Ravished (23 page)

* * * *

          The days passed in
a haze of intoxication.  The eve before his departure, Gray and Rafael forced
him from the parlor and toted him upstairs, dunking him into a tub of icy water
fully clothed.

          He came up
sputtering, in a murderous rage, glaring at his brothers with blood in his
eye.  “I will kill you both,” he swore, swiping his soaked hair back from his
forehead—the better to see his targets.

          “You have one last
chance to see Alex before  you depart, would you waste it with drink?” Gray
asked in disgust, slapping the water and splashing Bronson with the frigid
liquid.

          Rafael regarded him
with his arms across his chest, his face grim.  They each waited silently for
his answer.

          “What is your
plan?” Bronson asked, grimly conceding he’d wallowed in misery for far too
long.

          “We go to see Hugh
McPherson and ask for entrance … as civilized men rather than thieves.”

          He nodded,
recognizing his brothers’ wisdom.  He’d been unreasonable, worse than a pig,
selfish to the point of destruction.  Never had self-pity consumed him so
unnaturally.  He realized he had to thank his brothers for saving him from
self-ruination, and he did.  They nodded and left him, gone to prepare the
horses.

          Alone now, Bronson
stripped his sodden garments off, flinging them to the floor in a wet heap.  He
bathed and washed the stink of liquor off his skin, shaving and dressing.

          They were on their
way by dusk.  The landscape passed in a whirl, and before he comprehend it,
they’d arrived at the McPhersons, had their arrival announced and were granted
access inside.  The McPhersons seemed to have graciously ignored his actions of
before, for which he was grateful.

          Hugh met them in
the great hall, bidding them sit before the fire, offering them wine and ale. 
Bronson declined the comforts of drink, moving to the heart of his reason for
coming.  “Where is Alex?  I must see her.”

          Hugh McPherson’s
smile faded, and he frowned, stroking the braids of his beard.  He looked between
the brothers, taking a sip of ale before he answered.  “I thought mayhap you
would come sooner, as our guests, but Alex refused to allow me to send word.” 
He sighed, pausing for so long, it set Bronson’s teeth on edge.  “You’ll not
like this, lad.  She is married, lad, and gone this past week.”

          An unseen hand
punched his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs.  He clutched his stomach
with one arm, certain he would be ill, but the pain spread through him instead,
changing to a numbness that burned with a cold as frigid as the deepest winter
snow.  “What?” he croaked, swallowing hard to moisten his mouth and throat.

          He set his mug
aside, giving Bronson a look of pity.  “She is
married
, Lord Blackmore. 
There is naught you can do.”

          Hugh’s words echoed
in his ears, over and over again, taunting, driving his mind to split asunder.

          Something died
inside him.

          He shook his head,
getting to his feet, ignoring the stares and outbursts of the others.  Pushing
aside his brothers, he staggered out of that hellish hall, out into the cold
bite of winter and the flakes of snow whirling down around him.  There was
nothing left for him now.  No hope.  Only emptiness and despair.

* * * *

          Bronson rode with a
fury to London, his family trailing behind him in slower conveyance.  Now that
he had nothing to stand in his way, he wanted to be done with this farce of a
wedding and move on with his life.

          The cold
accentuated the bitterness permeating his soul, never failing to remind him
that he continued to live.  He could not bear to slow his pace, dangerous as it
was.  He hardly slept before he took to the rode again, didn’t eat, only on the
eve of his arrival did he stop to prepare himself to meet the king and his
betrothed, though truthfully, he could care less of his appearance.

          Within a week of
hard riding, pushing both himself and his horse to the limits of endurance, he
reached the city’s outskirts, heading straight for the court.  His family would
find him—they knew where he went and his purpose.

          For now, he would
do what was required of him and mark the final seal on his fate—gaining the
king’s blessing for his nuptials.

          Reaching his
destination, Bronson handed Ebony to a stablehand, impatiently going through
the motions of gaining admittance.

          As he swept inside,
his brother Nigel caught sight of him and left a group of men, intercepting him
before he could proceed.

          “Bronson!” he
called, running up, clasping his brother in a warm hug, noting his brother’s
withdrawn air and impatience.  “How fair you?  We’ve expected you near a month
now.  Why were you delayed?”

           Bronson’s jaw
hardened at the reminder of his failure.  Would he never have peace?  “’Tis
none of your concern, brother.  I go now to see the king.”

          Nigel frowned at
him.  “I will attend you.  You’ve not the look of a well man, brother.  I fear
for your safety if you upset his highness.”

          Bronson grunted,
not slowing his stride.  He ignored the courtiers, the rich decadence of his
surroundings, everything but his destination.  Finally, he was upon it, access
granted and ready to enter.  The doors opened wide, he dimly heard his name
announced as he strode up the center of the room and halted before his king.

          The king sat on his
throne, seeing to matters of state.  He looked up at Bronson’s entrance, mildly
interested, but appearing more bored than anything else.  Doubtless the cold
confined him indoors.

          Bronson knelt
before him, bowing his head deeply, Nigel behind him in similar pose.  “Your
highness,” he said, placing a hand on his heart as he knelt.  “Long have I
traveled to see you.”

