Medieval Ever After (140 page)

At first, he flinched, opened wide his eyes and mouth, and gasped.  Just as quick, he scowled.  “Thou dost look ridiculous, and no one will believe ye art genuine in thy distress.”

Rolling his shoulders, he eased the tension investing his frame and made several attempts to compose the right mix of emotions.  Varying between smiles and frowns, along with wild hand gestures for added authenticity, he thought he found a suitable combination and chuckled, until a pounding at the door had him jumping in earnest.

“Art thou ready to meet thy fate, brother?”  Arucard peered around the edge of the heavy oak panel and grinned.  “It is time to depart for the abbey.”

“Must ye appear so pleased by the prospect?”  Demetrius scrutinized his dark blue velvet doublet trimmed in gold embroidery, the matching mantle, and the black chausses.  Then he recalled his role in the dangerous game and grumbled a complaint, to which his fellow Nautionnier Knight laughed.

“In truth, I have been awaiting this day since I wed Isolde.”  Then Arucard glanced at the table.  “Thy trencher is empty.”

“Yea, what of it?”  As a final touch, he donned the latest fashion, a livery collar of Esses wrought of gold, from which the badge of his new earldom hung.  Of course, on the back had been etched the eight-pointed wind-star of the Brethren of the Coast, the order created to accommodate the exiled Templars.

“I mean no offense.”  Arucard arched a brow.  “But I chose to forgo a meal on the morn of my nuptials, as I did not wish to be ill and embarrass myself, because I was as nervous as a virgin on her wedding night.”

“But thou were a virgin on thy wedding night.”  And Demetrius remained similarly afflicted, but he refused to share that bit of information.  “Shall we remove to the Chapter House, as I would not be late?”

“After thee.”  With an exaggerated flourish, Arucard bowed, and Demetrius just resisted the urge to kick his old friend in the arse.

A carriage bearing the coat of arms associated with his title conveyed him to Westminster Abbey.  With a calm façade, he strolled the cloister walk, until he reached the now familiar double-door entry topped with a Portland stone tympanum.  On the steps of the Chapter House, the archbishop loomed as the specter of doom, but Demetrius reminded himself of the drama about to commence and swallowed his apprehension.

“Welcome, Sir Demetrius.”  Archbishop Cobham flipped through the pages of a leather-bound tome.  “Now that all parties are present, shall we begin?”

In that instant, Demetrius clutched his chest and, for a few seconds, sheer terror rang in his ears.  Panic danced a merry jig down his spine, when his veiled bride, gowned in blue, the traditional color of purity, and escorted by her brother, marched forth.  To Demetrius’s everlasting shame, he bent, vomited in the bushes, stumbled backwards, and fainted.

“Demetrius, canst thou hear me?”  Countless minutes anon, Arucard’s voice came to Demetrius amid a haze of confusion.  “Wake up, as thou hast a date with destiny.”

“Or the parson’s noose.”  Morgan snorted.  “Depends on his perspective.”

“I think it safe to say he declared his opinion on the matter, by his actions.”  Geoffrey chortled.  “Believe me, we will not soon forget this ceremony, and neither will he, if I can help it.”

To a chorus of laughter, Demetrius inhaled a deep breath, opened his eyes, and found himself surrounded by the Brethren, as he reclined on a bench in a small room.  After a moment of utter befuddlement, he blinked, cleared his fogged vision, and sat upright.  “What happened?”

“Mayhap we should leave ye with Arucard.”  Snickering, Aristide elbowed Geoffrey.  “Let us join the wedding party and reassure the bride that her groom remains very much alive and eager as ever to take his vows.”

“That will take some effort.”  Morgan winked and exited.

“How did we come to this, brother?”  Pondering his predicament, Demetrius scratched his chin and frowned.

“At the pointed end of a sword.”  Arucard chuckled, studied the tip of his boot, and then cleared his throat.  “And it is not so bad as thou mayest think, once thou dost accustom thyself to the idea.”

“Thou dost say that now, but if memory serves, thou were none too pleased when faced with similar circumstances.”  With a groan, Demetrius gathered his wits, stood, and paced the floor.  How would he recover from the mess he made?  “Eternal damnation seems an awfully high price.  Surely it would have been preferable to die a warrior’s death.”

