swathing his broad shoulders.
Joy welled, rich and warm, deep in Ailinn’s soul. It rose to overflowing and engulfed her heart.
“Lyting,” she whispered on a soft breath. However briefly, he was destined to be her husband and she his wife, the fullness of that thought astounded her. The promise it contained, were circumstances otherwise, sent heat shimmering through her.
As though hearing her voice, Lyting lifted his face to the women crowded at the balcony, his eyes questing for her. Quickly the women drew Ailinn back and covered her with a filmy white veil that reached well past her knees in front and drifted to the floor behind.
“Come,” Ariana said excitedly. “ ‘Tis time to receive your groom.”
»«
The choir of Blues and Greens took up a new song as the doors of the gynaekeion swept smoothly open and the bride appeared with her retinue.
Lyting’s blood stirred as he left the center of the procession and proceeded forward to claim Ailinn. Coming to stand before her, the ladies in attendance raised her veil so he might look upon his
bride.
Ailinn’s beauty stole his breath away. Their gazes touched — a brief kiss that set his heart to pounding. Even as the women lowered her veil, Lyting could scarce pull his eyes from her. Moving to Ailinn’s side, he offered his arm and felt a slight tremor there. He admonished himself for responding like a green, smitten lad. Green, no. Smitten, the word didn’t even approach his feelings for Ailinn.
Lyting led Ailinn aside while the ladies-in-waiting parted into double columns. Zoë appeared at the far end. Emerging from the gynaekeion, she progressed with Imperial grandeur, commanding the attention of all.
As planned, she drew interest upon herself, hoping to divert the assassins’ regard from the child who would impersonate her son, as well as from the other innocents in the procession, such as her ladies.
For that, Lyting was especially grateful, for the procession included Ailinn. Yet, being the bride, Ailinn was already at the center of interest. She glittered with every movement she made and was equally as entrancing as the empress. Because of her association with him, Lyting worried that she, too, might be a target for revenge.
Zoë did not meet Lyting’s gaze as she passed, but he saw her eyes held no fear, only dauntless determination to see this night through. All had been set to motion, the varying rumors circulated throughout the day. Now they must wait for the “scorpion” to attempt his sting and the “spider” to bite.
A contingent of Varangians met Zoë. Dressed in their ceremonial best, they bore lances and great scarlet shields. Each wore the famed rhomphaia, single-edged swords of heavy iron, suspended on a leather strap from their right shoulders. From their left shoulders hung battle-axes.
Lyting took reassurance in the Guard’s well-armed presence, particularly since he was still denied his own sword. ‘Twas prohibited for the groom to bear weaponry into the church.
Lyting and Ailinn followed seven paces behind Zoë as the Varangians escorted them to the head of the procession, then conducted the bridal party toward the Sigma Palace.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 33