          “Patience has never
been a dominant feature, Lord Blackmore.  Rise,” King Henry VIII said, looking
down at him, his brow wrinkled with a frown.  “You come on the matter of your
betrothal.”

          “Aye, I do,”
Bronson said, standing and assuming a respectful stance.

          King Henry nodded
and gestured to a servant with one hand.  The silence in the room seemed to
stretch abominably with anticipation.  Bronson’s blood roared in his ears as he
waited.

          The king made
conversation with him, asking news on the borders of his kingdom, and it was
all he could do to respond to the king’s questions on the matter.

          In a matter of
minutes, struggling through the prolonged torture of conversing with royalty
when he had no patience for it, Bronson heard the main door open behind them,
and the king said, “She comes.  Lord Bronson Blackmore, may I present, Lady
Elizabeth Darrow.”

          Bronson turned
stiffly, facing the woman he was to marry.

          Alex stood in the
center walkway, her eyes shining with tears, the fingertips of one hand pressed
to her lips to hush her cries.

          The steel glove
gripped his heart, choked the breath out of him.  He felt as if he’d been
slapped in the face.  “How can this be?” he whispered, unable to believe she stood
before him, her hair unbound, clothed in a sumptuous emerald gown befitting
royalty.

          Alex ran to him,
rushing into his arms.  He closed her in his embrace, kissing her hair, her
face with desperation, afraid he’d gone mad, that she would vanish from his
arms.  She kissed him back, ignoring the stares of the court, the presence of
the king.

          “You’ve met, I
see,” the king said behind them, a smile in his voice.  “There are chambers
behind me if you care for privacy.”

          Without a word,
they rushed to them, closing the door behind them.  “What has happened?”
Bronson asked on a ragged breath, unwilling to release her.  “You are
married—your uncle told me it was so.”

          She shook her head,
kissing his face, cupping his jaw.  “He misunderstood.  He knew I was to be
married as soon as I came here.  I did not know the name of my groom until I
arrived.”

          He gripped her
shoulders, looking at her hard.  “What is your name, Alex?”

          “Elizabeth
Alexandra Darrow.  Montague was a lesser title of my father’s.  I took it when
my grandfather died and I was forced to flee before the king could find me. 
All for naught.  Had I but gone to the king as I should, I would have had you
and been your wife even now.”

          He shuddered,
closing her in his arms, shutting his eyes against the sting that pricked
them.  She squeezed him, sobbing against his chest.

          “I thought I’d lost
you,” he whispered brokenly.  “I … I died at the thought of you married to
another.  I journeyed here in a fog of pain, dying more and more each day that
passed.”

          “I died too,
thinking of you wedding another.  I hated you, Bronson.  Despised you for
making me love you,” she whispered.

          He released her,
cupping her chin and tilting her face up to his so that he could look into her
eyes.  “I love you, Alex,” he murmured, descending for a kiss--, “Be my wife.”

          “Forever and
always, my love,” she whispered, meeting his kiss.

THE END

Glossary of Terms:

Airling:  Wind between the
ears rather than brain matter.

Applesquire:  In some cases,
I’ve seen this used similarly to pimp.  I have also seen it used as another
term for catamite.

Basemecu:  Basically—kiss my
ass.

Catamite:  A young man who is
another man’s lover, usually a higher ranking lord.

Certes:  Used as an oath but
literally meaning certainly, certain, or truly.

Clinker:  To shrink.

Cods/Coddles:  The testicles.

Cod piece:  Usually made of
leather, this casing tied into trunk hose, doublet etc.  A cover for the
genitalia for easier access of relieving oneself as well as decoration.

Doublet:  Short jacket worn
over tunic or trunk hose, or beneath the tunic depending on the tunic’s style. 
Could be slashed to show tunic beneath.  Often has slit sleeves which hang down
or can be pinned up on the shoulder.

Enow:  Enough

Hose:  The term breeches was
not commonly in use, so hose were basically the pants of the age.  Typically
woolen, the hose in this story cover the entire leg, much like stockings.  They
are usually depicted as quite fitted, hugging the leg like a second skin.

Jerkin:  Similar to the
doublet but can also be like a vest.

Lightminded:  Short on wit.

Lutanist/Lutist:  A lute
player.

Rapier:  Slim bladed sword. 
King Henry VIII was introduced to this sword and its technique and it
immediately became his weapon of choice, thereby spreading to the court.  In
the outer reaches of the kingdom, however, it wasn’t feasible for use in battle
as armor was still in use, though fast dwindling, as well as broad swords.

Slashing:  Process of
slitting jerkin, doublet, or sleeves to reveal contrasting fabric beneath.

Trunk hose:  More akin to
breeches.  The material is thicker, can be slashed or rushed, and usually comes
down to the knees.  Stockings would be gartered and cover the remainder of the
leg.

Tunic:  Long cover which goes
over the shirt and can have long sleeves, short, or none at all.  The tunic can
also go over the doublet, almost like a coat, revealing the doublet or jerkin
beneath.  Tunics typically  reached mid-thigh or to the knee on most men and
the more conservative.  The more fashionable gentlemen, and more radical, would
wear their tunics cut just below their buttocks, showing off the groin area and
cod pieces, which were just beginning to come into their own fashion.