Medieval Ever After (164 page)

DEMETRIUS

EPILOGUE

How fast a
year passed when life was filled with unlimited joy, love, and promise.  The days composed a cherished mosaic—a collection of incomparable remembrances detailing an abiding devotion unmatched in its intensity, which never failed to bolster his faith and inspire his soul.  And Demetrius and Athelyna celebrated the anniversary of their union in the quiet confines of their chambers, doting on their newborn babe and recalling stories of their initial meeting and courtship.

Given the approaching end of autumn, he thought it past due for the King to broker another match for one of the three remaining unwed brothers, and he prayed the future groom found as much contentment in their marriage as Demetrius found in his.  Thus, when Arucard’s summons arrived, Demetrius was not surprised to learn that His Majesty once again called another Nautionnier Knight to the altar.

In felicitous spirits, he journeyed with his precious Lily and his heir for the two-day ride to Chichester Castle, in preparation to break the news of another impending marriage for the Brethren of the Coast.

“Wilt thou consider a wager, regarding how he takes the news?”  Arucard waggled his brows.  “As we know how ye reacted.”

“And I do not need ye to remind me.”  Mustering his best scowl, Demetrius grabbed his tankard and downed a healthy gulp.

“Oh, I want to hear about it.”  Athel set down a platter of buttered wortes and a basket of bread.  “Especially in light of his behavior when he arrived at the Chapter House.”

“Now that I will never forget.”  Placing a stack of trenchers on the table, Isolde giggled.  “Thou didst vomit and—”

“Thither is no need to relive such embarrassments.”  Somehow, Demetrius knew it would not be the last time his relations revisited the unpleasantness.

“Well I would very much like to know how he received the initial notice from the Sire.”  With hands on hips, Athelyna assessed the offerings and glanced at Isolde.  “I believe we are missing the ale and the wine.”

“And the bryndons, which I should fetch.”  With a huff, Isolde snapped her fingers.  “I overlooked the napkins, as well as thy sambocade.”

Still talking, the ladies rushed into the hall.

“Ah, my Isolde cooked her specialty.”  Arucard inhaled a deep breath and sighed.  Then he leveled his stare on Demetrius.  “She makes the best blancmange in the kingdom.”

“Indeed.”  Demetrius squared his shoulders.  “And Athel’s brewets are the most delicious in the world.”

“What dost thou think of my tunic?”  Arucard stretched upright in his chair.  “It is my wife’s handiwork.”

“It is adequate, I suppose.”  Demetrius sniffed.  “Of course, my Lily sews all my garments.”

“Didst thou see Isolde’s garden space?”  Leaning forward, Arucard rested his elbows atop the table.  “We harvested twice as much food for winter.”

“Athel put back more, such that the undercroft overflows with her bounty.”  He mirrored Arucard’s stance.  “And she composes an herbarium, that others might benefit from her curative skills, which art renowned.”

“Isolde manages Chichester Castle.”  Arucard narrowed his stare.  “In fact, I have naught to do but spend my waking hours in weapons practice.”

“Winchester is bigger, and Athel is the finest chatelaine in the land.”  Ah, it was a sad thing to serve an old friend a portion of humility, but Demetrius resolved to laud his bride, as she had accomplished a singular feat without equal, to which even Arucard could not lay claim on behalf of Isolde.  Savoring the thrill of victory, Demetrius lowered his chin.  “And she gave me a son.”

Silence weighed heavy in the solar, as Arucard bared his teeth and flexed his fists, just as the women returned.

Isolde glanced at Arucard, then Demetrius, and back to Arucard.  “Not again.”

“What is it?” Athel inquired, with an expression of confusion.  But soon she sobered.  “Oh, no.  My lord husband, thou wilt cease thy competition, this instant, as Isolde is not my rival, and Arucard is not thine.”

“That goes double for ye, Arucard.”  With a thud, Isolde yielded the pitcher of ale.  “But if thou dost insist on continuing thy disagreeable games, thou canst sleep in the garrison this eventide.”

Now that brought a grin to Demetrius’s lips.

“And thou mayest join him,” Athel said to Demetrius, which blackened his mood, until she slid to his lap.  “Which is a shame, given my visit to the physic this afternoon.”  She pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered in his ear, “After a thorough examination, he gave his expert opinion.  At last, I am healed and may resume my marital duties.  How sad I will be, to sleep alone in our bed.  But if thou art polite, I would suckle thy longsword when we retire and make love to ye all night, as a reward.”

“May I refill thy tankard, brother?”  As he reached for the ewer, he discovered Isolde in a similar position, with Arucard, and the flush of his skin suggested his lady employed the same tactic.  When Arucard shook his head and rolled his eyes, Demetrius laughed.  “Verily it is good to be a husband, is it not?”

