“Thou dost ask for my assistance in the matter?” Stunned by the developments, which did not unfold as he foresaw, given her arguments offered him no escape, he eased back in his chair and pondered their predicament. Slow and steady, an idea formed, which might spare them an ill-fated union. “Dost thou know the old abbey just beyond the environs, on the same route ye navigated last eventide?”
“Aye.” Lily nodded. “I know it well.”
“Excellent.” He leaned forward and whispered, “As thou hast managed to elude the guards, I presume ye canst do it again?”
“I am not sure, but I am willing to try,” she replied in a low voice. “What hast thou in mind?”
“Thou must make a midnight ride for freedom, and thy success or failure mayest save or doom us.” Demetrius checked his tone and the immediate vicinity, as no one could know of his hastily composed conspiracy. “But if ye can meet me at the abbey, I will escort ye to the convent at Rochester.”
“Thou would do that for me?” Tears welled in her green gaze, and he feared she might weep, thither and then. “What of thyself? Thou wilt suffer for my transgression, as His Majesty commands we marry.”
“But I will not take ye in protest.” He just stopped himself from informing her that he ventured before the altar under similar duress. “And the King will find me another bride. Given thy destination, it is doubtful anyone will ever discover thy fate, and I shall carry thy secret to the grave.”
“Thou art truly the best of men and a noble knight, and I am a better person for knowing ye.” Athelyna toyed with the brooch, which he noted, in that moment. “I must return thy precious gift, but I would not betray our plan, and we are surrounded.”
“Keep it, as a token of my esteem, and it may secure thy position in the convent, as it is valuable. But I should warn ye, it possesses mystical powers.” For some reason he could not quite fathom, Demetrius opened up to the fascinating creature and shared the inexplicable history of the peculiar piece of jewelry. “So thou should take care when ye dost wear it, as magical dreams of thy true knight mayest plague ye.”
“What a fantastic tale.” Lily caressed the pin and studied it with unmasked interest. “And the old woman claimed she was the younger lady’s mother, who the son-in-law explained had passed to the hereafter?”
“Aye, and when I inquired after the item, upon my return to La Rochelle, as I was certain they mislaid it during the fight, the couple declared they had never seen it, and so the plot thickens.” In that instant, he recalled a portion of Yordana’s assurance: Thy bride-to-be is thy equal, in every measure. Did he make a mistake in offering to aid Athelyna’s flight? Was it possible she was destined to be his wife? “But I consider it a fitting contribution to thy cause, which I admire. Yet I would caution ye to remember, if ye dost wear it to sleep, thou shalt dream of thy one true knight.”
“What a tempting prospect.” How he adored the dimple just to the left of her perfect mouth, and he wondered how he had failed to note that charming detail during their previous exchange. With clasped hands pressed to her bosom, a marvel of anatomy he tried not to scrutinize, she gushed. “Oh, to think what heavenly visions I might enjoy.”
“Thou dost aspire to test it, when thou dost maintain ye art already bound to a higher authority?” Wherefore was he not surprised by her curiosity? “And art thou not wary of the brooch’s predictive abilities?”
“Thou dost presume the badge’s remarkable capacity is born of evil?” She shook her head. “Sir Demetrius, anything that prophesies true love must be of unimpeachable and righteous origins, and I refuse to believe otherwise., thus I welcome reveries of our savior, given I am already bound to Our Lord.”
“Then I leave the bauble in thy most benevolent custody, knowing ye will make fine use of it.” An invisible but nonetheless compelling weight lifted from his shoulders, and he breathed a sigh of relief, just as the musicians struck the first notes of an estampie. “Shall we treat ourselves to a dance, as my family gathers, and we should not rouse suspicion?”
“What a wonderful suggestion.” Lily jumped from her seat. Was it his imagination, or did she glow when she smiled? “It has been ages since I last engaged in such entertainment, as we are not permitted frivolous recreation in the convent, and I am not sure I recall the steps.”
