Arucard (Brethren Origins Book 1) (20 page)

“Thou dost make it quite impossible to deny thee.”  She sniffed, even as he dried her face.  “Yet I will obey, as I pledged to do so before the archbishop, but I am not happy, as I believe naught good can come of our estrangement, however brief, and I beg thee to reconsider.”  In desperation, she grasped his tunic.  “Arucard, I beseech ye, do not leave me, as I dread what might happen in thy absence.”

“God’s bones, woman, art thou blind?”  When he barked, she flinched, and he groaned.  “How can I make thee understand my position?”  Then he sighed, speared his fingers in the hair at her nape, and held her tight.  “At dawn, I force myself from our bed, as I would not relinquish ye, and I count the hours until we retire, and I lie between thy sumptuous thighs.  When thou art not at my side, I wonder whither art thou, and I search for thee until I find ye.  And even after I claim thy enchanting blossom, my first thought is how I desire thee again. The simple fact is I care for thee—too much, and all I want to do is make love to thee, when thou art near.”

“Oh, my lord.”  Stunned by his admission, however graceless, her heart rejoiced, and she collapsed against him.  “I care for thee, too.”

“If that is true, then do as I say, and stay hither, whither I am assured of thy wellbeing.”  Cradling her head, he nuzzled her neck and then suckled her earlobe.  “And upon my return, I would have thy promise to welcome me in the courtyard, wearing naught but thy arresting smile, a cloak, and thy slippers, as I would have thee naked and in our bed with the least amount of impediments.”

Then he kissed her—hard.

Hand in hand, with nary a word spoken between them, they walked to the courtyard; whither they shared a final hug, and something within her fractured in that instant.  “I bid ye an unadventurous and boring journey, my lord.”  Then she perched on her toes and whispered, “Prithee, come back to me.  Remember, thou art my champion.”

“And thou art my honey flower,” he replied in a low tone.  “And I miss thee already.”

As a cold wind penetrated her cotehardie, she shuddered, and he released her.  Without so much as a backward glance, he mounted his destrier, grasped the reins, and charged the main gatehouse and the barbican.  In that second, Isolde realized thither was naught sadder than the ever-growing distance as a loved one rode away.

It dawned on her then that she loved her husband.

Breaking into a run, she called after him, but he navigated the first bridge, and the soldiers drew the traverse.  So she rushed the garrison, flew up the stone steps, and hurried along the top of the curtain wall to the northwest tower.  From the crenellated rooftop, she stood as a sentry until she could no longer distinguish her husband’s traveling party.  Shielding her eyes from the pelting raindrops, she sent him well wishes for a safe and prosperous journey.

For some reason Isolde could not fathom, she could not escape the nagging suspicion that all was not as it appeared, but she prayed her fears were unfounded and her knight would survive.  With one last survey of the landscape, she closed her eyes and sent him an oath, as a shield against danger, on the chilly fall breeze, and willed him to hear her.  “Arucard, I love thee.”

#

After two days on the road, and as many sleepless nights, Arucard exited his tent and admired the pale watercolors that streaked the morrow sky.  Isolde favored dawn, and often they rose from their bed, naked and wrapped only in a blanket, to stand before the east facing windows of the solar and delight in the sunrise.  In that moment, he wondered if she shared the view, and he ached for her.

He missed her soft and inviting body splayed beneath his, her warmth as she cuddled to his side, and her cries of bliss as he pleasured her.  He yearned for the reassurance of her steady heartbeat, the rush of her breath to his flesh, and the enchantment of her tender touch.

Despite years of service, battles, and hardship, he realized he had known no true suffering until he left his wife in Chichester.  Invested with quiet and unassuming strength, Isolde had become indispensible, a significant part of his existence, and he relied on her sage opinions for guidance.  Her absence, marked by palpable emptiness, rendered him at a loss, as a ship adrift without an anchor, and he struggled with uncharacteristic and unappreciated doubt.

Without her, to his frustration, he questioned everything.

“So how long hast thou been in love with thy wife?”

Arucard snapped to attention, and Briarus grinned.  His first instinct was to deny the soldier’s assertion.  Instead, he scanned the dew-covered meadow and pondered the possibility, which neither troubled nor frightened him.  “How dost thou know I am thus afflicted, as our acquaintance is new?”

“I suspected as much when thou didst hold thy lady, as thou displayed her wounds, and thou were gentle.”  Slapping his thigh, Briarus snickered.  “But it was thy apology for thy actions that convinced me of thy engaged affection, given no man expresses regret for what must be done unless his heart is fixed.”

