by Betina Krahn
Julia, Sophie, and Regine rushed down the slope to the garrison’s quarters shortly after one of the potboys brought word that a spy from Verdun had been caught near the barracks. But as they arrived, they were barred from making their way through the crowd by Axel and Greeve, who had spotted them and moved to intercept them. When they demanded to know who it was and what was happening, Axel said that Martin-of-Something had been caught inside the walls and was demanding Lady Sophie be returned to her home.
“Sir Martin?” Sophie grabbed Julia’s arm and squeezed. “Martin is here? He came for me!” She would have rushed to his side, but Axel and Greeve—along with Julia—held her back.
“Sophie, he hasn’t just come for you, he’s come to take you back to your father,” Julia said anxiously. Even though it was the truth, she regretted saying it when Sophie’s spirits plummeted. Then Griffin’s voice rumbled forth again and she looked to Axel’s sympathetic face. “We have to get closer to hear what they say.”
“So Verdun did not send you,” Griffin was saying.
“No. I followed Lady Sophie here and waited … hoping she would think better of her rashness and return home. When it became clear she would not, I hoped to meet with her secretly and persuade her to return before blood is shed.”
Griffin studied that for a moment. De Gies was as decent as he was bold. How did a cur like Bardot of Verdun ever manage to claim a knight of such foresight and principle?
“I am willing to escort her back to her father and to attempt to make him see that the entire venture was simply the result of Lady Sophie’s thoughtless whims leading her astray.”
Within the gate Sophie heard those words and gasped.
“Thoughtless?” She grabbed Julia’s hands in horror. “How can he say such things about me, when he knows the reason I fled was—”
“Was what?” Julia forced the girl’s chin up, feeling a little sick at the realization that there was more to the situation than Sophie had revealed. “Why did you flee? Don’t tell me there is no fat German prince …”
“Oh, there’s a prince all right, and he’s fat as a watered sow.” Sophie’s eyes rimmed with tears. “But I fled because I’m in love with Sir Martin and it’s impossible. He’s my father’s First Knight and champion … the prime defender of Verdun’s honor. But he won’t speak for me because he knows my father is greedy and because he has no prospect of a title or fortune.”
“But, Sophie—”
“He loves me, too, Julia.” Sophie’s tears were all too real this time. “He said so. And I can’t let my father send me off to wed some slavering beast. One of us has to fight for our— Help me, Julia.” Her lip quivered. “I helped you.”
Julia saw the events surrounding her vows in an entirely new light … Sophie’s questions about Griffin and his treatment of her … the dress Sophie sent for her to wear … Sophie’s assurance as she went out to the gate …
“It was you,” Julia said, more to herself than to her friend. “You told your father to make Lord Griffin marry me as the price of my—”
Caught in the grip of a sudden idea, Julia grabbed Sir Greeve and told him to carry an urgent message to Griffin.
As it happened, her message came at a good time. Griffin stated that he had promised Lady Sophie sanctuary and needed to confer with her before making any decision on her future. He turned aside to look at Julia, thinking that it was her infernal knack for making friends out of enemies that had gotten him into this disaster. A moment later as he emerged from the crowd he found himself facing the pair.
“Sophie is desperate to avoid marriage to the monster her father has in mind for her,” Julia said to him in private tones. “And the only way to both get her to go home and honor your agreement to protect her is … tell Sir Martin that if he wants to take her home, he’ll have to wed her first.”
It was such an appalling idea that he tried to distance himself from both it and her. “Dear God—you’ve lost your—do you know what that would—you’re saying I should force some other poor wretch to marry the daughter of the man who forced me to marry you.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s monstrous!” He looked at her in horror.
“It is not. It’s justice … of a sort. And to make it even better, it’s Sophie’s idea.” She edged closer to him and lowered her voice. “Just as it was Sophie’s idea to make you wed me. Apparently she suggested it to her father.”
