“Gramercy.” Arucard studied the heavy gold object and frowned, as it struck him as garish for a humble servant. “Thou art most kind, Sire.”
“See to their comfort in chambers befitting their station,” His Majesty stated to the attendant. “As we have a private matter to discuss with Sir Arucard.”
Now that caught his attention, and he gulped. Was it not enough that he would surrender his life for the Crown? When the King ushered Arucard to a side room, he halted before a small table, upon which sat a crystal decanter and goblets. After pouring two portions of wine, Edward turned. “May we offer thee a refreshment? As we believe thou wilt need it.”
“Gramercy, Majesty.” With quivering fingers, he grasped the stem, as his thoughts ran amok. What more could the King want? “To what shall we toast?”
“Thy wedding.”
#
It was a brisk fall morning in London, and the wind whispered and thrummed in the trees, casting a shower of leaves on the path, as Isolde de Tyreswelle shivered beneath her threadbare wool cloak and filled two buckets with water from the well. Balancing the shoulder yoke, she huffed and puffed, as she carried the load into the undercroft of her family’s town dwelling and struggled with the weight as she shuffled into the scullery.
“Lady Isolde, thou art not a maid.” After wiping her hands on her apron, Margery, who worked as a steward, of sorts, folded her arms and frowned. “Thy mother, God rest her, would be furious with thy father, as he has not done right by thee.”
“And thou wilt tell him that?” she inquired, with a grimace at the prospect.
“To see thee suffer the consequences of my forthrightness?” Margery scoffed. “Not on thy life. Yet I would not permit thee to toil as a commoner, when thou art of noble blood.”
“But he ordered a bath, and I dare not tarry, else he will not hesitate to spill my noble blood.” With a grunt, she hoisted the pail to a pot for boiling. “Thou dost know well his temper.”
“Let Anne do it.” Margery wrinkled her nose. “Oh, whither is that daggle-tailed girl? Anne?”
“Didst thou call me, ma’am?” With a wide-eyed expression, the timid servant, wearing more cinder soot than clothing, curtseyed, and Isolde bit back a rebuke. “Lady Isolde, that is my responsibility.”
“Sorry, Anne.” Pondering her father’s strange mood, Isolde yielded the chore with reluctance, as she had no reason not to return to her chamber, and she rued a chance encounter with her sire. “Then I should leave thee to it.”
Mustering a smile, she nodded and walked into the kitchen, whither the cook plucked a whole chicken. Whistling a frisky little ditty, Isolde strolled through the central hall, ensured the table had been cleared and cleaned, adjusted a couple of chairs with precision, and then continued to her private apartment, which functioned as her sanctuary.
So many times, she had considered running away, but whither could she go? Despite her impressive connections, no one would have sheltered a fleeing female, given the law had defined her as the earl of Rochester’s property. And her lone attempt to escape, which she had ventured a few years ago, had resulted in the abrupt dismissal of a beloved nanny and a sound beating Isolde would never forget.
Breathing a sigh of relief, as she had nary a glimpse or signal of her father, she hurried to her room. After closing the door, she turned—and shrieked.
“What is wrong with thee, chitty-face?” The lord of the manor scowled, and she raised her guard.
“Father, my apologies.” With a bow of her head, she averted her stare, as he did not like her to look at him. And on the rare occasion she forgot his peculiar edict, he reminded her in his favorite manner. “I supervised the preparations for thy bath, and—”
“Not my bath, thou stupid girl.” As he neared, she could not stop shaking. When he grabbed her chin and brought her gaze to his, she swallowed hard as he scrutinized her. “Wash, and make thyself respectable, as I may finally have found some use for thee. Thither art new clothes, which thou art to wear tomorrow, for a very special occasion, which His Majesty has seen fit to bestow upon thy unworthy hide. And if thou dost embarrass this house and disappoint the King, thou wilt not live past the sunset. Dost thou understand?”