“All right.”  Well, that seemed simple enough.

“Hast thou naught more to say on the subject?”  Mouth agape, the sergeant blinked.  “As most men cower in terror at the prospect.”

“What have I to fear?”  He scoffed at the mere thought.  “My wife is the kindest and most compassionate chatelaine, and she cares for me, which she stated prior to my departure.  Indeed, I am fortunate the King chose Isolde for my bride.”

“His Majesty did so in hopes of fostering better relations with the earl of Rochester.”  Shifting his weight, Briarus compressed his lips.  “It is doubtful the Sovereign possessed any knowledge of the violence inflicted upon Lady Isolde or their less than propitious kinship, else he may have selected another.”

“Still, I am grateful for Isolde, and I would explain the circumstances surrounding the burgage plots to the Crown’s satisfaction.”  Yawning, Arucard rubbed the back of his neck.  “And I would have the earl and de Mravec arrested and tried for their crimes against England.”

“Arucard, I must warn thee, as I have come to discern thou art honorable.”  The soldier squared his shoulders.  “Thither art an untold number of schemes poisoning our lands, and His Majesty receives information from various sources, which makes it difficult to trust anyone.  Thou would do well to prepare thy position with concern for details and appreciable facts.”

“Thank ye, Briarus.”  How he wished he had brought Isolde with him, as she would have manifested irrefutable evidence of her father’s evil deeds.  “But His Majesty will see that my cause is right and good.”

“Perchance it is, but I have seen many right and good men die by the executioner’s ax, at His Majesty’s command.”  Briarus chucked Arucard’s arm.  “I would hate to see that happen to thee, as I believe thee to be a loyal servant of the Crown.”

“What dost thou know?  Am I riding into a trap?”  In that instant, a chill of unease traipsed his spine, and he mulled so many outcomes, none of which inspired confidence.  At once, he pondered Isolde.  What would happen to her if he failed?  “Wherefore hath His Majesty held Demetrius?  Is my friend a prisoner?”

“I know naught of Demetrius, except he remains in the royal encampment.”  Thunder rumbled from the south, and Briarus and Arucard turned to discover a storm approaching.  “But only the King holds all the cards in a dangerous game, Sir Arucard.  Thou would do well to guard thyself and thy friends.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A sennight had
passed since Arucard’s departure, and Isolde immersed herself in the daily activities associated with running the castle.  Unafraid of hard drudgery and a little dirt or, in the case of the clogged drain in the garrison, a lot of foul-smelling muck, she rolled up her sleeves and joined the household staff in their chores.

“Lady Isolde, how many times must I remind thee, thou art no scullery maid?”  With hands on hips, Margery shook her head and frowned.  “Wherefore art thou scrubbing the buttery floor, when it is Anne’s responsibility?”

“Because she hath failed to remove the mold in the back corner, and I would get it clean.”  Of course, Isolde welcomed the arduous toil, as it kept her mind from wandering.  “And I have naught else to do, as Arucard is gone.”

And that brought her full circle, from the desolation of their massive bed, which seemed empty without her husband, to the brief respite found in onerous labors, to the recollection that at the end of her grind, she would retire alone.  On the thought, she sat on her heels and rested her chin to her chest.

“Oh, my lady, do not cry.”  Margery knelt and placed an arm about Isolde’s shoulders.  “I am sure everything is fine, and Sir Arucard hath been too busy to send word of the situation.”

The simple statement, intended to offer solace, only inspired more anxiety, and she grasped Margery’s sleeve.  “Dost thou think he is injured—or worse?”

“My lady, calm thyself.”  The steward stood and brought Isolde upright.  “Sir Arucard performs the King’s bidding, and he will write thee when he has time.  Until then, thou shalt not work thy fingers to the bone, as his lordship will not be pleased upon his return.”

“Whenever that may be, as I know naught of his homecoming.”  Wiping her hands on her apron, she mulled the condition of the pantry, as she had yet to organize the contents.  Then she yawned.  “Mayhap I should take a nap, as I am rather tired, but I find it difficult to sleep without Arucard at my side.”

“Then I shall make thee a nice pot of tea, to help thee relax.”  As they entered the kitchen, Isolde noted the spilt flour and scattered herbs on the table, but Margery steered for the door to the great hall.  “Leave it, as one of the girls will clean the mess.”

