“Why so gloomy?” Aristide chucked Morgan’s chin and waggled his brows. “Tonight, you consummate your vows, and that is reason to rejoice.”
“I know no such delight.” Morgan shuddered at the prospect. “Because none of this was my choice.”
“Brother, you know I shared your hesitation on my own wedding day.” Aristide gazed on Dionysia, as she embraced Hawisia. “But I learned to accept, welcome, and eventually appreciate the gift the King afforded me. Like Arucard and Demetrius, I am blessed. If you give your bride a chance, I wager you will be rewarded with similar happiness and content.”
“Would that that were true.” Morgan sighed.
For some reason he could not fathom, his mother’s advice, uttered so long ago, came to mind, and he considered it appropriate to the solemn occasion.
We all tell lies to ourselves, sometimes, if only to survive the consequences of our actions.
At the time, he knew not how prophetic his mother’s counsel would prove, but her wisdom helped him endure some of the darkest hours. In some ways, he had been swimming in a sea of fiction, of invention, since he was taken from his home, such that he knew not whither the truth began and the pretense ended. With each passing year, the ruse, the ploy seemed more and more difficult to maintain.
Unlike his brothers, Morgan never wanted to be a Templar Knight. He never aspired to greatness, prestige, wealth, and chastity. Rather, he planned to be a farmer, like his father, marry a provincial girl, and raise a family. He never wanted more. Perchance, that was why he found it so easy to dispense with the two and seventy tenets of the Templar Code, after the once-esteemed Order was disbanded.
Yet, even now, his fate remained inextricably intertwined with his past, functioning as a brutal trap, as he served a new master and embarked on a new chapter of his life. Still, it was not of his making or choosing. Thus he would have to create another web of deceit. To persist, he would compose a litany of falsehoods to convince himself that he could tolerate his latest predicament.
“My lord, it appears our party departs for Westminster Palace. Shall we join them?” Lady Hawisia clutched his arm, and he recoiled. “I beg your pardon, as I did not mean to startle you.”
“Come.” Grasping her by the elbow, he dragged her to the coach they were to share, as his brothers would take back the destrier, and lifted her inside. Then he climbed to the opposite seat and pounded the side. “Drive on.”
As the rig lurched forward, he stared at his bride, and she smiled.
“Despite the rain, the ceremony was lovely.” Hawisia shifted and settled her skirts. “And numerous nobles—”
“My lady wife, grant me peace, and do not speak unless I address you.”
~
Hope lingered somewhere between life and death, in the confined spaces unspoiled by man and his conventions, whither Lady Hawisia Van Goens found the freedom to be in fantasy what she would never be in truth. In the real world, whither women existed to serve men, she persisted as a captive locked in an invisible prison, desperate to think, say, and contribute something of value, if only to be heard.
It was with that thought in mind she approached her impending nuptials with a faint bit of optimism, eager to foster an amiable relationship with her groom. Bedecked in her finest gown, with a matching wimple, she expended considerable effort preparing herself, because she wanted to appear at her best for her mate, and just as quick, her new husband dashed her dreams of acceptance.
As she sat in the huge great hall at Westminster Palace, amid a sea of elegantly garbed nobles, at the table of honor, given it was her wedding celebration, she had never felt more alone in her life. Clasping her hands in her lap, she studied Sir Morgan, while he danced with her sister. Although he made it clear he welcomed no conversation with his wife, such objections did not extend to Euphemia, given their animated expressions and laughter, and she swallowed the hurt at his indifference.
“Good eventide, Lady Hawisia.” Carrying a full trencher and a goblet of wine, Lady Isolde, with Lady Dionysia and Lady Athelyna in tow, moved to a vacant chair near Hawisia. “May we join you?”
“Of course, Lady Isolde.” She met the three noblewomen at her ceremony and admired the open adoration with which their husbands greeted them but knew not what to make of the polished women. Given no one else sought her company, she was in no position to deny them an audience. “Prithee, take a seat, as there are plenty.”
“We are so delighted to make your acquaintance.” Lady Dionysia perched beside Hawisia. “As the men have long enjoyed favorable odds, at our expense, but soon we shall equal their number, and then they will have a fight on their hands.”