“Well, let us not be too dramatic.”  Arucard smiled.  “It just requires a period of adjustment on thy part.”

“Perchance this is punishment for Randulf.”  In a flash, Demetrius transported to another time and place, vivid images played a tragedy in his brain, and he shook his head.  “Never should I have left him in my wake.”

“Wait a minute, brother.  Thou art no more or less to blame for his demise than any of us, and thither was naught we could do to save him.”  Arucard pointed for emphasis.  “As it is, we barely escaped with our lives, and only five of us remain.  Would thou rather none survived?”

“I would have him hither.”  Demetrius gazed at the ceiling and sighed, as Randulf’s screams echoed in a haunting refrain.  “At the very least, I would trade places, as he was the better man.”

“Now thither I must take exception, as such comparison is as blancmange to brewets.”  Leaning forward, Arucard propped his elbows on his knees.  “Neither thee nor Randulf could claim such distinction, as thou art two drastically different beasts.”

“And yet I persist, and he is gone.”  Choking on a lethal mix of anger and frustration, Demetrius speared his fingers through his hair, and then he fisted his hands.  “So I am resolved to consider my situation a burden and my fate one of lifelong penance.”

“My friend, thou art not thinking clearly, as thy judgment is clouded by misplaced guilt.”  Yet Demetrius had long suspected Arucard carried their comrade’s death as a stain on his conscience and invisible wounds that had not quite healed.

Of their set, Randulf had been the youngest and most good-natured Templar.  Facing every day with a mischievous grin, a biting sense of humor, and a wild streak to match, Randulf was forever garnering additional weapons practice for himself and his brother knights for a wide variety of infractions.  Still, the lighthearted gadling was a favored son.  Acting as marshalsea-in-training, Randulf had been especially close to Demetrius, and the two were as siblings.

“My guilt is well-founded, and I do not deserve happiness.  In my rush to stem the tide, I did not realize he had yet to cast off, and it was too late when I noted my error.  I abandoned him to the king’s guard, and his loss is my shame.”  As the full import of his history dawned, Demetrius scowled.  “Mayhap it is fitting that I am required to marry.”

With an expression of astonishment, Arucard sputtered.  “Thou dost equate matrimony with hell?”

“Wilt thou argue otherwise?” Demetrius mumbled.

“Well, in truth, it can at times be an abyss of suffering unique unto itself.”  Arucard laughed aloud and slapped his thigh.  “But if thou dost ever repeat that to Isolde, I will send thee to the glorious hereafter, posthaste.”

“Dost thou find sport in my misery?”

“I find sport in the absurdity of thy logic.”  Arucard rose and came to stand before Demetrius.  “Guilt is a powerful emotion, brother.  It numbs thy senses and impairs thy vision, shrouding thy reality in a dense cloud of regret, which further impedes thy capacity to reap the rewards of life.  Thou mayest as well be dead, as thou hast one foot in the grave, and Randulf, God rest him, would never wish that on thee.”

“What would thou have of me?  Am I to marry Athelyna and spend my days in connubial bliss?”  With fists resting on hips, Demetrius inclined his head, as the situation was far more grave than Arucard realized.  “And what sort of name is that?  Sounds like a rather nasty infection.  Canst thou not hear the boys?  ‘Poor bastard caught the Athelyna, and his most prized protuberance shriveled and fell off.’”

“By God’s bones, I will grant thee that.”  Arucard surrendered to boisterous guffaws.  “Wherefore dost thou not call the poor lass by a term of affection—one known only to her?”

Demetrius shifted his weight.  “And wherefore would I do that?”

“To foster a true and lasting bond with thy mate.”

“And wherefore would I want to do that?”  Demetrius shuffled his feet.

“Well, if for no other reason than to hasten conception of thy heirs.”

With a look of sheer terror, Demetrius turned white as a sheet and splayed his arms as he teetered precariously.

“Whoa, brother.”  Arucard steadied his fellow Nautionnier Knight.  “Have a seat before thou dost fall flat on thy face, and the fair maiden refuses to marry
thee
.”