He looked at her in astonishment, then at Sophie, who was standing a few yards away, looking both innocent and cunning in the same moment. After what Sophie had said that morning about taking revenge on her own father, he wouldn’t put anything past her.
“And if I force him to do this … how does that benefit Grandaise?”
“Well, Sophie and Martin will go home and we will have allies in Verdun.” She brightened. “This could be the beginning of the end of the feud!”
He wavered, thinking of what the pair—if wedded—might face at the hands of his ruthless enemy. Julia added the coup de grace of persuasion.
“Milord, they’re in love. That’s why Sir Martin risked coming alone to retrieve her. That’s why he’ll marry her. He loves her. And she loves him. Perhaps a ‘forced marriage’ is the only way they can be together.”
She had him. Dammit. And she knew it. Why was it when women failed with rational and sensible arguments, they brought it all back to the personal and wiggled their way in through your emotions?
Because it worked, that’s why.
He looked into her warm, liquid emerald eyes and surrendered.
“Take Sophie back to the hall and keep her there,” he ordered.
Making his way back to the prisoner, he astonished Sir Martin, the Baron Crossan, and his gawking garrison by declaring his terms for returning her.
“I’ll allow you to take her back to Verdun with you on the condition that you speak marriage vows with her first.” He folded his arms with determination. “She will leave my protection a married woman, or she will not leave it at all.”
Sir Martin looked thunderstruck. He stammered and then got angry and then roared that Griffin had gone mad with a thirst for vengeance. But it was clear from Griffin’s calm, determined demeanor that he was anything but irrational or seething with hatred. Soon enough, Sir Martin realized that no amount of protest or posturing would alter that shocking requirement.
“Perhaps you would like to speak with Lady Sophie yourself,” Griffin suggested, motioning to the guards to release their captive.
As Sir Martin climbed the rise to the great hall, he spotted Sophie on the steps, silhouetted by the light coming through the doors. Griffin, striding along beside him, glimpsed the way the knight’s heart rose into his eyes at the sight of her. He ordered everyone out of the hall except the bride and groom, then exited to the front steps himself … where Crossan found him.
“You’re either blinding brilliant or screaming mad, Grandaise. And I haven’t a clue which,” the baron said, shaking his head.
Voices were raised between the couple in the hall. As everyone outside strained to not listen to what was going on, they managed to hear every word that was said.
“This whole thing is your doing!” Martin charged, seizing her by the shoulders. “You stubborn little—have you any idea how much trouble you’ve caused? Your father will be out for blood, Sophie, unless you come back to his house with me right now!”
“I will not.” She raised her chin. “I’ve decided to heed the advice of my host and protector … to return to Verdun only if you marry me.”
“Don’t be absurd—”
“Is it so absurd to try to find a way to marry and live with the man you love? Is it beyond thinking that our marriage may actually help to end the hatred and resentment that has bled these noble houses for three generations?” She seized the open edges of his jerkin in desperate fists. “Don’t you see, Martin … if I go home and my father sends me off to his German coin-purse … he will use the money he
gains for more weapons and men, more fighting. But if you and I wed, and we can get him to accept our marriage—”
“He won’t, Sophie. Dear God, don’t you think I’ve gone over this a thousand times already? I’m just a knight—”
“His First Knight,” she protested, fiercely. “A man of honor and valor and of no little standing at Verdun. The men of the garrison respect you … support you … they’d die for you. If worse comes to worse, we can remind him of that.”
“Sophie,” he groaned, his misery evident, “don’t do this to me.”
“To you?” She straightened and shook his jerkin to make him look her in the eye. “You think I haven’t—” She released his garment and took a step back, still in his grasp. “Fine. I’ll go home. I’ll marry that barrel of pork fat. If you can honestly tell me that you don’t want me.” She crossed her arms and tried to blink back the tears beginning to form. “Go on—let me hear you say that you have no love or desire for me … that you have never lain awake at night imagining us sharing a bed and a life.”
