Tall, Dark, and Medieval

by Barbara Devlin

  Regardless of their short acquaintance, Isolde would never betray him, and he knew that now as he sure as he knew the origins of his birth. Pain of a different sort settled in his chest, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Around him, the fighting ceased, as the Brethren bested the ill-skilled raiders.

  “Stand down thy men, and I shall see to their welfare.” Arucard signaled Demetrius. “We have plenty of stores and a physic. If thou hast knowledge of a particular complication in Chichester, then I should know it, so that I may deal with it.”

  “And how shalt thou deal with it?” Aeduuard sheathed his sword. “As we will tolerate no more.”

  “What is thy command, brother?” Holding three fighters at bay, Demetrius neared. “What would thou have me do with these whelps, as they do not appear old enough to grow a beard?”

  “Treat them with respect, and see to their comfort.” Arucard glanced at his fellow knight of the realm. “Give Aeduuard accommodations fitting his stature, and comprise a list of injuries and losses. I shall be in my tent.”

  With that, Arucard turned on a heel and navigated the crowd. Driven by the urge to reconcile with Isolde, he broke into a sprint. Anon, he ducked beneath the flap, entered his quarters, and breathed a sigh of relief to find her thither still. When she spied him, she choked on a sob.

  “My lord, art thou wounded?” In silence, he cursed, as he noted her swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

  “Nay.” He tossed aside his sword and shield. “Wherefore dost thou ask?”

  “Thou art covered in blood.” It was then he noticed she shivered violently.

  “It is not mine.” At the small washstand, he scrubbed his face. “But I struck a tenuous accord, and the battle is ended.”

  “I am grateful my prayers were answered, so I might beg thy forgiveness. I was wrong to conceal Father’s letter, but I did so because I feared thou might send me to London, and I did not want to be parted from thee. While I disappointed thee, I am thy wife, and I owe thee my loyalty. Thou must know I trust not my father.” It was just as he suspected, but he had not anticipated her next move. To his shock and amazement, Isolde neared and presented his belt, which he accepted. Then she unbuttoned her cotehardie, loosened the ribbon of her chemise, and inched the garments to her hips. Without hesitation, she turned and knelt on the ground. “Thou art justified in thy anger, and I have earned thy discipline, which I pledge to take in the spirit of recompense, if thou would mete it and be satisfied.”

  It had to be a nightmare of the worst sort, as he blinked and winced. Suddenly, everything made sense, as he recalled her reaction on their wedding night, when he attempted to disrobe, and she armed herself with his halberd. Frozen in some hell on earth, Arucard bent and studied her back. Mottled scars declared years of brutal abuse, and fresh injuries marred her creamy flesh. As he pondered the cruelty she had survived, he swallowed hard. Then he stomped forth, grasped her by the shoulders, drew her to stand, turned her about, and shook her.

  “Who is responsible for this travesty?” Again, he rocked her. “Who did this to thee?”

  “Who dost thou think?” He caught his breath when he glimpsed the terror in her expression. “My father.”

  “Wherefore?” Arucard narrowed his stare. “What could thou possibly have done to merit such barbarity?”

  “As I already told thee, my mother died giving birth to me.” Now Isolde wept without restraint. “I took the love of his life, and I must pay just penance for my crime.”

  “By Christ’s fingernails. What manner of people art thine, that they doth commit such heinous atrocities on a vulnerable lady? Whither I hail, we shield our women.” In frustration, he flung the leather strap into the brazier. Then he sighed. “That was my favorite belt.”

  Isolde opened and then closed her mouth. And then she bestowed upon him a watery gaze and a lopsided grin. “I can work another and soften the hide for thee.”

  “I am so sorry, Isolde.” In a flash, he wrapped his arms about her waist, drew her close, and cradled her head. So many emotions, none of which he could identify, flooded his senses, and all Arucard could do was hold his wife and savor the warmth that was uniquely hers. “In haste, I mistreated thee, and I beg thy forgiveness.”

  “But the error is mine.” She sniffed and burrowed closer. “I should have told thee of the note when first it arrived.”