“Just follow the group.” Demetrius grabbed her delicate hand and a tremor of recognition shivered from her fingers to his. For a scarce second, he studied her glorious green eyes and reappraised their scheme. As they joined the Brethren and Isolde, and formed a large circle, he admired Athelyna’s angelic countenance. “To the left, fair Lily.”
Laughing, everyone hopped vigorously. When the change in tone signaled it was time to reverse course, they bounced to the right. Little by little, he relaxed and found her enthusiastic attempts to mimic his moves quite endearing. But when she veered in one direction, and he in the other, they collided, and he caught her about the waist.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Sir Demetrius.” The blush of her cheeks only increased her allure. “I am not usually graceless, but I stumbled.”
“That is all right.” It was an odd but not altogether disagreeable sensation, holding Lily in his arms, and he luxuriated in her warm, soft, and feminine form. A foreign sensation ignited below his belly button, and he knew not how to master the strange but enticing excitement. Just as quick, he shook himself alert and set her apart from him, as he had no interest in the temptation she posed. And if he kept telling himself that, he might actually believe it. Before he yielded to the fledgling attraction, he raised his defenses. “Mayhap thou should retire, as thy brother is distracted, and I shall rendezvous with ye at the abbey.”
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A vicious battle raged, sword clashed with sword, and an unknown champion protected a group of innocent pilgrims, beneath the glare of a brutal sun. With incomparable skill and speed the valiant knight charged numerous assailants, kicking sand in his wake and dispatching his enemies with lethal aim, until the enemy cowered in the shadows of the faceless warrior, but he was merciful. Anon, as he walked amid the bodies scattered across the dunes, the sweet stench of blood hung heavy in the air, and he doffed his gauntlets.
And then everything shifted.
The encroaching night sky signaled the advancing eventide, and the defender entered a tent. As he removed his armor, he revealed an intriguing mark etched into his flesh and barely visible in the soft light from the brazier. It was the Crusader’s Cross, black in color, and marred by a distinct scar in the shape of a jagged spike.
Gasping for breath, Athelyna lurched upright in her bed, checked the room, and found herself alone. With the brooch pinned to the bodice of her thick cotehardie, she did not expect to discover the piece of jewelry actually possessed some mystical nature that foretold a startling reality, yet she could not deny the truth. It was just as Sir Demetrius said—she suffered baffling visions of an undisclosed mate. And to her amazement, her supposed one true knight appeared quite earthly in stature.
But what if she conjured the strange fantasy from reminiscences of the handsome nobleman’s fascinating tale? No doubt the power of his narrative, coupled with his beauteous exterior, impressed upon her the source of her musing. And she could not yield her plans to satisfy the baseless deliberations spawned by an inanimate object.
Wiping the dampness from her forehead, she scooted to the edge of the four-poster. At some point since she retired, the wall sconces had guttered, but a fire burned in the hearth. Dressed for a midnight run for liberty, she leaped from the mattress, donned her wool cloak, and collected her sack of bundled clothing and personal items.
As she neared the door to her chamber, she glimpsed her reflection in the long mirror and halted.
The mysterious brooch sparkled even in the dim light, and she traced its oval shape. Was the dream, so vivid in detail, born of the peculiar bauble, and what was she to make of its inexplicable predictive powers? Was she destined to wed, in the traditional sense, the per
son at the center of the illusion?
For the first time since her brother took her from the convent that had been her home for years, she second-guessed her actions and ultimate aim. The large sapphire flickered, as though it winked at her, and she mulled the possibility that she should stay and fulfill the agreement Gerwald made on her behalf.
Yet, the puzzling reverie did not reveal the identity of her one true knight. Caution required her to contemplate the prospect that Sir Demetrius was not necessarily her fated husband. But deep down inside, whither she was always honest with herself, she had to acknowledge the fact that the man fascinated her.
Beauteous beyond compare, he garnered countless stares from envious ladies, and she struggled with unfamiliar and uncomfortable possessiveness during the festivity, which surprised her. Since she had no intention of marrying the handsome noble, such feelings were not hers to own. Determined to stay the course, she shrugged her shoulders, shaking off the indecision, tugged the hood over her head, tiptoed to the door, grasped the wrought-iron pull, opened the portal, and peered into the hallway.
