Medieval Ever After (141 page)

Demetrius opened and then closed his mouth, as the problem was not so elementary.  After a minute, he sighed heavily and mustered a smile.  “All right.  Bring on the archbishop, for I am to wed.  But thou must promise me something.”

“Whatever thou dost require, know ye shall have it.”  Arucard slapped Demetrius on the back.  “Now, let us get thee to the altar.”

“Wait.”  Demetrius halted in his tracks.  “At the first opportunity, thou must help me compose a pet name, as
Athelyna
is not something I imagine myself uttering in the throes of passion.”

#

Fidgeting beneath the heavy folds of her wool gown, Athelyna prayed Sir Demetrius had been struck by some foul but not fatal illness, that she might be spared a most unpleasant wedding, until she could design another escape.  When the door to the Chapter House swung open, and her husband-to-be appeared, robust but less than enthused, her heart sank in her chest.

“Well, it is about time.”  Gerwald shuffled his feet, settled a hand to the small of her back, and thrust her forward.  “Now put a smile on thy lips and do thy duty, else I shall disown ye.”

To her shame, she stubbed her toe and tripped, but Sir Demetrius caught her with his hands about her waist.  “Thank ye, my lord.”

“Thou art most welcome.”  Then he frowned and gripped her chin.  “What happened to thy face?”

“My brother dispensed much required discipline, after he caught me attempting to run in the night,” she replied, in a low voice.  “I have disgraced our name, and I am sorry I failed ye.”

“Thou did not fail, so do not be sorry.”  With his thumb, he caressed the curve of her jaw.  “It would seem the Lord wishes us to wed, else thou would have succeeded, and thus we shall never mention it again.”

“I had not thought of it like that, and I am sure of naught.”  Then she considered the brooch, which she had pinned to the bodice of her garment, and she reflected on the strange dreams.  The archbishop cleared his throat, and she realized she had no choice.  She would marry Sir Demetrius.  “Shall we take our respective places?”

“Of course.”  Was it her imagination, or did he pale at the prospect?  “And fear not, dear lady, as everything will be all right.”

“Art thou trying to comfort me or thee?”  Did her attempt at humor fool him?

“Both,” he replied, with a wink.

“Wait.”  She gripped his arm.  “If we art to live as husband and wife, I should know they preferences.”

“Thou dost wish to question me now?”  He quirked his brows.  “Whilst the King awaits?”

“Aye.”  In earnest, she nodded.  “I would know something of ye, before I become thy property and lifelong servant.”

“But I must correct ye.”  As the archbishop flipped through the pages of his prayer book, Sir Demetrius bent his head.  “Thou shalt be my mate, not my property or servant, despite English law.  Dost thou understand?”

“As I am thine to command, I shall not argue thy assertion, but I would have some sense of thy partialities prior to the ceremony.”  So he did not approach marriage as did most men, and for that she was grateful.  “As I know ye dost choose ale over wine, what is thy favorite food?”

“Brewets.”  As the archbishop coughed, Demetrius shifted his weight.  “And I would be most appreciative if ye learned how to prepare Lady Isolde’s special recipe.”

“I promise, I will do my best, though I should warn ye, I am no cook.”  Then she recalled he coveted a bag of the pounded and spiced meat cutlets the night they met, and in silence she pledged to master the fare.  “And what of thy preferred color?”

“Green,” he responded without hesitation.

The archbishop signaled, and she gulped.  “Light or dark?”

“The shade of thine eyes.”  In that instant, she decided she liked her mountainous groom, although he still scared her, to an extent.  “Then thou should know, aside from wine, I love bryndons, burgundy, and roses.”

“Noted.”  A strong gust of wind almost toppled her, and he offered his escort.  “Now can we marry?”

Perched on an invisible but nonetheless perilous precipice, in her heart she bade farewell to the convent and her dreams.  “Yea, my lord.”

And so Athelyna took her vows, amid a blustery gale and falling snow, on the steps of the Chapter House, repeating with care the sacrament that would forever bind her to the estimable knight.  But was Demetrius her one true knight, as the brooch foretold?

When her new husband lifted her veil, she swallowed a shriek of trepidation and chided herself.  But she cringed when he bent and pressed his lips to hers, sealing their nuptials with a kiss, and the modest gesture struck her as an ominous omen, just as the bells rang in a mournful toll.

“What a lovely ceremony, and now we are sisters.”  Isolde produced a handkerchief and daubed Athelyna’s cheeks.  “And fret not, as I wept at my wedding to Arucard.”

The full import of the events dawned, and Athelyna burst into tears.

“I see my brother’s charms have already impacted his bride.”  Arucard chuckled.  “But I wish ye glad tidings, Athelyna.  No doubt, thou wilt need it.”

“Arucard.”  Isolde elbowed her husband.  “Do not tease her, else thou shalt find thy wife not so accommodating this eventide.”

Anticipating a sharp rebuke, Athelyna was stunned when the enormous and intimidating man softened his expression and tickled Isolde, who giggled and whispered in his ear.

“Art thou ready to depart for Westminster Palace, my lady?”  Demetrius adjusted her cloak, in a gesture that impressed upon her the truth of his rightful ownership.  In short, she was his to do with as he chose.  “The King hosts our wedding feast, and we do not wish to keep His Majesty waiting.”

“Of course, not.”  Immersed in a new and foreign existence, in more ways than one, she rested her hand in the crook of his elbow, and he accompanied her to his carriage.  “Whither are we to spend the night?”

“Well that did not take long.”  Beneath her palm he tensed his muscles.  “We are to share a luxurious accommodation in the official residence, at the Crown’s insistence, but we shall discuss that, anon.”

“Thither is something to discuss?”  Terror weaved its subtle web about her spine, and she shivered.