  “Wherefore didst thou hide the letter?” When he shifted and cupped her cheek, she pressed her lips to his palm. “Hast thou so little faith in me?”

  “It is not a question of faith.” Gripping his tunic, she furrowed her brow. “Didst thou not read the missive? Father threatens to take me away from thee, even after we have consummated our vows. But without the surrender of my maidenhead, thou dost own me not. And as I told thee, I cannot be parted from thee. I cannot bear to think it.”

  “Sweet Isolde, thou became my wife when we stood before the archbishop and pledged the sacrament.” He bent and kissed her. “Thou art mine.”

  “But the law says—”

  “I care not what the law says. What God hath joined thy father shall not break.” It occurred to him then that he had to make her understand his logic, and thither was only one way to relay the depth of his commitment. As a man with a purpose, Arucard released Isolde and dropped to a knee. With a clenched fist to his chest, he said, “On my honor, I am thy champion to my death. And if thy father again wishes to threaten thee, he must first go through me.”

  “Oh, my lord.” With a shriek, his bride lunged, toppled him, framed his jaw with her hands, and showered his face in precious kisses. “Thou art wonderful, and I vow to confess any future correspondence with my father, upon receipt. Perchance, thou might help me pen a response, as I have yet to fulfill his request for information.”

  “We will address that, anon.” Without conscious intent, he squeezed her round bottom. “Right now, I fret for thee. Art thou truly well?”

  “Indeed.” She nodded. “Margery hath rubbed one of her yarrow salves on my lash marks, so I shall heal, and thou art kind to inquire. Wilt thou not tell me the source of thy noble nature, as I do so wish to know thee.”

  “In light of thy candor, I owe thee the same.” He whisked a stray tendril and tucked it behind her ear. “My brothers and I belonged to the once great knighthood known as the Templars.”

  “I know of them, as I have heard stories.” She rubbed her nose to his. “The Templars were arrested and prosecuted for unspeakable acts of depravity, but thou wilt never convince me that is thy character.”

  “We were innocent warriors falsely accused by a greedy king bent on pilfering our amassed wealth. We served with distinction, and that was our reward.” In brief, Arucard revisited painful memories of the past. “So many died for naught more than lust for power. I sailed for England and spent the last five years in a small stone cell at White Tower, until the Crown had use for me.”

  “My champion—locked in some horrid dungeon? I bleed for thee.” Isolde nuzzled his temple. “In bestowing upon me thy confidence, thou dost me a great honor, and by my troth, I shall bear thy secrets to my grave.”

  “I am not worried about that, my lady.” In that moment, he realized his bride, naked from the waist up, sprawled atop him, and his thoughts veered in a different direction. Standing, he carried her with him and then conveyed her to their bed. Sitting on the edge, he shuffled her in his lap. As he brushed his knuckles to her pert nipple, she licked her lips and set her mouth to his. The initial taste of her honey kisses in the wake of their first argument well nigh slayed him, and she leveled his personal restraint.

  Fire burned beneath his flesh, and a familiar hunger gnawed at his belly and below. Instinctively, he supported her shoulders, reclined her, and suckled her breasts. When she wove her fingers into his hair, she moaned, and Arucard slipped his hand beneath her skirts and sought the supple flesh between her thighs, which he ached to know on a more intimate basis.

  A thousand times more intense than the heat of
battle, her passion could vanquish untold armies, and the enchanting wiggle of her hips could conquer the will of the mightiest knight. How he desired her. And then he realized he had no reason to delay. He could take what she so readily offered and feed his hunger. He could—

  “Brother, we have—” Demetrius averted his gaze. “Forgive my intrusion, but thou didst order me to report on the outcome of our brief skirmish.”

  “Wait outside, and I shall join thee.” Cursing, Arucard shielded Isolde and situated her garments to cover her nudity. To his wife, he said, “Thou could tempt a favored toy from a babe, sweet Isolde. But duty calls, and thou dost require attention of a different sort. I shall send Margery to tend thy needs, and I expect thee to rest abed when I return, else I shall be quite vexed.”