“Oh?” Confused, Hawisia pushed aside her untouched meal. “Forgive my ignorance, but you wish to quarrel with your husbands?”
“But you mistake her meaning.” Lady Athelyna tittered. “As we avoid contretemps with our men, whenever possible. However, it is nice to remind them, on occasion, that while they wear the armor, we rule the castle.”
None of that made sense, because the five impressive knights were veritable mountains of flesh and bone, dwarfing most of their rivals, and their presence always inspired a din of whispers and speculations. Indeed, even Hawisia wondered about their background, especially when she discovered she was to marry Sir Morgan. Although he was the smallest of the King’s mysterious warriors, that was not saying much, because he towered above Hawisia.
“I apologize, Lady Athelyna, but I do not comprehend what it is you are trying to say.” Hawisia tried to think of something rational to counter the bold declaration, because such behavior was discouraged. She even sought a humorous reflection, but naught came to her. So instead she checked on her less than attentive husband. To her chagrin, he partnered another court beauty, and she sighed. “Not that I criticize you. To be honest, I would welcome any sign of acknowledgement from Sir Morgan.” Then she flinched and cursed herself, in silence. “Forgive me, as I did not intend to say that aloud.”
“Shameless sack of ignorance. What he needs is a swift kick in the arse.” Lady Isolde glared at Morgan, and then she softened when she met Hawisia’s stare. “You poor thing. In terms of physical charm, no one disputes that Sir Morgan is the most handsome of the knights, but I would argue my Arucard is far more beauteous of spirit. And Morgan lacks judgement, I am afraid.”
“While I am loathe to speak ill of anyone, he is the worst sort of boaster, but the condition is not permanent.” Lady Dionysia snickered. “Aristide likens Morgan to a peacock, and I am in agreement. In truth, he is in dire need of a wife’s common sense.”
“And you are not the first to face a hostile spouse, as Demetrius vomited in the bushes, before everyone in attendance, just prior to our nuptials on the steps of the Chapter House.” For a moment, Lady Athelyna simply stared at Hawisia. Then she burst into laughter, as did the other ladies. “Oh, you should have been thither, as he made quite a scene, and he forbade me to speak without his permission. Now, he sings another tune that is far more pleasant to my ears, because he loves me as I love him.”
“At least you had an ally in me.” Lady Isolde shook her head. “When I married Arucard, I was the lone female amid the Nautionnier Knights, and it was as if I had inherited four sons, in the process. Believe me, we clashed more than once. Not to mention, I met Arucard in a brief exchange, just prior to taking the vows.”
“You mean you had never even seen him until then?” Hawisia gulped at the prospect, because at least she knew, in some respects, her lord and master, as they had met at court. “You never conversed or shared a letter?”
“I knew naught about him or our impending marriage until the eve of our wedding, when my father informed me of it.” Lady Isolde studied her husband, an imposing figure, and he winked at her, in a tender display of affection Hawisia envied. “But he treated me with naught but kindness, from the first, and he has persisted as my champion, ever since, so we are not novices, Lady Hawisia. And we would guide you, because we would b
e your friends and much more, if you let us.”
“Although you have a sister, we would also count you as such, as we are hither for you, Lady Hawisia.” Lady Dionysia clutched Hawisia’s hands, and the other ladies did the same, forming a delicate but nonetheless spirited bond of flesh and bone, and she wanted to cry. “Because we know how you feel, as we have been there, in that lonely seat.”
“We would strategize with you.” Lady Athelyna cast a mischievous grin. “We would support you, as you navigate the treacherous waters known as matrimony, that you might find bliss at the end of the battle.”
“The battle?” In discomfit, Hawisia shifted, as she was already at odds with Morgan. “Am I to oppose my husband?”
“Make no mistake, yours is a fight you cannot afford to lose, and if history is any indication, Sir Morgan will resist you, at every turn.” Lady Isolde leaned near, as if to impart a great secret. “While men are not daft, they often do their best to prove otherwise, and therein lies your advantage, because you can outplay him.”
