Medieval Ever After (162 page)

A box sat at the other end, and he lifted the lid.  Tucked inside, he found a bundle of dried flowers and recognized them in an instant.  It was the remains of the bouquet he collected in the glade, the afternoon they made love in the woods for the first time.  And beneath the less than elegant spray, he found the brooch and reminisced of Yordana’s prediction.

Thou dost have dark days ahead, Sir Demetrius, as thou dost call friend those who would smile to thy face and sink their sword in thy back.  But fear not, as thou wilt not meet thy end on these shores.  Rather, thou wilt rise again, and a mighty legacy is thine to claim, if thou wilt but seize it.  And know thy bride-to-be is thy equal, in every measure.

Upon reflection, her preceptive words posited not polite conversation, or the unhinged ravings of an aged fool, and he should not have discounted the curious divination.  Indeed, taken as a whole, the foretoken should have comforted him.  But in light of his actions, the last part of the old woman’s prophecy mocked him.  If he were honest with himself, Yordana overestimated the fortitude of his character.  Indeed, Athelyna possessed unfailing strength, courage, and faith, whereas he doubted her at the first test of honor, and he would never forgive himself.

Closing the miniature chest, he glanced about their private accommodations and beheld so many signs of Athel’s tender care and nurturing spirit—the quilt she sewed for their bed, the pillow she stuffed with goose feathers just for him, the tapestries she selected to keep their rooms warm, and the furnishings she purchased to create their sanctuary, and he wondered how he missed them.  Of course, he never really bothered to look.  He took it for granted that she built a home from the cold and unremarkable stone structure, never understanding she labored to please him.  That, in her way, she never missed an opportunity to declare her love, again and again, with what he viewed as commonplace details.

“My lord, I brought thy sup.”  From the solar, Isotta peered into the bedchamber.  “Dost thou require anything else?”

“Nay.”  Before he embarrassed himself, he waved to her.  “Thank ye.  That will be all.”

Alone, he strolled into the outer quarters.

A steady rain played a gentle drumbeat on the lancet windows, and he gazed at the landscape, briefly illuminated by a bright flash of lightning.  From his perch, he caught glimpses of the meadow, which led to their secret place in the midst of the coppice.  A symphony of her breathy sighs and achingly sweet moans echoed in his memory, as he revisited those treasured afternoons, wherein he made love to her amid nature’s splendor.

And then Demetrius broke.

Dropping to his knees, he wept, clasped his hands, brought them to his chin, and did something he had not dared since that fateful day, more than six years ago, when he set sail from La Rochelle and stood helpless as Randulf died.

He prayed for the Lord’s grace and munificence.

He prayed for Athelyna’s safekeeping.

He prayed for his unborn child.

He prayed for forgiveness.

He prayed for courage.

He prayed.

What previously posited naught but an empty intercession burgeoned from his chest, and he invested a wealth of devotion into his supplications.  And in that simple yet profound act, he found faith restored.  And in faith he found salvation.  And in salvation, he found strength.  And in strength he found determination.  And in determination, he found comfort mixed with unquestionable certainty, because he would reclaim his wife or die trying.

“My Lily, I know not whither thee art, but I vow never to stop searching for ye, because I love ye.”  After a moment of quiet reflection, he gained his feet and stretched upright, just as Briarus flung open the door.

“My lord, I apologize for the intrusion, but a messenger is just arrived from Saltwood Keep.”  The marshalsea bowed and stepped aside.  “He bears a missive from Van Hermant, which is to be delivered only unto thee.”

As his mind raced, Demetrius descended the stairs, two at a time.  When he ran into the Great Hall, a hush fell on the cavernous room, and he spied the interloper.  Recognizing the Van Hermant colors, he swallowed his suspicions and extended a hand in friendship.  “Welcome to Winchester Castle.”

“Lord Wessex, hither am I on behalf of my master, Renoldus Van Hermant.”  The guard produced a rolled parchment.  “I am bid to await thy response.”

“Pray, enjoy my hospitality, as the weather is stormy.”  Demetrius broke the seal and read the missive.  It was as if the world halted, the wind stilled, the rain ceased, and the thunder quieted.  Fearing he persisted in some cruel dream, he reread the note, pressed it to his lips, and uttered a silent invocation of thanks.  “Briarus, see to it our guest is fed and sheltered.  At dawn, we ride for Saltwood Keep and Lady Athelyna.”

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A loud clap of thunder brought Athelyna awake and alert.  As her vision cleared, she studied the intricate hammerbeam roof that loomed above her, and she realized she was not at home.  When she sat upright, the room spun, and she slumped in the pillows.

“Careful, Lady Wessex.”  The male voice harkened to the past, to another time and place, and beckoned fear.  “Thou didst suffer injuries when ye fell from thy horse.”

“Whither am I?”  With muddled thoughts, she tried to compose an image of the last moment she could recall, yet naught made sense.  “A group of men chased me.”

“One of my patrols, Lady Wessex.  And they meant ye no harm.”  Renoldus Van Hermant emerged from the shadows.  “Welcome to Saltwood Keep.”

“Prithee, sir.”  Now she recognized her husband’s self-proclaimed enemy and his hateful words.  “I command ye to return me to Winchester Castle, at once, and naught will happen to ye.  But if thou dost delay, Sir Demetrius will come for me, and I cannot ensure he will be grateful for thy intercession.”