“Babes—I forgot about that.”  Demetrius cradled his head in his hands.  “Back up, else I will ruin the shine on thy boots, as I fear I am going to vomit.”

“Is it safe to assume thou didst not avail thyself of a whore, as Morgan suggested?”  Arucard grimaced, and Demetrius was tempted to remind his friend that he had rejected the same notion prior to marrying Isolde.  “It might have put thy mind at ease for tonight.”

“No, it would not.  Call me a lunatic, but if I am to risk everlasting condemnation, then I would join my body only with whom I have spoken the vows, per the sacrament.”  Yet the prospect terrified him.  Mustering a stance of unfailing determination, Demetrius compressed his lips.  “I will have no other.”

“Then let us be done with it.”  With arms crossed, Arucard retreated a step.  “So thou mayest beget thy heir, as the King commands.”

“Am I to breed as a prized stallion put to pasture?” Demetrius grumbled with unveiled irritation.  “Art we naught more than means to produce the next generation of mariners insane enough to undertake His Majesty’s bidding?”

“Thou dost make procreation sound so romantic, brother.”  Arucard blanched.  “Believe me, it is not a chore, though it doth require some effort to master from the start, but the work is good.”

“That is precisely what it is to me—drudgery.”  Demetrius thrust his chin.  “And I suspect we have merely exchanged one hangman’s noose for another.  In short, it is naught more than the trappings of duty owed to an oath ill-pledged that I shall endeavor to persevere.”

“Oh, come now.”  To Demetrius’s agitation, Arucard succumbed to a full-blown belly laugh.  “As I have seen Athelyna, she is nice duty, if one can get it.”

“Then thou should take her to wife.”  Of course, he did not mean that.

“Alas, I am in love with Isolde,” Arucard replied, with the hint of a smile.

“Be that as it may, I am obliged not to enjoy the experience.”  Given his fears, he doubted he could physically manage the task, as a particular part of his anatomy had taken shelter.

“Thou dost forget thyself.”  Arucard wiped a stray tear from his eye.  “As I explained last night, thou must enjoy it, to some degree, in order to conceive a child.”

A knock at the door gave them pause.

“Oh hell, it is time.”  Demetrius paled in an instant and swallowed hard.  “Come.”

Morgan peered inside and cast a playful grin.  “Ready to face the enemy?”

Once again, he tottered, and Arucard all but carried Demetrius to the chair.  To Morgan, Arucard said, “Brother, we have a problem.”

“What is this?”  Morgan closed the oak panel.  “Didst thou not pay a visit to Matild, as I instructed?”

“She hath a groat-sized wart on her nose.”  Demetrius flinched, as an image of the woman intruded on his thoughts.  “And she is missing two front teeth.”

“Indeed, she is, and that is what makes her proficient in her most popular service.”  Morgan clucked his tongue.  “And wherefore would I care for a wart?  Matild’s reputation precedes her.”

Demetrius snorted.  “Thou must know I am not entirely comfortable with thy lustful embrace of English customs.”

Morgan waggled his brows.  “As they say, when in Rome—”

“We art not in Rome.”  Demetrius smacked a fist to a palm.

“And we art no longer Templars.”  Levity aside, Morgan said, “Art thou still going on about Randulf?”

The room was as silent as a tomb.

Morgan glanced at Arucard, and he shrugged.

“Thither thou were not when he disappeared into the sea.”  Demetrius closed his eyes.  “Screaming for his mother, the lad went down with his ship.”

“And, apart from the screaming, he would have it no other way,” Arucard stated softly.  “Randulf was a fine mariner and man, albeit a young one, and thy steadfast refusal to let him go doth no credit to his memory.”

“Arucard is correct.”  Morgan cocked his head.  “But if thou art truly unwilling to wed the lady, I shall be too happy to take thy place, as the woman is handsome and the title generous.”

Demetrius snapped to attention.  “She is my bride—already promised.”

“And I suppose the earldom means naught?”  Morgan rocked on his heels.

“I would have her without it, but the King gives me no choice,” Demetrius asserted without hesitation, as he coveted not wealth.  “His Majesty seems intent on corrupting us.”

“Then wherefore art thou waiting?” Arucard inquired.  “Do thyself a favor, brother, and leave the past to yesterday.”