“Indeed, because we have gone before you, you will benefit from our experience and knowledge.” Lady Dionysia lowered her chin. “Soon, you will have Sir Morgan eating from the palm of your hand, and he will express his gratitude for your benevolence.”
“How I wish I shared your confidence.” Regardless of their poise and assurances, Hawisia noticed her husband made the rotations with yet another woman who was everything she was not. “But I fear the most I can expect is that he will not treat me cruelly, and I shall serve him with distinction, as I was taught, that I would not dishonor my family or their good name. To ask for more seems an exercise in frustration and disappointment.”
“No.” Lady Isolde shook her head. “You could not be more wrong, as our knights are the best of men, and Sir Morgan is no different. He only lacks the proper incentive, and I swear, on my firstborn, he will gift you his heart.”
“So all is not lost.” Lady Athelyna cast a sympathetic countenance. “No matter how dark the situation appears, you can find a love match, just like we enjoy.”
“And that is wherefore we are so happy to have you as part of our family.” Again, Lady Isolde reached across the table and grasped Hawisia’s hand. “I know it seems a daunting prospect, as you have scarcely uttered the vows, but each of us has walked in your slippers, and we are hither to give you hope.”
Thus Hawisia came full circle.
“Hope? How is that possible, when we were forced to the altar, and he cannot abide to look at me?” Still, she clung to a measure of faith, because to surrender meant a lifetime of misery served in a box not of her making or choosing. Yet, she could not summon courage to sustain her, and tears welled. “Pray, excuse me.”
Pushing through the crowd, Hawisia located a dimly lit corridor and fled the prying eyes of court. A small alcove offered shelter, and she shuffled inside to obscure herself amid the shadows.
It was then she let go the pain and wept, because she did so aspire to something more with Sir Morgan, and she knew not how to commence married life with a man who, for all intents and purposes, detested her. Yet, they were bound for eternity, and there was naught she could do to change it.
A sudden commotion had her shrinking further into the recess, just as Sir Arucard dragged Sir Morgan into the passage.
“What is wrong with you?” Sir Arucard slapped Sir Morgan’s ear. “How can you be so careless with your wife, when you just pledged an oath to protect and defend her?”
“So I did, but I never promised to dance with her.” Morgan rubbed his offended appendage. “And as I made clear at Chichester, when you gave me the news of my scheduled wedding, I wanted the younger sister.”
Had Hawisia thought she suffered?
In that moment, she leaned against the cold, stone surface, bit her bottom lip to stifle a forthcoming scream, and clenched her fists.
“Thus you insult your bride in front of everyone, including His Majesty, when she is blameless?” Arucard shoved Morgan against the wall. “We gave our word, in exchange for asylum, and you will not break it. I do not care what you want. If you endanger Isolde and our children, thither is no place you could hide, no way to escape me.”
“You need not remind me, brother.” Morgan bared his teeth. “As I know precisely what we surrendered to save our necks, and I submit we are already dead, so your threats are wasted on me.”
“You know not of what you speak, because you approach the marriage bed from a perspective of ignorance, vanity run amok, and unparalleled selfishness. You have no idea what is possible, what can be achieved between you and your mate, if you would stop thinking with your longsword and use your head.” Arucard scowled and thrust Morgan aside. “Our ancestors must be rolling in their graves, to see what you have reduced yourself to in so short a span of time, despite their tutelage, but you will not disparage Lady Hawisia, else I will defend her, along with Aristide and Demetrius.”
Touched by Lord Arucard’s consideration, when they were but strangers, she wiped her face and stiffened her spine, because she had no real choice. In the wake of Morgan’s injurious declaration, she recalled Lady Isolde’s words of encouragement and an idea formed and took shape.
Aye, the archbishop had taken her name, and soon Morgan would claim her body. From her position, naught belonged to her—not even her life. She was but property, an object—a thing to be controlled, shackled, and confined by a man who wanted her not. So she would play the role Morgan wanted, only she would alter the narrative, and she would survive.
As for his heart, it interested her not.