  “Prithee, good sir. I shall defer to thy charge.” Isolde stood but held him fast. “Dost thou regret our union, as I am damaged?”

  “On the contrary.” He patted her bottom. “I count myself most fortunate, as never hast thou been more beauteous.”

  #

  Anon, with Margery’s aid, Isolde stepped from the ancere after a long relaxing soak. “How bad doth it look?”

  “Better than I hoped.” The housekeeper dried Isolde’s legs. “But hadst thou permitted me to treat thy wounds, as usual, thy injuries might have healed faster. Now lie down, my lady.”

  Situated on her belly, Isolde hugged a pillow, sighed, and sank into the mattress. “My lord Arucard thinks me beauteous.”

  “Sounds like a man of excellent judgment, as thou art quite fair.” Margery smeared salve onto Isolde’s scarred back. “Hold still, my lady. I would cover thy wounds with boiled linen to protect thy tender flesh from re-injury.”

  “Didst thou see him fight?” Isolde recalled the terrifying sight of her husband charging the field of combat in naught more than his woolen garments, with his sword and shield. “Though he demanded I remain in the tent, I could not resist peeking outside, as I worried for his safety. Hast thou ever witnessed such graceful violence?”

  “Never.” Margery peered over her shoulder and then leaned forward. “Sir Arucard fought as a man possessed, and I fear for thee.”

  “What?” Astonished, she propped on her elbows. “Wherefore art thou fearful? Surely thou dost not think my husband would subject me to such savagery.”

  Although the steward said naught, her silence spoke volumes, and Isolde mulled the pleasurable interlude she shared with her knight, after their clash. Despite the enormity of his frame, and the size of his hands, he had been gentle—almost loving, if she could call it that, as she had naught with which to compare. But she nurtured hope for something more than she had ever dared fathom, and no one would convince her otherwise.

  “Art thou decent?” Holding a steaming bowl and a trencher of bread, Arucard strolled into the tent and smiled as he met her gaze. “How art thee, my lady wife?”

  “Much improved, thanks to Margery’s skills.” And a tempting aroma teased her nose. “That smells delicious.”

  As he gazed at her body, he arched a brow. “I presume thou hast not supped?”

  “Nay. And I could not prepare the brewets, as I remained here, at thy request.” She blushed, as Margery settled the pelts to cover Isolde’s nudity. “But I am hungry.”

  “Margery, thou art dismissed, as I shall care for my bride.” Then Arucard gave Isolde his full attention. “Remain abed. Whither thou art, I shall come to thee.”

  “Wilt thou?” She swallowed her laughter, as he wrangled a chair and located it at bedside. However, when he placed the meal on the seat and then plopped to the ground, she fought happy tears. “Hast thou bathed?”

  “Aye.” He blew on the soup. “This is broth with bacon, which Anne cooked. And I ate with the men, as I did not want to hurry Margery.”

  “How thoughtful is my champion.” With care, he positioned the dish, and she scooted to the edge of the mattress and drank from the bowl. “What of the bandits?”

  “They art locals with a serious problem, and I must send notice to the King when I have collected additional information.” He tore off a small piece of bread and fed it to her. “Hast thou ever heard of Juraj de Mravec?”

  “Aye.” Before she could answer, he kissed her. “De Mravec is my father’s friend. But thou should question Margery, as she has information related to the letter. She claims my father conspires against the Crown.”

  “She said that?” He lifted the vessel, and she took another sip. “Perchance, I should—”

  “Sir Arucard, I beg thy indulgence, as I brought some hot tea with thyme to help Lady Isolde sleep.” With her mouth agape, Margery blinked. She paused and then stepped forward. “Shall I leave it with thee, my lord?”

  “Yea.” He indicated the chair, and the steward set the cup on the seat. “And I would like to speak with thee in the morrow.”

  “Have I done something to offend thee, my lord?” Margery wrung her fingers.

  “Nay, Margery.” Isolde perched on an elbow. “Sir Arucard would know the facts surrounding thy suspicions regarding Father. And mayhap thou hast details to support thy beliefs.”