“Aye, Father.” Trembling uncontrollably, she digested his proclamation. In that instant, she noticed a sapphire blue gown draped over the footboard. Made of sumptuous velvet, with gold embroidery and piping on the sleeves, bodice, and skirt, pearls dotted the neckline of the elegant frock. It was the finest, loveliest garment she had been given. “How should I—”
“Thou art not to ask questions, as I owe thee no answers.” The force of his blow to her cheek rendered her unsteady, and in agony she fell to the stone floor. “Do as I tell thee and naught more, else I wilt cut out thy tongue, and thy future husband wilt, no doubt, thank me.”
“My future husband?” Dazed and confused, she spoke before she realized she had opened her mouth, which she clamped shut, and the bitterness of blood pooled in her throat and almost gagged her, as she crawled to the four-poster and dragged herself to sit atop the mattress.
“Indeed, thou art to marry.” Perched in her reading chair, the man who gave her life, and then resented the very deed that resulted in his wife’s death, stared at her with unveiled contempt, and she shuddered in fear. Didst he not know she would gladly trade places with her mother? “Edward wishes to garrison troops on the lands that border ours, and he seeks an alliance through thy union with one of his knights, to solidify the Sovereign’s authority. I know naught of the man, and neither do I care, as thou shalt be his burden, and I wilt at last be rid of thee. My only concern is the power and prestige my heir shall enjoy from the connection, as William is to be made an earl, in his own right. What say thee?”
“What pleases thou pleases me, Father.” Was it possible? Could someone want her? Tracing the pattern on the damask coverlet, she dared not object, but what a revelation. Indeed, fortune smiled upon her, and it could not have happened soon enough, because Isolde believed he would eventually kill her in a drunken rage, which occurred with far greater frequency as the years passed. “And I am most happy for my brother.”
“Art thou?” With a countenance of sadness, which surprised her, he toyed with his signet ring. “Often I have wondered how our lives would have been different, had thy mother survived thy birth.”
“Really?” Shocked by his unusual candor, as he never spoke of her mother, and starved for a kind word from him, Isolde dropped her defenses. “So have I. What was she like?”
“Custancia was the most beautiful woman in all of Rochester.” Father stared at the floor and sighed. “As thou can imagine, she was quite sought after, too. For some reason I could never fathom she chose me as her husband, and our parents negotiated our betrothal. When she bore my heir, I was never prouder of her. Indeed, she was the heart of our family, and hers was a great loss.”
“Everyone says she was a very fine lady.” And so many of those same persons declared Isolde the exact personification of her mother, which provided a shred of comfort in solitude. Lost in the moment, she gazed at her father and smiled. “How I wish I could have known her.”
From the earliest years she could recollect as a young girl, she had conjured visions of her mother, always extending support and solace during the harsh reality of Isolde’s precarious existence. With only her father and brother as kin, she had tried and failed to form spiritual bonds with those who should champion and protect her. Instead, her sibling had become her worst tormentor, second only to her sire. But perchance they had finally forged a connection, however late, and she should rejoice.
“I see her in thee.” For a scarce second, he studied her with a softness she had never glimpsed in him. Then his posture stiffened, his expression sobered, and she quivered, as she knew well what would happen next. “Thou art the reason she is gone.” When he stood and unhooked his belt, Isolde’s spirits plummeted. “Now take off thy tunic, kneel on the floor, and let me give thee a wed
ding gift, that thou might remember me after thou hast departed this house and art no longer subject to my control.”
#
So much had changed in so little time, and in some ways his tiny stone cell had offered a measure of security he now lacked. In one minute, Arucard was locked in White Tower and a prisoner of the King, and thither was no uncertainty in the four stone walls that defined his world, as well as his limitations. In the next instant, he wore the insignia of a knight of the realm, he enjoyed the Crown’s favor, and he was betrothed, and thither was naught certain about any of the accompanying responsibilities, as freedom could be a double-edged sword. It was the last aspect of his newfound status that gave him the most concern and left him wondering if it might have been easier to burn at the stake, because he bore a specific stigma as a cross, and he knew not how to resolve the flaw in his character prior to his wedding.