“Art thou chilled?”  Demetrius lifted her to the seat.  “I can offer my cloak.”

“Nay.”  She scooted to one side, but his massive frame occupied more than half the space, and his thigh brushed her skirts.  “Rather, I am nervous, as I know not what to expect.”

“Then thou should follow my lead, as I suffered the pomp and pageantry before, when Arucard wed Isolde.”  He squeezed her fingers, and she started.  “If thou wilt but trust me, I shall endeavor to spare us any missteps and embarrassment.”

“But we scarcely know each other.”  A rut in the road jostled her, and she almost landed in his lap.  “And thou didst profess no desire to take me to wife.”

“And as I recall, thou didst share my sentiment, so thou art one to talk.”  His nostrils flared as he gazed at her, and she cowered.  “But the deed is done, and I am thy lord and master.  Given thy strict upbringing at the convent, I suspect ye art proficient in following commands.  Henceforth, thou shalt hold thy tongue until thou art given permission to speak.”

Now that stung, but she could not argue his point, as the law defined her as property and his authority reigned supreme over her.  So she remained silent, as they negotiated the narrow streets of London.

Soon the caravan neared the palace, and they passed through the main gate and came to a halt in the bailey.  In silence, Demetrius handed her to the drive, and together they followed the crowd into the massive royal residence.

In the Great Hall, musicians played an elegant tune, as the revelers piled high their trenchers, with tempting selections of fish, meat, and chicken and an array of boiled roots.  To her dismay, her master prepared another ample portion for her and collected two goblets of spiced clarrey from an opulent fountain unlike anything she had ever seen, as she remained in his wake.

On the dais, the King rumbled with mirth, and merrymakers spread infectious cheer, yet Athelyna joined not in the celebration of her nuptials.  As a dutiful bride, she held her tongue just as her husband bade.  But inside she screamed at the unfairness of her situation.

“Thou dost not eat, sister.”  Isolde sampled a bite of fish covered in a thick wine sauce, closed her eyes, and hummed.  “Oh, pykes in brasey, my favorite.  Thou should take a taste, as it is divine.”

As Demetrius had not yet granted permission to dine, Athelyna awaited his consent, for fear of inciting his temper.  When Isolde studied Athelyna for a few minutes, she shifted beneath the scrutiny.

“Is something wrong, my lady?” Arucard inquired of his wife.  “Shall I fetch ye a sweetmeat?”

“Wherefore doth our relation not speak?”  The graceful noblewoman stared at Demetrius, who cleared his throat but responded not.  “Sir Demetrius, hath thy mate been struck by some mysterious illness that hath rendered her mute?”

In that instant, Demetrius leaned to the side and whispered, “Thou mayest converse.”

“Thou
mayest
converse?”  Isolde set down her glass, with a thud.  “Did I hear ye correctly?”

Arucard winced.  “Isolde—”

“Nay.”  She shook her head.  “Sir Demetrius, thy lady is neither slave nor servant, and thou wilt not treat her as such, else I shall never again cook another brewet in this lifetime.”

Athelyna feared she might swoon, as a heretofore-unknown ally defended her.

“Isolde, it is not thy place to intrude on their privacy.”  Arucard peered at Demetrius and frowned.  “My brother must define the terms of his union, as he sees fit.”

“Is that so?”  Isolde exhaled and rolled her shoulders.  “Well the same goes for my blancmange, if the lord of Chichester Castle allows such an affront to humanity and virtue to occur beneath our roof and to stain our conscience, and neither shall I participate in nor condone the indignity.”

Arucard grumbled and rubbed his temple.  “Demetrius.”

That was it.

A singular invocation imbued with a wealth of meaning in a name.

Painful quiet fell on their little gathering, and Athelyna braced for her husband’s response, which she suspected might involve violence.  Would he tumble the setting?  Would he initiate a brawl?

To her unutterable shock, her spouse propped his elbows on the table and sighed.  “My lady wife, I revoke my previous order.”

The swift reversal of fortune played as some divine comedy, and nervous anxiety bubbled forth as uncontrollable laughter, until she held her stomach and gasped for breath.  Wave upon wave of mirth swept through her, and she yielded to the tittering spasms, which alleviated her stress.  The tension investing her spine loosened its iron grip, and she relaxed.

“Art thou unwell?”  With an expression of sympathy, Isolde clutched Athelyna’s fingers.  “Dost thou prefer Adam’s ale?”

“Thank ye, but nay.”  Suddenly ravenous, Athelyna scooped a morsel of fish, even as she snatched a piece of bread, which she shoved into her mouth.  For the next few minutes, she digested more food in that one sitting than she had in the past two days.  Before her body rebelled, and she revisited the meal, she pushed back and reclined in her chair.  “Thank ye, for thy kindness, Isolde.”

“Thou art most welcome.”  Arucard’s wife folded her arms and arched a brow.  “Thou shalt always enjoy safe harbor in my home.  And when we return to Chichester, we shall discuss thy role in the household, as I would have ye never doubt thither is a place for ye.”

“As an oblate, I have longed to tend the people of this great country, and I assisted the physic, as a caregiver, at the convent.”  Mayhap the circumstances were not as dire as Athelyna previously thought.  “It would be my honor to serve ye, in the same capacity.”

“Then it is settled, and I will speak to my staff, upon our return.”  Isolde offered a curt nod, as a formidable warrior on some invisible battlefield, and Athelyna reminded herself never to argue with the noblewoman.  “Mayhap thou will rest easy now.”

“Indeed.”  Athelyna laughed.  “And I shall do my best to preserve thy good opinion.”

In that instant, the music ended, and His Majesty stood.  “It is time for Lady Athelyna to retire, in preparation to receive Sir Demetrius.  Guards, escort the bride to her accommodations.”

And so fled her calm.