  “My lady, thou should not have repeated my notions.” Margery shuffled her feet. “And I am no herald.”

  “Dost thou know of Juraj de Mravec?” Arucard queried.

  Margery snapped to attention. She glanced at Arucard, then Isolde, and then to Arucard. “My lord, thou hast been good to my lady, and for that I shall confide in thee. Aye, I know of him.”

  “Then let us break our fast together.” Isolde dreaded the possibility that her family engaged in nefarious deeds, but naught surprised her when it came to her sire. “Until then, I bid thee a pleasant night.”

  Margery curtseyed and exited the tent.

  It was then Isolde noted the stillness investing her husband. For a long while, he simply gazed into her eyes. Then he traced the curve of her cheek and touched his lips to hers. “Art thou truly well? I have not done irreparable harm to our marriage?”

  “Nay, my champion. And that is thy pet name, known only to us.” After emptying the cup, she passed it to him and teased his shoulder with a light caress. “Now come to bed, as I need thee to keep me warm.”

  “I had thought to sleep on the ground, as I would not risk hurting thee.” Gooseflesh covered him, as she speared her fingers through his rich brown hair. “Prithee, if thou would, pass my pillow and a hide.”

  “I will not, unless thou dost wish I recline with thee on the earth.” She made to sit upright. “And I could suffer a cold, as it is damp and chilly. Now take off thy tunic and hose, and come hither.”

  “Isolde, thou art the most stubborn woman of my acquaintance.” His playful grin and wink belied the seriousness of his rebuke, as he stripped bare save his braies.

  “Thou hast claimed I am the only woman of thy acquaintance, so thou dost not say much.” She drew back the hides as he eased to the mattress. “And hast thou composed my pet name?”

  “Given thy singular topic of conversation, I had pondered something akin to an old horse.” Beneath the skins, he pinched her bottom.

  “Ooh, thou art the villain, sir, as I am no nag.” She pouted even as he burst into laughter. “Mayhap thou should sleep on the ground or with thy soldiers, if thou dost find me so offensive.”

  “Thou art not offensive.” Whither she had moved to the furthest edge of the bed, he slipped an arm beneath her and pulled her to his side. “Thou art my beauteous Isolde.”

  “And thou art my champion.” She cuddled close, as the thyme worked on her, and fought to stay awake. When she yawned, Arucard kissed her forehead.

  “Sleep, my lady wife.” Then he suckled her lips. “In the morrow, we complete our journey to Chichester. And once thy wounds have healed sufficiently, I shall take thy most intimate gift.”

  ARUCARD

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Lord Rochester hath been corresponding with Juraj de Mravec for the past few years, Sir Arucard.” Frowning, Marger
y sat across the table from Isolde. “To my dismay, their letters became more frequent about six months ago, and I feared thy marriage had something to do with the awful business.”

  As Margery related more information, Isolde’s heart raced. Could it be true? Was her father a traitor? And what of her brother? Then she wondered whether or not the scandal could threaten her husband, and she fretted for his welfare, given he had recently spent five years in White Tower.

  “An understandable conclusion, but how dost thou know they conspire to commit nefarious deeds?” Arucard rubbed his chin and ignored the insult, to Isolde’s relief. “Mayhap they art naught more than friends sharing harmless banter.”

  “Nay, because his lordship bade me take the alley and deliver the letters to a masked courier, after dark, and a good distance from the house, to evade suspicion. And on three separate occasions, when I had the misfortune to read a portion, his lordship wrote of stealing lands and blaming the Crown to undermine the realm.” The housekeeper peered at Pellier, who sat beside her. “And just before he terminated my employ, the earl threatened to cut my throat should I ever betray his confidence.”

  For Isolde, the revelations were too much, and she bowed her head in shame. But Arucard lent support, as he covered her hand with his and squeezed her fingers.

  “Worry not, fair Margery.” Pellier lifted his chin and compressed his lips. “I will protect thee, as Sir Arucard guards Lady Isolde.”

  “Humph.” Margery snorted. “How can thou protect me, when thou cannot take care of thyself, little man?”