When she dipped back her head against his neck, fire erupted inside his chest. Nay, this was more than lust he felt for this girl. This fire leapt at the edges of his heart and threatened to burn it to ash.
If, heaven forbid, she changed her mind now.
But no, he knew, there would be no turning back. For either of them. The die had been cast.
Turning her face as best she could, Eva burrowed into Mathieu’s neck, humming some words he could not hear. Then, unexpectedly, the wench reached up and grabbed his earlobe in her teeth, nipping it a little more than softly.
Now the fire dropped lower, into his belly and beyond. He urged the roan faster. The sooner they were joined in the eyes of God, the sooner they could be joined in . . . other ways.
Mathieu’s heart sank when he skidded the horse to a stop before the tiny church, seeing it was dark and seemingly empty. A sick fear prickled his skin. Had Keegan not gotten his message to the parson? Were they too early?
He was sure they had little time before a cavalry of the duke’s men would be hot on their heels. They must not, they could not, stop this joining from happening. He would sooner die than see their story end so.
The creak of the old wooden door startled them both as he jumped down and reached to help Eva to the ground. Ah, but the parson was a wise one.
Aye, darkness reigned still. But darkness kept things hidden. A lighted church on an ordinary evening would send a beacon to those who would try to stop this marriage.
Brother Michael—Mathieu assumed it was he, as he’d never met the man—held a lone candle, flickering wildly in the open air. Holding his finger to his lips, he ducked his tonsured head toward the doorway and motioned for them to follow. With one arm firmly around Eva’s waist, Mathieu steadied her climb up the old stone steps.
The sanctuary was as black as the deepest night in a forest, cloaked by a hush that made Mathieu’s ears ring. Silently, they followed the parson and his sputtering candle through the main chapel, past the meager altar, and into a small room Mathieu guessed was the sacristy. It was here, he’d heard, the men of God prepared for the services. It was a small room, and one without a single window.
This room, in contrast to the blackness of the chapel, was aglow with warm light. Candles burned everywhere, several on each of the small tables and chests dotted around the space. In the center, a taller desk had been spread with white linen embroidered in gold. The cloth draped gracefully over its sides to the stone floor. Three candles perched there behind an open book, along with three lengths of cord: one burgundy, one ivory, and one gold.
Eva glanced up at Mathieu, whose hand she was gripping so tightly, his fingers were numb. “What are the cords for?”
Before Mathieu had a chance to reply, even if he had known the answer, the parson explained.
“Since this is a rather . . . unconventional wedding, we’re going to perform the rite twice. To make sure ’tis no doubt should someone question the union.” The short, round man robed in brown pointed to the book. “Mathieu, you will recite the vows as the man in this joining, according to traditional Christian religion. We will also perform a Celtic handfasting.”
He grinned at Eva, revealing a row of stained, crooked teeth with several gaps between. “That’s what the cords are for. The burgundy symbolizes your partnership, filled with romance and happiness. The ivory signifies purity, peace, and devotion. The gold promises a prosperous, long life. I wish that for both of you. I truly do.” The parson smiled up at them.
The sound of hoofbeats outside the chapel caused them all to freeze and turn toward the door. Mathieu held his breath. Surely, the duke’s men couldn’t have rallied and found them so quickly. Philip and Knape were stumbling drunk when they’d left.
They both whooshed out a breath when the sound faded in the distance. Mathieu turned to the parson. “Brother Michael, let’s get this done. I don’t think we have much time to spare.”
“Very well,” the parson said, hustling around to the back of the makeshift altar he’d set up in the sacristy. A pair of round, metal-rimmed spectacles lay beside a white satin collar on the table. He donned both and picked up the book.
“Wait,” Eva said, and Mathieu’s stomach turned over. Had she changed her mind . . . now?
Eva drew out the length of lace from her sleeve and handed it to the parson. “The duchess said I should wear this,” she whispered.