Martin stared at both the prisms of tears growing in her eyes and the undimmed defiance of her chin. It wasn’t foolhardiness that brought her to such drastic action, he realized, it was the stubbornness of her loving heart.
“Tell me, Martin. Say that you don’t love me.” Her voice was a whisper and her eyes were brimming with love she was willing to risk everything for.
“I-I can’t do that, Sophie.” He could barely force the words past the lump in his throat, not knowing whether they would prove to be salvation or doom. “Because I do love you. You make me furious and you make me crazy and you make me defy both duty and common sense. But I do love you. And if you still want me tomorrow morning … I’ll marry you.”
“Oh, Martin!” She threw her arms around him and covered his face with kisses.
There was a long and potent silence before the couple came to the door, arm in arm, and Sir Martin announced that he would comply with Griffin’s requirement.
There was a flurry of congratulations as everyone poured back into the hall and Griffin called for his best wine and offered toasts to the bride and groom. Griffin sent word to Father Dominic to prepare to read marriage vows in the chapel the next morning, and Julia and Regine whisked Sophie off to her chamber to begin preparations for her wedding.
It was strange, Julia and Griffin thought separately the next morning, how the air of Grandaise warmed and brightened at the prospect of a wedding. The kitchens were bustling with preparation for a fine dinner … to which they now added a few special entremets … and the house women began freshening and decorating Sophie’s chamber for the bridal night … and there was much joking and teasing among the men about who should wed next and why. It was almost as if one of their own were being married.
When Sophie came downstairs to the hall, midmorning, there was a collective ahhh from men and women alike. Sophie had brought a fine sky-blue gown with her and the potboys managed to find enough flowers in the kitchen gardens to make a garland for her head. With her hair flowing around her shoulders and her eyes bright and cheeks glowing with pleasure, she was the very picture of the joyful bride. Sir Martin’s knightly reserve melted at the sight of her. It was plain to all present that part of him was eager to make her his own.
Julia and Regine escorted her to the chapel, even as Griffin and Crossan escorted Sir Martin. Father Dominic met them at the chapel door, where marriage vows were always said. On the broad stone step Sir Martin took Sophie’s hands in his and looked at her with all of the turmoil and love in his heart. She gazed up at him with more joy and adoration than any one person should be able to hold.
Julia wanted to tell them it would be all right, that things would work out for them as they had for her and Griffin. But she knew there was no guarantee that the couple could convince her father to accept them. If he didn’t, where would that leave them? And what revenge would Verdun exact upon Grandaise for taking his daughter in and helping her to wed someone against his wishes?
It might be madness, Griffin and Julia both thought as they stood together, her arm in his. But if it was, it was a very fine madness.
Halfway through the vows a low rumbling sound began that seeped in around and underneath the edges of Griffin’s awareness to make him glance toward the main gates, the upper parts of which were visible from the front of the chapel. As the promises and assurances of the vows were stated and repeated—“honor and obey … love and cherish … for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part”—the sound became audible and through the gathering there were numerous glances toward the gates.
“Faster, Father, if you please,” Griffin declared, looking around at his men’s faces and realizing that each one was having the same thought. Verdun.
The priest did speak a bit more quickly, but was still barely through with the giving of the rings when the sound of many horses burst through the gates and the horses and riders themselves followed close behind. A galvanic shock flashed through Griffin and his men at the realization that the sentries hadn’t moved to close the gates and the invaders were inside, filling the front court and probing the estate’s weaknesses from the inside. The men began to run for weapons and shout “to the walls.” Those who had blades drew them fast; metal sang as it raked scabbards.
Griffin had drawn his blade and now thrust Julia behind him as he realized that the main force had turned and was headed straight for the chapel. Then he realized why the sentries had been confused and why the gates hadn’t been closed; at the front of that invading force rode none other than Sir Reynard de Crossan, wearing Grandaise’s own blue and green colors.
