Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) (15 page)

On the table, he noted the broach he gave her for a wedding present, and he frowned.  Toying with the unusual piece of jewelry, he wondered wherefore she left it.  Then it dawned on him that she might not want to risk losing it, amid her work with the wounded.

At the washstand, he soaped and rinsed his face and then cleaned his teeth.  While he donned his garments, he kept glancing at the flaps, as Athel always brought him a light sop and warm bread, about that time.  Mayhap she slept, and he decided not to disturb her, as he strolled to the temporary kitchen.

“Good morrow, Isolde.”  He dipped his chin and claimed a trencher.

“And the same to ye, Demetrius.”  With a smile, she ladled the thick mixture and handed him a chunk of bread.  “How is Athel?  Hath she not yet risen?”

“I know not, as I have not seen her.”  An unwelcome notion plagued him, as he filled a mug with ale and sat on a nearby bench, but he quashed the odious supposition.  “My bride is dedicated to her work, and she wished to stay with her patients.”

“But she is not in their tent, as I assessed the condition of the injured before I prepared our food.”  Standing watch over a steaming pot, Isolde tapped a wooden spoon on the lip of the pan and paused.  “I thought she was with ye.”

“Art thou certain?”  Mid-chew, he set aside his repast.

“I am positive.”  Isolde wiped her hands on her apron and frowned.  “Whither could she have gone?”

“I know not.”  Then he recalled the brooch and leaped to his feet.  Just as quick, he inhaled a deep breath.  Thither had to be a logical explanation for Athel’s absence, and he would not jump to unsupported conclusions without proof of objectionable deeds.  “But I should find her—now.”

Nagging thoughts swirled in his brain, as he trudged through the heavy snow to the lodging wherein de Cadby’s men recovered.  A swift survey revealed no sign of Athelyna, and anxiety gripped his spine, but still he refused to believe the worst.

In mere minutes, he made the rounds of the encampment and discovered no one had information regarding his wife’s location.  It was not until a guard flagged Demetrius that he had any idea of his next move.

“My lord, I understand ye dost seek Lady Athelyna.”  He rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled his feet.  “I caught her taking a horse, just before dawn.”

“To what purpose?”  Demetrius’s blood ran cold, as he again pondered the brooch she left behind and the implication of that seemingly innocent act.

“The lady claimed she needed mint for medicaments.”  The soldier opened his mouth and then closed it.  “Sir, she said thither was a patch, nearby, and she would return anon.”

“In the middle of winter, thou didst believe her assertion?”  In that instant, Demetrius turned and hastened to his destrier.

“I am sorry, my lord.”  The hapless fool bowed his head.  “I offered to escort her, but she ordered me to remain hither.”

“Sir Demetrius, what is wrong?”  Grimbaud dashed alongside.  “My lord, thou cannot venture forth, alone, as it is dangerous.”

“I must find Athelyna.”  When Morgan and Aristide darted from the kitchen, Demetrius shouted, “My wife has run away.”

The Brethren sounded the alarm, and a small party gave chase, with Grimbaud tracking Athel’s mount in the heavy snow.  “Dost thou know her destination, Sir Demetrius?”

“Nay, and I believe neither does she, as she is a stranger to these parts.”  The bitter taste of ire filled his mouth, as he counted her behavior a grievous betrayal, and he spat.  “Given she knows not the terrain, I presume she has not gone far.”

And she would suffer his wrath when he found her.  Because, while the men said naught, more than once Demetrius caught Morgan fighting laughter, and that did not bode well for Athelyna’s bottom.  With each successive valley they crossed, his fury grew.

“It looks as though she lost her way.”  Grimbaud pointed.  “Mayhap I should search the ledge near the crags.”

“But the tracks continue to the south.”  Aristide shielded his eyes.  “Perchance she proceeded to Chichester Castle.”

“Could be the horse without its rider.”  Morgan peered over the edge of a steep bluff.  “We should be sure she hath not tried to trick us, too.”

“I do not think that is her intent, but let us divide and conquer more ground, as I would recover her sooner rather than later.”  Actually, Demetrius would wager his tortured soul that Athel sought an abbey or a convent in which to seek sanctuary, and it was her ill fortune that the nearest alternative was in Chichester.  “As we should arrive home just after the noon hour, and I would not delay the caravan any more than necessary.”