Brother Michael smiled, setting the book down and draping the luxurious length of lace over Eva’s golden hair. He smiled at her for a long moment before retrieving the book and starting to read.
“Blessings, gentle lord and lady. We are here today to join . . .” He paused, leaning over to glance at a piece of parchment lying beside the prayer book, “. . . the fair Eva of Utrecht with Mathieu of Liège.” The parson peered at Mathieu over the black iron frames of the glasses. “No banns were posted?”
Mathieu shook his head, and a frisson of fear flared in his chest. Would the parson insist on all the particulars? Keegan seemed to think ’twould be a simple matter with Brother Michael.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the parson waved a hand in the air dismissively. “No matter. We shall proceed.”
Mathieu became aware of Eva’s violent trembling as she stood close beside him, still clutching his hand as though she were in fear of being torn away by a violent wind. He rubbed his thumb over her icy knuckles and squeezed her hand.
Just get on with it, Brother Michael!
Almost as if he’d forgotten it, which he apparently had, Brother Michael held up one finger and stooped to reach behind the table. When he rose, he held in his hands an ornately bejeweled . . . . sword.
Eva gasped as both she and Mathieu stumbled backwards. Was this a trap? Had Brother Michael been plied by the duke to intercept their union—by ending their lives?
Seeing their fear, the parson again made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Nay, nay,” he jabbered as he laid the blade flat on the makeshift altar. “I do not intend to harm you. ’Tis is a sacred blade. ’Tis another symbol of Celtic origin. Mathieu, Eva . . . lay your right hands atop the blade.”
Timidly, they both stepped forward, but Mathieu had to actually fold Eva’s hand within his own to get her to touch the blade. The parson grunted his approval and continued.
“Lord Mathieu, Lady Eva. Is there any reason known to you why this partnership should not be made?”
They both shook their heads. Brother Michael whispered, “You must reply, There is none.”
Sweat had begun to trickle down the back of Mathieu’s neck and between his shoulder blades. Eva continued to quake next to him as though she were standing in a snow drift. Was getting married really supposed to be so painful? Did it always take an age?
Or did it just seem that way because what they were doing, they both knew, went against the will of the duke?
“There is none,” they answered in unison.
After Mathieu recited his vows, the parson looked up at him. “Do you have a ring?”
A ring. He’d never thought of that. Mathieu was so intent on getting Eva out of the hall, away from the duke and Stefano and anyone else who might prevent this from happening, a ring had never crossed his mind. He shook his head, frowning.
“I do not.”
Brother Michael closed his eyes and nodded. Reaching into a pocket hidden in the folds of his coarse brown cloak, the parson drew out a circlet of iron. “I always keep a few of these on hand, just in case.”
It was rough-hewn nail used by the blacksmiths to attach horse’s shoes. It had been fired and bent into a rough circle. Mathieu glanced down at Eva apologetically. “I wish I had better for you.”
The way she was gazing into his eyes made him feel ten feet taller. “I need no better than you, Mathieu of Liège.”
When the iron circlet was slipped over Eva’s finger, Mathieu blew out a breath. It was done. They were married. Weren’t they?
“Now we must perform the hand
fasting ritual.”
Mathieu groaned. From beyond the sacristy door, Mathieu could swear he heard footsteps. Voices, though muted and muffled. He cast a panicked glance at Brother Michael who, although his eyes widened, continued as if he’d heard nothing.
Mathieu knew they were running out of time. He measured his breaths as best he could as Brother Michael wrapped the three cords around their joined hands, reciting the significance of each one as he did. The ostler noticed that now, too, the parson’s hands were shaking. Fumbling in haste, he tied the loose ends of the cords into a knot.
“May this knot remain tied, drawing your hands together in love.” The parson wrapped his own hands around theirs and held their gaze. “Hold tight to one another through good times and bad, and watch as your strength grows.”
The voices outside the door grew louder. Heavy boots stomped closer. Eva turned her face into Mathieu’s chest and began to weep.
