Box Set - Knights of Passion (7 Novels)
Page 97
“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 wedding gift, that thou might remember me after thou hast departed this house and art no longer subject to my control.”
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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, and 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.
A canopy of gray clouds blocked the sun’s rays, so the afternoon was dreary and cold, which matched her mood. The previous day’s beating, unusually brutal and lengthy, had left her back covered in raw welts and open cuts, and she fought uncharacteristic weakness, because it had been years since the discipline incapacitated her. Given the weight of the plush velvet garment, in combination with the scarf that obscured her vision, she tripped.
“Watch thy step, clumsy girl.” Father squeezed hard on her arm, and she winced. “If thou dost shame me, I will—”
“Aye, Father.” As she gained her footing, she clenched her teeth against the searing sting from her fresh wounds. “Thou hast made thy position quite clear, and I bear thy reminder, so thou mayest rest assured I will not fail thee.” As he steered her to the cloister walk, which they strolled until they reached a double-door entry topped by a Portland stone tympanum, she inhaled and attempted to relax her shoulders.
Lingering to the left, a group of impressive knights, all mountainous men with clean-shaven faces and short hair, wearing identical attire, the shade of which matched her garb, gathered before the Chapter House. When Archbishop Winchelsea loomed as a specter of ill tidings, preparing to dispatch her to her doom, Isolde’s knees buckled. Everything happened so fast, and while she tried to be brave, the pitiable truth was she shivered with terror, as she had no time to adjust to the change in her situation.
Despite societal customs, no marriage notice had been posted for the requisite forty days, and her father boasted the King—not her family, provided her dowry. So her personal items had been packed into a small trunk, which had been tied to the coach, and never again would she return to her home or her familiar and comforting friends.
As she scanned the witnesses, she wondered when her groom would arrive. Hoping for an aged, dull, and feeble noble in search of an heir, a chatelaine, and naught more, and possessed of a deep-seated abhorrence for belts, she assessed the spectators, but none met her low but reasonable expectations. Perchance her intended had no penchant for punctuality.
“Now then, as both parties art present, let us begin the ceremony.” Archbishop Winchelsea held up a leather bound tome and cleared his throat. “Prithee, join hands.”
When the talles
t, most colossal giant stepped to the fore, a harsh realization dawned, and Isolde emitted a whimper. Uttering a silent entreaty for mercy, as she would never survive one of his lashings, she retreated in panic, but Father shoved her forward, into the enormous arms of her future husband.
“My lady Isolde, art thou unwell?” With tenderness of which she had not thought him capable, her soon-to-be-spouse held her upright. “Dost thou require a moment of rest, as thither is a small bench around the corner, whither thou might take thy ease?”
“What my daughter needs is strict authority to reinforce obedience.” Sneering, Father adjusted his cloak. “Heed my advice, Sir Arucard. Spare not the strap, as she is a willful sort.”
With that she teetered, but the knight extended unshakeable support.
“How very kind of thee to offer sage counsel, Lord Rochester. But whither I come from, we shield our women.” So her new master was called Arucard, and she favored his judgment and his name, as well as his rich baritone. “We do not batter them.”
“That may be, but thou art in England, now.” A telltale red hue spread across Father’s face, as he stuttered and stammered, and she was grateful she no longer shared his house, but she worried about the servants who often bore the brunt of his ire in Isolde’s stead. “And thou must honor our traditions.”
“Allow me to assure thee, I am aware of my locale, Lord Rochester.” Twining his fingers in hers, Sir Arucard peered at her and smiled. “But I would argue thither is little honor in such barbarity.”
“Thank thee for thy concern, my lord Arucard.” In that instant, she decided, were she given a choice between the two, she rather preferred her knight, despite his immensity, as his proclamation did much to soothe her frazzled nerves. And in light of her father’s reliable temper, she opted to hope for a new and better future. “We may commence the service.”