“Then Grimbaud and I will survey the cliffs and head to the east,” said Morgan.

“All right.”  With Aristide, Demetrius led his destrier along the ledge and continued toward the town.  To say that he was angry was to say too little.  Seething beneath the surface, he drove his stallion over a hill and spotted his wife in the distance.  “Thither she flees.”

Thus the chase ensued.

Like a madman without care for his own neck, he pushed hard and fast through the thick snow, determined to catch Athel.  When she paused and glanced over her shoulder, he knew, without doubt, she spied him, because she urged her mare into a gallop.

Given the landscape was foreign to her, she did not realize she rode toward a steep outcrop, which would force her to veer north, and thither he would snare her.  So he adjusted his course and hugged the verge.  With his heart hammering in his chest, he soared up a hillside and bared his teeth when he met Athelyna’s gaze, as he forged straight at her.

Emitting a shriek, she attempted to redirect her horse, but she possessed not the strength to maneuver the beast, and the mare reared.  In a flash, he pulled alongside, wrapped his arm about her waist, and lifted her to his lap.

“Let me go.”  She mounted a pitiful resistance.  “Thou dost not want me.”

“Hold thy poisonous tongue, as I will not tolerate further outbursts from ye.”  What had once been a pleasurable arrangement, with his wife tucked in his embrace, now served only to further aggravate him.  “Thou hast shamed thyself and embarrassed me, and I will have recompense, but anon, as thou hast wasted precious time, and we must rejoin the procession.”

With a mournful sob, she wiped a tear from her face.  “But I have my reasons—”

“I care not for thy reasons.”  He waved to Aristide, who collected the mare, and they regained the main road.  “Naught can justify thy actions, and thou would do well not to incite me, as I have no more patience to spare ye from a much-deserved, sound whipping.”

The sun was high in the sky, as they retraced their steps.  Ere long, they met Arucard, stopped on a curve, and a series of severe expressions gave Demetrius pause.

“What happened?” Aristide inquired of Geoffrey.

“Grimbaud slipped on the ice, fell from a bluff, and struck his head, as he scoured the area for thy wayward bride.”  The contempt in Geoffrey’s tone stoked the flames of fury.  “It took us a while to recover him.  He is gravely injured, and Isolde tends him in the wagon.”

“Mayhap I can help.”  Athel stiffened her spine.

“Hast thou not done enough?” Morgan asked, as he strolled up and untied his destrier.  “If thou had not run away, he would be fine.  He is a new father.  Wilt thou orphan his son and widow Isotta?  What hath they done to ye?”

“Morgan, cease thy admonishment, as it is not thy place to correct Athelyna.”  Arucard trotted to the front of the line.  “I am sure she regrets her lapse in judgment, and it is doubtful she intended to harm Grimbaud.  Let us continue our journey, that we might get Grimbaud home, whither the physic can treat him, and our friend just might survive.”

And so they resumed their travel, in a silent march bereft of the humor and spirited conversation that previously marked the trip.  Still in his grasp, Athel provoked him not, yet she wept.  When the caravan approached the north gates of Chichester Castle, the group narrowed in preparation to cross the pair of bridges.

Demetrius steered his horse through the barbican and navigated the machicolated inner gatehouse.  In the courtyard, the servants stood at the ready to welcome the lord and lady of the great residence, so he drew rein to the side, in hopes of attracting little attention.

A scream of horror penetrated the somber mood, when Isotta discovered her husband, and Margery, the housekeeper, and her husband Pellier, Arucard’s marshalsea, assisted the physic, as they moved Grimbaud to his quarters.

At that moment, scrutiny fell on Demetrius and his bride, as word circulated of the series of events that led to Grimbaud’s wounds.  Harsh perusal paired with expressions of scorn, and whispers grew to a mix of audible censure, which swelled to a cacophony of dissent.

“Teach her whither she belongs.”

“Ought to tan her hide.”

“Lock her in her room.”

“Deny her food and drink, and let us see how much rebellion is left in her.”