Resolved to forge her own path, and make her parents proud, Hawisia formed a plan of action to succeed as Morgan’s wife. Riding a wave of renewed confidence, she sprang forth. “Grammarcy, Lord Arucard, as your kindness and concern is much appreciated but unnecessary, given I understand my husband’s opposition.”
“Lady Hawisia.” Lord Arucard cast an expression of shock and retreated a step. “Apologies, as I knew not of your presence, else I would have tempered my discussion.”
“There is no need for an apology, my lord, as you are the soul of charity.” The look on Morgan’s face brought her a measure of retribution, as he appeared to have swallowed his tongue, and she pinned her husband with her stare. “In fact, I take no offense, and I would have Sir Morgan know we are of like minds, because I had no wish to marry him, either.”
MORGAN
CHAPTER TWO
What did Hawisia mean that she did not wish to marry him? Morgan recalled her bold proclamation, after she surprised him in the hall, and scratched his chin. Was he not the most handsome of the Nautionnier Knights? Was his company not the most sought after, at court? She could count herself lucky, rather than insult him. As he stood before the door to their accommodation, he stared at the wrought-iron pull, imagined her anticipating his arrival, and frowned.
“Let her wait.” He snorted. “Perchance, then she will be grateful for my presence.”
In the blink of an eye, he turned on a heel and navigated the maze of passages at Westminster Palace. From a side entrance, he ran into the bailey, whither he continued to the stables.
Moments later, he rode through the gates and steered toward the Brethren’s usual gathering place, a dank tavern nestled amid the narrow streets in a lower class environ of London. As he traversed the various thoroughfares, he mulled the sorrowful expression on her face.
While he did not want to marry Lady Hawisia, Arucard was correct in his estimation, because the union was not her fault. Indeed, she came to the altar every bit as forced as Morgan, and she did not deserve his derision, yet he hurt her.
It was with that thought in mind that he walked into the familiar and comforting establishment, intent on consuming plentiful quantities of liquid courage before he returned to their quarters and apologized.
And he would apologize.
Because, no matter her faults, she did not deserve his disdain.
So he would set th
ings right. But, at that moment, he waved a greeting, and Aristide scooted to the right, to make room for Morgan. At the table, he flagged a bar wench and ordered a tankard of ale.
“What are you doing hither, brother?” Arucard glared at Morgan. “Wherefore are you not with your wife?”
“Mayhap he requires instructions on bedding a virgin.” Demetrius arched a brow and scowled. “As I wager he has not known one of those, in the whorehouses he frequents.”
Of course, they knew of Morgan’s naughty habits, given he made no secret of his indulgences. Wherefore should he hide his preferences for pleasure, when there was naught unnatural about his proclivities?
“Waste not your breath, brothers, as I have no need of your advice. And I am remarkably skilled in the sensuous arts.” Straightening the collar of his tunic, to mask his nervous agitation, Morgan smirked. “Unlike the three of you, I harbor no fear of the weaker sex, given my prurient pedagogy. No doubt my bride will count herself most fortunate in the hands of a past master, and I foresee no trouble pleasing her, between the sheets.”
Arucard exchanged expressions of unmasked surprise with the other two and then shook his head. It had to chafe their miserable arses that Morgan possessed far more knowledge than they did, when it came to women, and he tried not to gloat. Because, unlike them, Morgan surrendered his virginity soon after the King freed the former Templars from the tower, a fact of which he was proud.
“Have you spoken with her?” With a huff of impatience, Aristide cast a wary glance at Arucard. “As it was only yesterday, when you apprised me that you had shared no conversation with your new mate.”
“Which does not bode well for nurturing affection.” Arucard stiffened his spine. “Trust me, you will need that.”
“And the loss of her maidenhead can be a very traumatic, not to mention dangerous, escapade for you, both.” Demetrius elbowed Aristide in the ribs. “Just ask our brother, hither.”
“Very funny.” Aristide frowned. “I admit I had a rough start, but I found my way in the matrimonial bed, soon enough. Need I remind you of the recent birth of my son? And my Dion and I endeavor to produce another, every morrow and night.”
Morgan (Brethren Origins Book 4) Page 2