“Thou dost know the impressive forces we faced, as Templars, yet none could contend with the imposing coercion of a beloved wife.”  Arucard raised his flagon, in toast.  “To our women.”

“Am I interrupting?”  At that moment, Aristide, the man of the hour, appeared in the entry.

“Not at all, as thou art our special guest.”  Arucard waved a welcome.  “Take thy seat.”

“I hope ye art hungry.”  Isolde loaded a trencher with various savory foods, intended to ease the shock of impending nuptials, and Demetrius reminisced of the day he learned he was to wed.

“Lady Isolde, in light of thy invitation, I opted to forgo the noon meal, thus I could eat the arse of a dead horse.”  Athel grimaced, as Aristide plucked a huge chunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth.

To wit Isolde gazed at Athel and said, “We will have to work on his manners.”

“Indeed.”  Athel nodded.  “As that comment just diminished my appetite.”

“I beg thy pardon?”  Aristide paused mid-chew.  “What dost thou reference, in regard to my manners?  What use have I for polite habits when I reside amid the garrison?”

For the second time that eventide, an uncomfortable silence invested the solar.

Athel stared at Demetrius, and he glanced at Arucard, who peered at Isolde.  Without a word, Arucard produced a letter, which he passed to Aristide.

Several minutes ticked by, as Aristide just scrutinized the parchment.  At last, he broke the seal, unfolded the missive, and read the contents.

In his mind, Demetrius recalled his moment in that seat and the sheer terror that rocked him, when he discovered his bride had been selected, and the wedding date had been set.  Little did he know how much that singular decision would alter his destiny, for the betterment of everyone involved, but especially him.  Bereft of hope, he had lost his way, physically and spiritually, but Athelyna grounded him and gave him something in which to believe.  She led him back to the warrior, to the lover, to the principled servant—to the honorable man.

Emotions welled in his throat, and he pressed his lips to her ear.  “While the broach declared I am thy one true knight, thou didst save me.  Thou art my wife.  Thou art my strength.  Thou art my rescuer.  Thou art my heroine, as thou hast restored my faith, and I love ye.”

To wit she leaned against him and replied, in a low tone, “Just wait till I get ye in our room.”

Ah, the promise of so many delightful nights and morrows.

“So I am to marry in a fortnight.”  Aristide broke the disquietude and sighed.  “And we shall celebrate Christmastide at court, in London.”

“It would seem His Majesty commands it.”  Demetrius pushed a tankard in Aristide’s direction.

“All right.”  As expected, Aristide downed the ale and then emitted a booming belch, as Demetrius braced for a riotous uproar and outright refusal to yield.  Instead, Aristide draped a napkin across his lap.  “Now may we eat?”

EXCERPT

TO CATCH A FALLEN SPY

The Descendants

London

September, 1815

Secrets lurked in
the shadows, beckoning as a welcomed friend for the undaunted.  Unfettered by social conventions, the spotlight of which forced many a lord or a lady to conform to the expectations of others, the blackness functioned as a form of liberty, wherein revelers conducted their covert games without threat of discovery or retribution.  It was in those dark spaces Lady Elaine Horatia Prescott found comfort and strength.

As the youngest member of a large, extended family comprised of spirited ladies with bold personalities and equally intrepid men, the famed Nautionnier Knights of the Brethren of the Coast, daring sea captains descended of the Templars, the warriors of the Crusades, she often hugged the background, taking pride in her ability to hide in plain sight.  Searching for some sense of herself, something not influenced by the rich history of her ancestors or her colorful relations, she fought to construct her own identity on her terms.

What she had not expected was to find love.

With great care, she moved swift and sure as she approached her target, skulking amid the outskirts of the crowd that filled the Hawthorne’s ballroom, during the height of the Little Season.  As she neared, he shifted, and she paused just shy of touching him and held her breath.

In one fail swoop, he pivoted, slipped an arm about her waist, pulled her into a corner, and bent to whisper in her ear.  “Lady Elaine, you are the only person capable of sneaking up on me, and I am not sure I appreciate your skill.”  Sir Ross Logan, the enigmatic head of the Counterintelligence Corps, brushed the crest of her flesh with his lips, she suspected not by accident, and her knees buckled.  “Why do you not dance?  Why do you not take your place among the
ton
, with the other debutantes?  Do you not wish to snare a husband, marry, and have children?”

“On the contrary, I want all those things with someone of my choosing.”  She cupped his cheek, and he retreated, much to her chagrin.  “But I am here because you are here.”

“Elaine, you must stop this nonsense.”  Now he withdrew and attempted to push her aside, but she resisted, even as her heart plummeted.  And despite his complaints, he would not hazard courting attention, so she held her ground.  “I am not the man for you.”