Sir Reynard spotted the blades bristling among his comrades and reined up, staring in dismay at them and at the people assembled at the front of the chapel.
“Milord!” Sir Reynard called, and when Griffin raised a hand of greeting and called out his name, he dismounted into a crowd of greatly relieved knights and men-at-arms. The first to reach him and give him a burly hug of welcome was his own father, the Baron Crossan. Axel and Greeve were next and shortly after them, a number of others sheathed their weapons to clasp his arm and demand to know if he survived the pleasures of Paris. Reynard worked his way toward Griffin, who stood near the chapel doors with Julia now at his side.
“Ho, milord!” Reynard called as he approached and clasped Griffin’s extended arm with his. “What is this? I was given to believe that you had already said vows some days ago.”
“Yes,” came a booming voice from the rear of the throng. “Tell us, milord Grandaise, just what is going on here?”
A score of men on horseback were arrayed behind the speaker, an older, barrel-chested man in elegantly crafted mail and an elaborately tooled helmet. On the sleeveless midnight blue tunic he wore over his armor, there was a coat of arms Griffin had never seen before.
“A wedding,” Griffin answered with a questioning glance at Reynard and then a look at the men who accompanied this demanding guest. That was when he noticed that among the dark blue tabards, there were a dozen wearing white and purple with accents of gold. The royal colors. King’s men. And near the rear, there was one tabard that bore the dreaded red and white of Verdun.
“Your Grace.” Sir Reynard strode back toward the mounted nobleman, and swept a hand toward Griffin. “May I present my lord Griffin, Comte de Grandaise.” Then he turned to Griffin. “The duke of Avalon, my lord. Sent by King Philip himself to investigate the recent troubles.”
Griffin felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Everything in his middle seemed to slide toward his knees. Here in the middle of what would surely be a controversial wedding … the king’s own emissary arrives … and it turns out to be the very man to whom he was already answerable for a reluctant but nevertheless punishable breach of his word.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” Griffin pulled Julia forward with him, where he bowed and she curtsied. “It has been some time since we met.”
“
I see we have arrived in the midst of a wedding. How very appropriate.” The duke dismounted and stretched his back for a moment before coming to reach for Julia’s hand. “Since it is news of a wedding that has brought me here in the first place.”
“Your Grace, I believe when you hear what we have to say—” Griffin began but was cut off by a motion of the duke’s hand.
“Later, Grandaise. I believe I have interrupted this good couple’s sacred moment long enough.” He smiled benevolently at the bride’s pale face and the groom’s controlled countenance. “There will be time for our business later.”
He placed Julia’s hand on his arm and proceeded toward the chapel doors where the bride and groom waited anxiously for the completion of their vows. He flicked a glance at the red-and-white tabard Sir Martin wore, then looked back over his shoulder at the lone red-and-white tabard in his party.
“Sir Thomas—it would seem we have one of your comrades here!”
As the knight dismounted and hurried forward, Sir Martin went to meet him with a look of relief and pleasure. “Thomas? Is that you?”
The knights of Verdun clasped arms and thumped each other on the back.
“What the devil’s going on, Martin?” He looked around and spotted Sophie at the chapel door. His face drained as he realized the implication of Martin’s and her proximity to that door and to the priest stationed before it. “Don’t tell me you’re—”
“Yes, I am,” Sir Martin said, suddenly sober and communicating the seriousness of the situation to his friend and comrade with looks, not words. “It must be done. And I ask that you stand with me.”
Indecision flitted across Sir Thomas’s face, but after a moment he stepped back a pace and nodded, supporting his commander’s chosen course. He could hardly do otherwise, here in the den of their enemy. As they made their way to the doors of the chapel and Sophie’s side, the duke—who had watched intently their cryptic exchange—turned to the couple.
“And who are we to give praise to God for joining in blessed matrimony this day?” he asked.