Telling himself thither was naught wrong with a thirty-two-year-old-virgin, Arucard decided he had no worries—unless, of course, he was the virgin in question. As a Templar Knight, he had no interest in or use for women. In fact, he had taken a vow of celibacy on the same day he joined the order, because only the most chaste knights could ascend to the glorious hereafter. But the Templars were no more, and his tenuous position in England necessitated a marriage to protect those for whom he was accountable and to prove his loyalty to King Edward.
And as he suspected, it had been five years since he fled the Continent with his fellow warriors of the Crusades. Five years since the Templars had been hunted, tortured, and killed during Philip the Fair’s Inquisition. Of an estimated two thousand knights, only five persisted, as far as he knew. Five Templar mariners—all remained wanted men by the king of France.
The mantle in his grasp bore the familiar red cross centered on a field of white and matched the modest, unadorned cloak that was the standard attire of his once great knighthood. How he had worn the uniform with pride, how he had cared for the pristine fabric as though it were a second skin. In a sense, it had been a part of him, a part of his identity, every bit as much as his own flesh. Yet it could define him no longer. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the garb to join the other clothing that burned brightly in the fire.
After a healthy gulp of ale, which he needed, he studied the badge of the Brethren of the Coast, the fledgling order formed by his new master, a price paid to accommodate the fighting men without a home. The seal, fashioned of gold, featured a wind-star design, a large blue diamond at the center, and the Latin phrase Nulli Secundus, Second to None, as was their motto.
The bejeweled piece was similar to his current uniform in its splendor. His fur-lined cloak and rich blue mantle festooned, haphazardly, with gold braids violated the tenets by which he had long existed. As a Templar, he had been taught that unnecessary excess led to immorality. While he understood that his survival in a foreign land, his allegiance to a foreign king, and his union to a creature, who for all intents and purposes was foreign to him outside the maternal realm, required equally foreign customs, he kept his hair cut short and his face clean-shaven, true to his Templar ascendants. And despite the King’s generosity, Arucard much preferred the simple, understated clothes.
“I found it,” Demetrius stated proudly, as he pulled up a crude wooden stool and sat before the fire, whither the men gathered to toast—or rather roast Arucard’s impending nuptials. “My grandsire wrote an oath when first he entered the military, and I am certain it is contained within these pages.”
“What is so important about an old oath, brother?” Geoffrey shifted his weight, as he peered at the antiquated log.
“History,” Morgan responded as he neared. “We art the last of our generation and the first of our kind. Never again will the Knights Templar sail as Templars, but neither will we sail quietly into the night, shrouded in deceit and disgrace. We shall live on as the Brethren of the Coast.”
“Precisely.” With a snicker, Aristide clutched a pitcher and refilled the goblets. “And we must never forget from whence we came.”
“Especially as we face the future.” Given fate posed a far more dangerous prospect than his past, Arucard lifted his chin and sighed. “And all of its uncertainties.”
“When dost thou wed?” Morgan made a pitiful attempt at concealing a smile, and Arucard had the sudden urge to punch him in the nose, as his brothers found sport in his predicament.
“Tomorrow,” Arucard replied, as a chill settled in his chest, and he fought nausea. “In the morrow.”
“So soon?” Geoffrey rolled his eyes and whistled in monotone. “Hast thou seen her?”
How had he known to expect that particular query? Arucard shook his head. “I have not.”
“Thine is a precarious situation, brother.” After flicking through the pages, Demetrius abandoned his search momentarily and raised his goblet. “Better thee than I.”
With a grin, Aristide ventured to ask, “Dost thou, perchance, know her name?”
“Isolde,” Arucard replied with a shuffle of his feet. “She is the daughter of a nobleman, or some such.”
“Oh, no. Not a pampered princess.” Unaware that he had just voiced Arucard’s chief concerns, Morgan frowned. “As it is safe to assume she has not seen thee, let us hope she has a sense of humor.”
“Let us hope she can cook,” Geoffrey said, as he tore a piece of bread from a loaf. “As we art at thy command, and Demetrius hath quite the appetite.”