“Thou dost show spirit.”  Slapping his thighs, Van Hermant laughed.  “Wherefore should Lord Wessex hold me accountable, when I have done naught but grant ye the benefit of my hospitality and the care of my able physic?  Were I a heartless heathen, like that boothaler ye married, I would have abandoned ye to the wild.”

“Thou art a cruel villain, sir, and do not disparage Lord Wessex in my presence, as I will not tolerate it.”  When she discovered she was garbed in a modest lady’s nightgown, she scanned the area for her clothing.  “I know well thy hard heart, thus I would not appeal to thy charitable nature, as thou dost not include such a noble trait.  But I shall pray for thee.”

“Save thy petitions for those who believe in such myths, as I hold no faith, when my devotions have gone unanswered.”  Van Hermant paced, paused, and caught her in a lethal stare.  “Wherefore should I offer charity, when I have suffered loss after loss, until only I remain?  My good deeds go ignored, whilst others prosper when they commit heinous crimes against my family.”

“Thou dost speak of thy son.”  The chamber posed no possible means of escape, as it had no windows and a single door.  Still, she resolved to make an attempt at the first opportunity.

“Nothon was my lone child, as Phylace died giving birth.”  He rubbed his eyes.  “Thou dost remind me of her, as she possessed estimable fortitude.”

“Wilt thou tell me of her?”  To her amazement, Athel realized he lacked faith, inasmuch the same fashion as did Demetrius, after he was betrayed, lost his friend, and was exiled to England.  “I should dearly love to know about thy wife.”

“Phylace and I were betrothed before we were born, as our powerful families posed a threat to the governance of England, and the King sought an alliance.”  To her surprise, he smiled.  “Ah, she was beauteous beyond compare, and I fell in love with her the moment we met, at court.  Thus ours was a felicitous union.”  Then he sighed and peered at the floor.  “She was but seven and ten when her life ended.”

“I am very sorry.”  Athel hugged her belly and pondered the babe growing inside her, yet she harbored no concern.  “And what of Nothon?”

“Thy husband, and that pack of animals he calls friends, killed my son.”  Van Hermant loomed at the footboard of the bed, and she cringed.  “They murdered Nothon.”

“That is not true.”  Anxious, she held the covers to her chest.  “His Majesty ordered them to defend the throne against Lord Rochester’s nefarious schemes, which included the unjust charges against Lady Isolde.”  Athel recollected the details and launched a defense.  “Indeed, after a mockery of a trial, she was sentenced to a public lashing.  And when that did not satisfy thy community’s thirst for blood, they tried to hang her.”

“I had no part in that affair,” he asserted with vehemence.

“But thou stood silent, when ye might have prevented it.  And I have it on good authority that thy son took up arms against the Sovereign.  Yet, thou dost dare blame Lord Sussex and question my husband’s honor.”  She inclined her head.  “Dost thou not see thy logic is flawed?  Thy son made his choice and reaped the consequence, and thou dost punish thyself when ye art blameless, as is Demetrius.  Let go thy anger and rejoin the community, as thou art in dire need of fellowship.  Without faith and friendship, thou art already in the grave.”

“Thou art most wise, Lady Wessex, and thou dost make a compelling argument.”  For a while, her host simply gazed at her.  Then he shifted his weight.  “Mayest I call thee Athelyna?”

“Oh, I wish ye would.”  She studied the tufts of gray hair, just above his ears, his balding crown, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and decided he appeared less menacing that she previously thought.  “And might I indulge in the same privilege?”

“I am Renoldus.”  With a huff, he turned and dragged the chair closer to the side of the four-poster and sat.  “Wilt thou tell me of thy people, as it hath been ages since I hosted a guest?”

It seemed odd to share her personal history with an individual who once vowed to harm Demetrius, but Athel thought it the perfect occasion to attempt an invasion, of a sort.  If she could sway Renoldus in her knight’s favor, they could bring peace to the tumultuous region.  So, for the next few hours, she detailed her childhood in Coventry, as well as her education at the convent.

“Then the King summoned ye to marry Sir Demetrius.”  Renoldus slapped his thigh and chuckled.  “I wager Lord Wessex had no idea what danger he courted, as thou dost have a mind and a will of thy own.”

“And that is bad?”  She pouted.

“Nay.”  Renoldus grinned.  “It brings me much satisfaction.”  Then he quieted and rubbed his chin.  “Forgive my indelicacy, but my physic informs me that ye art with child.”

“Pray, say naught to Demetrius, as I have yet to make the announcement, and I wish to do so in my way.”  A loud rumble emanated from her stomach and pierced the calm, and she averted her stare.

“Thou art hungry, and I am not surprised, as thou dost eat for two.”  He stood, walked to the door, opened the oak panel, and shouted, “Bring Lady Wessex a hot meal, and be quick about it.”

“Mayhap thou can also send for my husband?”  She held her breath and prayed Renoldus would defer to her request.

“Gentle Athelyna, I dispatched my man last eventide, despite the foul weather, as I am not the villain thee dost think.”  Renoldus cast a sympathetic expression.  “I anticipate, now the storm hath cleared, Lord Wessex shall arrive in a matter of hours.”

DEMETRIUS

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A long and
lonely ride, filled with tortuous thoughts and silent expressions of regret, led Demetrius to the gate of Saltwood Keep.  An imposing fortress surrounded by a massive curtain wall, the structure conveyed power and prestige that was not lost on him.  That his bride resided somewhere within the confines of the stronghold only intensified the anxiety that gripped his spine.