In the dark, she hugged the wall and, drawing on memory, navigated the passage. When she arrived at the vast expanse, which featured massive mullioned glass windows through which the silvery glimmer of moonlight cast a mosaic of shadows on the stone floor, she paused and sheltered behind a large pillar.
A pair of halberd-bearing guards marched past, and she held her breath until they traversed the cavernous concourse. After a final check, she scurried from one support to the next, as she ignored the urge to rush, which might result in discovery. Little by little, she negotiated the maze of corridors that comprised the great castle, dodging formidable sentries who presented a very real threat to her escape and her neck.
At last, she shoved open a heavy exterior door, and the chilled night air penetrated her wool cloak as she moved with furtive steps into the bailey. After a glance left and then right, she scampered across the greens to the stables. The ear piercing shrill of some nocturnal creature gave her pause, but she remained resolute.
The scrape of the hinges had her glancing over her shoulder, but she spied naught amiss as she unlatched the gate. The lingering odor of damp earth mingled with straw and hung heavy in the stable, as she surveyed each stall. To protect His Majesty, in the event of an emergency, the stable master left a few horses saddled and at the ready, each night. That had been her saving grace in her previous quest for freedom, and she could only hope she would enjoy similar good fortune again.
Yet every successive enclosure offered naught but disappointment, which gnawed at her confidence, and she continued her search for the elusive but requisite transport. The prayed for blessing on four legs feasted on hay in a back corner, and she smiled.
“Hello, my pretty friend.” Athelyna approached the tall bay and scratched its forehead, and the lithe beast nuzzled her and whinnied. As she attempted to stow her pack, the horse shifted. It was then she realized she had company, and she turned to face her intruder. A sharp blow to the cheek rendered her senseless, and she dropped to the ground. A shadowy figure bent over her, just as she surrendered to the blanket of unconsciousness.
DEMETRIUS
CHAPTER THREE
As the sun rose on his wedding day, Demetrius studied his reflection in the long mirror, practicing various expressions intended to convey in a convincing fashion his surprise, shock, and dismay at being rejected and abandoned at the altar. Given his dedication to faith and honor, he struggled with such rehearsed dissemblance, but he had no choice in the matter, as his audience included His Majesty, and Demetrius could not fail.
Resolved to stay his course, he pondered Athelyna’s current location and hoped she made it to her destination, safe and sound. Thus he had to play his part to perfection, in order to protect her, else the consequences could be fatal, should their hastily sketched conspiracy to flout the Crown be discovered. So he altered his countenance, as he deemed appropriate.
At first, he flinched, opened wide his eyes and mouth, and gasped. Just as quick, he scowled. “Thou dost look ridiculous, and no one will believe ye art genuine in thy distress.”
Rolling his shoulders, he eased the tension investing his frame and made several attempts to compose the right mix of emotions. Varying between smiles and frowns, along with wild hand gestures for added authenticity, he thought he found a suitable combination and chuckled, until a pounding at the door had him jumping in earnest.
“Art thou ready to meet thy fate, brother?” Arucard peered around the edge of the heavy oak panel and grinned. “It is time to depart for the abbey.”
“Must ye appear so pleased by the prospect?” Demetrius scrutinized his dark blue velvet doublet trimmed in gold embroidery, the matching mantle, and the black chausses. Then he recalled his role in the dangerous game and grumbled a complaint, to which his fellow Nautionnier Knight laughed.
“In truth, I have been awaiting this day since I wed Isolde.” Then Arucard glanced at the table. “Thy trencher is empty.”
“Yea, what of it?” As a final touch, he donned the latest fashion, a livery collar of Esses wrought of gold, from which the badge of his new earldom hung. Of course, on the back had been etched the eight-pointed wind-star of the Brethren of the Coast, the order created to accommodate the exiled Templars.
“I mean no offense.” Arucard arched a brow. “But I chose to forgo a meal on the morn of my nuptials, as I did not wish to be ill and embarrass myself, because I was as nervous as a virgin on her wedding night.”