Sliding the knotted cords off their hands, Brother Michael recited the conclusion with a rapid, hastened decree.
“May what is done before the gods be not undone by any man.”
It was at that moment the door to the sacristy crashed open, the whoosh of wind snuffing out all candles save one.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mathieu spun around, fingers closing on the hilt of his dagger, expecting the worst. ’Twas Knape, most likely, joined by a small army of his men, against whom he would be powerless. Would they kill him first before whisking Eva away? He dearly hoped he wouldn’t live to see her dragged off—out of his arms, out of his life. Especially now, finally, when they were joined before the law and gods.
One sure way to annul a marriage was to render the bride a widow.
A massive form literally filled the doorway. In the dim light, at first Mathieu could make out only bright, white teeth, rimmed by a decidedly auburn beard. When Keegan spoke, the ostler nearly melted into a heap on the floor.
“So here ye are. ’Tis done yet? Ye do not have much more time, ostler.”
Mathieu’s gut clenched. “Are they coming after us? Were you followed?”
Keegan guffawed and slapped the Mathieu on the back. “Nay, ye fool. Do ye think I’m that ignorant a knight? We watched them leave the bailey, then waited a few minutes before taking off ourselves. With no lights on in the chapel, they rode right on by.”
So that was the hoof clatter they’d heard earlier. A chill slithered down Mathieu’s spine. “Who is with them?”
“Knape, some of his favored few, and Stefano, of all men. They sobered up pretty quickly once they realized ye both were gone.”
Mathieu clutched Eva closer to his side. “And the duke?”
Keegan shook his head. “Lady Duchess snagged him before he’d even left the high table. Last I saw them they were both headed to their quarters. I have a feeling the duchess will do whatever she can to save ye both.”
Eva’s fingers dug into Mathieu’s arm. “Where shall we go? We can’t go back to the castle.”
Keegan fisted both huge paws on his hips. “Nay, that’s true, ye can’t. But Gaspard and me, well, we’ve come up with a sort of wedding gift for ye.”
“We’ve got coin,” Gaspard stepped forward into the dim light from behind Keegan, whose bulk had completely obscured him from sight. “Not much. But if you’d like to spend your wedding night at the Lady’s Raven, we’d be honored to pay for the room.”
In that moment, Mathieu felt the cold, hard shell on his heart, in regard to the Frenchman, fall away. How wrong he had been to despise the man so, not even fully aware of his intentions.
“But won’t the inns be the first place they will look?” Eva asked in a small voice.
Keegan shook his head. “They’ve been there already. We saw them go in and out of both inns leading out toward Brussels. They’re convinced ye two are headed to hide in the city.”
Eva gazed up at Mathieu, the fear in her eyes making his stomach lurch. He squeezed her hand. “I promised to take care of you, and I will. But we did this so suddenly, I had no time to make any other preparations.”
“’Twon’t be the first wedding night spent at a common inn. But once the marriage is consummated, well, there will be little any of them can do about it.”
Mathieu blinked. Consummated. He had a big responsibility lying before him, and very soon. Eva, he knew, was a virgin. He wanted with all of his heart to make this a most special night for her.
“Come on, now,” Keegan grabbed Mathieu’s arm, tugging him toward the back of the sacristy. “Brother Michael won’t mind if we slip out the back, will ye?”
The parson shook his head and began to unbolt the numerous fastenings securing the back door of the tiny room. “It leads through the graveyard, you know,” he said, casting a worried glance toward Eva. “That won’t bother you, I hope?”
“Nay,” Mathieu said, pulling Eva closer to his side. “We will walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”
“Alright, alright,” Keegan snapped. “Enough proselytizing. Let’s get you two up to the Lady’s Raven and secure in your nuptial nest.”
As they slunk between the tilted headstones and through the rusted iron gate, Mathieu whispered, “What about the horse, Keegan? Your horse?”