“Let us hope she is fair,” Arucard corrected. “Else all shall be for naught, for I will sail to the end of the Earth to escape her.”
His response garnered a chorus of laughter, and, for a scarce second, Arucard’s spirits lightened. Yet the fact remained he was trapped in an arranged marriage he neither wanted nor welcomed.
“How many babes dost thou intend to get on her?” Oblivious to the discord he had just wrought, Demetrius flipped through the torn pages of the mangled tome. “Five or six?”
“Babes?” And so Arucard returned to the plight foremost on his mind, as he swallowed hard. Before he could beget children, he had to learn how to copulate. While he was not ignorant of the physical requirements involved in the primitive act, he had no clue how to please a woman, and London was filled with dissatisfied ladies, as evidence by the unwanted attention he garnered during dinner at court. “I-I have given it no thought.”
“Well, thou hast better think about it.” With an arched brow, Demetrius cocked his head. “And what wilt thou do should the damsel fall in love with thee?”
Flames crackled, and Arucard gazed into the blaze.
Love?
A violent shudder rocked his frame, as he considered the daunting prospect. Although he was quite familiar with the brotherly love upon which his knighthood was founded, he was entirely unfamiliar with the emotion as defined by the relationship between a husband and a wife. Naught on the battlefield could have prepared him for such a predicament. He was a Templar Knight, a creature of habit, and a no-nonsense man who preferred an equally staid existence. In the end, he knew only one way to live.
Pray.
Eat.
Weapons practice.
Repeat.
Then retire.
And thither was no vacancy for a woman.
“Brothers, I fear we have secured our freedom on very hard terms.” With a terrible grimace, Morgan scratched his cheek. “Very hard terms.”
“I fear we shall all be expected to wed,” Geoffrey added.
“Not on thy soul,” Demetrius said with an air of cold determination.
“Never.” Aristide pressed a clenched fist to his chest. “I should sooner end my own life than take a wife. Regardless of what the English believe, no one shall convince me, not even the King, that a matrimonial commitment is worth eternal damnation.”
Perchance now was not an appropriate time to tell his brother knights that, indeed, the King had commanded just that, Arucard pondered in silence. The shock of his imminent nuptials had yet to wear thin, an
d the road ahead would be paved with similar hardship and resignation, he suspected. His marriage to Isolde was just the beginning.
“Found it!” Demetrius stood, clutching the tattered captain’s log. “Gather round, brothers.”
In desperate need of distraction, Arucard extended a hand, palm down, and his fellow Nautionnier Knights followed suit, one atop the other, forming a tight bond forged of blood, flesh, and bone. “Brothers, we have fought the good fight, but we have lost the first skirmish. Yet, despite those who would wish otherwise, we survive. Mighty England is now our home, and her King is now our commander, but our destinies belong to us, and we shall not sink into the annals of history, remembered only by our dishonor. From this day forward, let it be known that the Templars remain, though mayhap by another name. We art the Brethren of the Coast. As our Heavenly Father is my witness, in times of war and chaos, we will be revered and feared.”
A roar of concurrence erupted, and from the surrounding woods the strident cry of some nocturnal beast echoed in agreement. Amid a crescent of oaks, beneath the stars, by the light of a fire, the Knights of the Brethren proclaimed their own oath. It was a promise written by men long dead but not forgotten.
Love, honor, and devotion were the beginning of our Order. Bonds of kinship and friendship, all-important. We uphold these principles embrace for embrace, desire for desire, for one, for all. For King and Country we stand, for love and comradeship we live.
ARUCARD
CHAPTER TWO
Stifled beneath the heavy gown of blue, the traditional color of purity, with the complimenting wimple and bejeweled veil secured by an identical pair of quatrefoil pins, Isolde gasped for breath as the family carriage came to a halt before the east entrance of Westminster Abbey. Seated in the squabs across from her, and ignoring her as he had over breakfast, her father gazed out the window and frowned. When the footman opened the door, the earl descended and then turned to help her down.
Tall, Dark, and Medieval Page 53