“But thou were a virgin on thy wedding night.” And Demetrius remained similarly afflicted, but he refused to share that bit of information. “Shall we remove to the Chapter House, as I would not be late?”
“After thee.” With an exaggerated flourish, Arucard bowed, and Demetrius just resisted the urge to kick his old friend in the arse.
A carriage bearing the coat of arms associated with his title conveyed him to Westminster Abbey. With a calm façade, he strolled the cloister walk, until he reached the now familiar double-door entry topped with a Portland stone tympanum. On the steps of the Chapter House, the archbishop loomed as the specter of doom, but Demetrius reminded himself of the drama about to commence and swallowed his apprehension.
“Welcome, Sir Demetrius.” Archbishop Cobham flipped through the pages of a leather-bound tome. “Now that all parties are present, shall we begin?”
In that instant, Demetrius clutched his chest and, for a few seconds, sheer terror rang in his ears. Panic danced a merry jig down his spine, when his veiled bride, gowned in blue, the traditional color of purity, and escorted by her brother, marched forth. To Demetrius’s everlasting shame, he bent, vomited in the bushes, stumbled backwards, and fainted.
“Demetrius, canst thou hear me?” Countless minutes anon, Arucard’s voice came to Demetrius amid a haze of confusion. “Wake up, as thou hast a date with destiny.”
“Or the parson’s noose.” Morgan snorted. “Depends on his perspective.”
“I think it safe to say he declared his opinion on the matter, by his actions.” Geoffrey chortled. “Believe me, we will not soon forget this ceremony, and neither will he, if I can help it.”
To a chorus of laughter, Demetrius inhaled a deep breath, opened his eyes, and found himself surrounded by the Brethren, as he reclined on a bench in a small room. After a moment of utter befuddlement, he blinked, cleared his fogged vision, and sat upright. “What happened?”
“Mayhap we should leave ye with Arucard.” Snickering, Aristide elbowed Geoffrey. “Let us join the wedding party and reassure the bride that her groom remains very much alive and eager as ever to take his vows.”
“That will take some effort.” Morgan winked and exited.
“How did we come to this, brother?” Pondering his predicament, Demetrius scratched his chin and frowned.
“At the pointed end of a sword.” Arucard chuckled, studied the tip of his boot, and then cleared his throat. “And it is not s
o bad as thou mayest think, once thou dost accustom thyself to the idea.”
“Thou dost say that now, but if memory serves, thou were none too pleased when faced with similar circumstances.” With a groan, Demetrius gathered his wits, stood, and paced the floor. How would he recover from the mess he made? “Eternal damnation seems an awfully high price. Surely it would have been preferable to die a warrior’s death.”
“Well, let us not be too dramatic.” Arucard smiled. “It just requires a period of adjustment on thy part.”
“Perchance this is punishment for Randulf.” In a flash, Demetrius transported to another time and place, vivid images played a tragedy in his brain, and he shook his head. “Never should I have left him in my wake.”
“Wait a minute, brother. Thou art no more or less to blame for his demise than any of us, and thither was naught we could do to save him.” Arucard pointed for emphasis. “As it is, we barely escaped with our lives, and only five of us remain. Would thou rather none survived?”
“I would have him hither.” Demetrius gazed at the ceiling and sighed, as Randulf’s screams echoed in a haunting refrain. “At the very least, I would trade places, as he was the better man.”
“Now thither I must take exception, as such comparison is as blancmange to brewets.” Leaning forward, Arucard propped his elbows on his knees. “Neither thee nor Randulf could claim such distinction, as thou art two drastically different beasts.”
“And yet I persist, and he is gone.” Choking on a lethal mix of anger and frustration, Demetrius speared his fingers through his hair, and then he fisted his hands. “So I am resolved to consider my situation a burden and my fate one of lifelong penance.”
“My friend, thou art not thinking clearly, as thy judgment is clouded by misplaced guilt.” Yet Demetrius had long suspected Arucard carried their comrade’s death as a stain on his conscience and invisible wounds that had not quite healed.
Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) Page 3