Blinded by rage, Demetrius descended from the saddle, turned, and yanked Athel to the ground.  With a steel grip on her arm, he all but dragged her into the Great Hall, with the angry crowd on his heels, urging him to claim the retribution she owed.  When she stumbled, he roughly pulled her upright, and she cried out in pain.  At a bench, he sat and wrenched her across his lap.

“
No
.”  Isolde clutched her throat.

Everything went black.

With his palm halted mid-air and poised to strike, naught but the rush of his breath filled his ears, and Demetrius glanced at his bride’s back.  Lost in a strange reverie, mangled and bloody flesh covered Athel, which evoked dreadful memories of Isolde’s beating, and he jolted from the haze of indignation.  A chill traipsed his spine, as he lowered his hand, swallowed hard, and shook off the miserable reflection.

“This is not the sort of husband I would be to my wife.”  Then he thrust into the present and mulled her words of contrition,
I have my reasons
.  Heaving and sobbing, Athel shuddered violently, until he turned her over and embraced her.  Rocking to and fro, he cupped her bottom and kissed the crest of her ear.  “Shh.  It is all right, Athel.  I am sorry.  I am so sorry.  Never will I strike ye.  But I would know wherefore ye fled, when I thought we had formed a comfortable accord in our marriage.”

“So did I, until I overheard thy conversation with the men, when I brought ye some ale.”  As she wrapped her arms about his waist and rested her head to his chest, she whimpered.  “I sought only to free ye from a life of lamentable bondage, given thou dost prefer the axe to me.”  With that, she unleashed a flood of misery so potent it shook him to his core.

In that instant, he recalled the various witticisms of camaraderie, uttered at her expense.  While Arucard made no effort to temper his regard for Isolde, heedless of the ensuing baiting, Demetrius had used Athel as a whipping post, given he lacked the fortitude to do otherwise.

“I did not mean it, as I spoke in jest,” he explained as much to her as to the witnesses.  “My friends made light of our union, and I had not the courage to proclaim the truth, but I do so now, for all to understand.”  He lifted his chin and addressed the throng.  “Let no one doubt my commitment to my bride, and I take full responsibility for what happened to Grimbaud, given I dishonored Athelyna, when my first priority as her husband is to protect and defend her.  Indeed, I failed her.  If anyone hath a quarrel with what occurred, thou wilt take it up with me.”

That ended the discussion.

“Back to thy chores, everyone.”  Arucard frowned, splayed his arms, and led the Chichesters from the cavernous room.  “Thither is naught to see.”

Adjusting Athel in his hold, Demetrius stood and carried her into the narrow passage and upstairs, to their private quarters, which Isolde and Arucard had constructed from two separate accommodations and furnished with lavish appointments.  In the solar, he set his wife on her feet, framed her face, and kissed her.

Initially, she did not respond, so he parted her lips with his tongue and intensified the exchange.  While he intended to comfort and console her, somewhere in the midst of the moment, he struggled with an overwhelming sense of remorse.  In ignorance, he hurt his gentle bride, and that knowledge wore on him as a relentless battle he could not win.  Yet he vowed not to repeat the mistake.

When his lady at last reciprocated, he thrust his hips, and she moaned.  “Thou art aroused, my lord.”

“Wherefore, I know not.”  He chuckled, as she nipped his nose.  “But I would make amends, Athel.  Canst thou ever forgive me?”

“Thou dost ask, and it is done.”  Sorrow invested her green gaze, and she offered an unconvincing half smile.  “But I am also to blame, and I would vouchsafe my promise never again to run away from thee, if thou wilt have it and be satisfied.”

“Ah, I am content.”  Lifting her, he whirled about in circles, claiming her mouth in a searing affirmation.  A knock at the door brought him to a halt, but he refused to yield his bride.  Instead, he tightened his grip, and she giggled.  “Come.”

“We brought thy trunks.”  Morgan sidestepped, with Geoffrey at the rear, as they carried the heavy chest.  “And we would extend our regrets to Lady Athelyna, as we goaded our brother.”

“The misunderstanding was our fault.”  Aristide cleared his throat.  “And we know better.”