“We’ll meet Knape’s party when they come back through the village, telling them we couldna find you. I’ll tell them we found my charger tied to a post near the stables. The mare I rode in on, I’ll put in Lady Raven’s stable. Ye can ride her back in the morn.”
“Return to the castle? What happens when they realize what we’ve done?” Mathieu asked, his voice shaky.
They’d arrived at the side door to the Lady’s Raven. Keegan laid a hand on Mathieu’s shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “Ye have got the lady duchess on your side, both of ye. By the morrow I’m sure she’ll find a way to defuse the duke’s anger. She’s pretty crafty that way. The lady is an expert at negotiations. Ye both know that.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Candles and torches blazed in the duke’s bedchamber, matching the anger he barely contained. Pacing up and down the length of the room, he ranted, hands waving, spewing words a lady—particularly a duchess—shouldn’t hear. But Isabella was used to Philip’s tantrums. She’d been dealing with them for long enough to know it was pointless to say a word until the raging subsided.
It didn’t take long.
Philip halted directly in front of Isabella, who sat on the opposite side of his oak desk, her hands folded before her. Not a shy one by any means, Isabella’s chin was raised, and she met his gaze with confident intensity. After a moment of silence passed, she spoke.
“Are you finished?”
Philip threw both hands up in the air and recommenced pacing. “No, I’m not. Although yes, I am. This debacle will bring much turmoil to our business dealings in Ghent, Isabella. We both know that. You are well aware of how insistent Giovanni Arnolfini can be in getting his own way.”
“Philip, please.” The duchess rose and drew the tray holding a pitcher of wine and two metal cups closer. “Have a drink to calm your nerves. Sit down and let us discuss this situation. You know I always find a way to heal a rift.”
The duke paused and swiped both hands down his face. “True, yes. I cannot deny it. You are a wise and shrewd negotiator.” He took the cup she’d poured for him and sat heavily across from her.
Isabella raised her cup. “First, I want to toast yet another success accomplished—at least, it should be by now. Another of your bastard daughters married off, and happily.”
Philip winced. Isabella knew this was his Achilles’ heel, his many illegitimate offspring littering the Flemish towns and countryside. If there was ever a way to douse his ire, ’twas reminding him of his sins.
His weakness. For all the power his position commanded, his “weakness of the flesh,” as the Bishop of Tournai had dubbed it, was no secret. He couldn’t help it. He never tried to hide it. But Isabella knew she’d elevated her
own position—and power—by accepting this weakness and helping him to make things right.
It only took a moment for the realization to seep through his anger. He narrowed his eyes to slits at her over his cup. “You knew this was going to happen. Didn’t you?”
Isabella shifted her gaze to the purple clouds swirling in the wine. “I won’t deny, I had some inkling of the children’s plans. I did not, however, do anything to aid them.”
Philip tossed back the wine and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, inadvertently scoring his cheek with one of his ornately carved gemstone rings. Apparently he was still not quite sober from his night with Knape and Stefano. He swore under his breath as he grabbed a linen to blot the blood oozing from the scrape.
Isabella rose immediately and grabbed the washing bowl and cloth from the sideboard. Kneeling beside his chair, she proceeded to gently cleanse the scratch. The gesture, she knew, would soften Philip’s resolve even further.
She was right. He sighed as he tilted his head toward her gentle ministrations. “Oh, my lady, you do know how to ease my troubles.”
If only you didn’t get yourself into so damned many of them.
When the bleeding stopped, Isabella sat back on her heels. “Now,” she said, “why was it so important to Arnolfini that this Italian apprentice wedded Eva?”
He opened his eyes, his eyebrows drawing together. “You know Arnolfini. He owes some debt to Stefano’s family in Rome. It must have been an impressive one, because mentoring the young man alone should have been enough to satisfy any debt.” He snorted and shook his head. “When I spoke to him, just days ago, he made it clear he wanted the Italian to be wed by Christmastide. The tailor’s daughter was the maid the lad had his heart set upon.”
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