“But I may as well do it, while hither I am and able.”  After locating a cloth, Isolde wiped the numerous food preparation sites, while Margery set a pot of water to boil.  “And how fares thy association with Pellier?”

“Thou dost know of that?”  The steward blushed, and Isolde laughed.  “Ah, he is a foul little man.”  Then Margery smiled.  “Oh, very well.  I find him quite entertaining, and I might even be convinced to marry him if he did not irritate me so much.”

“What art thou carping about now, woman?”  Speak of the devil, and Isolde bit her tongue.  “And thou hadst no complaints in thy chamber, when I stoked the flames in thy hearth.”  When Isolde gasped in shock, he sketched a proper bow.  “Sorry for my indiscretion, my lady.”

“No apologies necessary, Pellier.”  To Margery, Isolde said, “And I believe I will take that nap.”

“Beg thy pardon, Lady Isolde, but I require thy assistance.”  The marshalsea scratched his cheek and shuffled his feet.  “A matter of some urgency requires thy right and good judgment.”

“Have I been remiss in my duties?”  She searched her mind but could seize upon naught she had overlooked.  “Regardless, I am at thy service, Pellier.”

“It is not serious, my lady.”  He ushered her into the great hall, whither a young maid and a soldier from the garrison waited.  “If thou wilt take thy place on the dais, thy approval or disapproval is needed, but first thy servants must plead their cause.”

“I am curious.”  Sitting in her chair, and ignoring the empty space to her right, she reclined.  “How can I help thee?”

“My name is Grimbaud Van Daalen, and I am one of thy lancers, my lady.”  The guard bowed.  “I would humbly ask thy permission to court Miss Isotta.”

Well that was an unforeseen development she never would have predicted, and she knew not how to respond.  Then again, the chatelaine had final say in such affairs involving the staff, absent his lordship, and she could not surrender the decision to another.  So Isolde pondered the one query that would determine her ruling.

Leveling her gaze on the dignified soldier, she cleared her throat.  “Art thou in love, Grimbaud?”

For a few seconds, he appeared to examine her question.  Then he glanced at Isotta and smiled.  “Aye, Lady Isolde.”

How Isolde wished she had declared her engaged affection to Arucard, prior to his departure.  While she admitted she cared for him, and he proclaimed a similar attachment, she did not explain the depth of her regard, and now she feared she might never get the chance.  “And doth Isotta welcome Grimbaud’s suit?”

Without hesitation, the maid nodded and took her beau’s hand.  “I do, my lady.  As I love Grimbaud.”

“Then as chatelaine of Chichester Castle, I hereby grant consent in Sir Arucard’s stead.”  But Isolde wagged a finger in caution.  “However, thou must observe all proscribed strictures in advance of thy wedding.  Treat thy future wife with kindness and respect, Grimbaud.  And I insist we celebrate thy nuptials hither, with a special supper, which I am certain His Lordship would approve.”

“Gramercy, Lady Isolde.”  With a fist pressed to his chest, Grimbaud dipped his chin, and Isotta curtseyed.  “By thy leave.”

“Thou art dismissed.”  When the couple reached the narrow passage that led to the domestic apartments, Grimbaud lifted Isotta into his arms and whirled in circles, and Isolde laughed.  “They seem very happy.”

“My lady, a messenger hath just delivered a letter for thee.”  Pellier charged the dais.  “Mayhap it is news from Sir Arucard.”

“Pray it is so.”  But as she stared at the writing, Isolde flinched, as it was what she dreaded.  “
No
.”

“Do not tell me it is from the earl.”  Margery swallowed hard.

“Indeed.”  While she preferred to toss the missive into the hearth, and intuition told her to do just that, she could not disregard the threat her father posed.  So Isolde broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, read the note, shuddered, and whispered, “Arucard.”

“My lady, if I may.”  Pellier stepped forward.  “What doth it say?”

Anger—not fear, burned as a steady flame, surged in her veins, and her fingers trembled as she passed Pellier the letter.  Nay, she would not yield, despite her father’s claims to her allegiance.  But a certain aspect of his message rocked the earth beneath her feet.  “According to Father, I need no longer consider myself married.”

#

The royal encampment dotted an otherwise pristine pasture, and a sea of tents bespoke an army of considerable size.  Countless soldiers noted the latest arrivals, which sparked Arucard’s nerves and fighting instincts.  As he rode into what struck him as enemy territory, for some odd reason he could not shake, he assessed the terrain in search of a hasty exit, should the situation merit escape.