Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) (16 page)

“Thus we humbly beg thy pardon.”  Geoffrey dipped his chin.

“Grammarcy, good sirrahs, but thou dost owe me naught.”  Athel relaxed in his hold, and she speared her fingers in his hair.  “Let us forget the unpleasantness of today and move beyond it.”

In unison, his brothers bowed.

“Isolde wanted us to ask if ye preferred to dine in thy quarters.”  Aristide peered over his shoulder.  “What say ye?”

“Lady Isolde is a wise and generous soul.”  Now Athelyna favored Demetrius with a playful smile he savored.  “And I would have a bath, if it is not too much trouble.”

“I shall belay thy request to Margery.”  With that, Aristide exited with Morgan and Geoffrey.

“So, my lord.”  Athel licked the curve of his jaw.  “I believe ye dost owe me a thorough washing, in fulfillment of thy promise, and I would have what I am due.”

“Then it is providential that I always pay my debts.”  He suckled the tender flesh of her neck.  “But I would have ye know that I truly no longer regret our union, and I speak not in jest.”  She stilled, and he met her stare.  They loomed on a precipice that posed two options.  One, he could persist on his current path, which rendered her unsure of their future and caused only added strife.  The alternative necessitated the nerve to admit what he had denied to himself, despite fledgling emotions to the contrary.  “I am grateful thee art my wife, as I would have no other.”

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In the days since arriving at Chichester Castle, Athelyna settled into a routine that mirrored Isolde’s schedule as chatelaine, which occupied much of Athel’s time and revolved around the various meals.  After a morning prayer, she ventured to the kitchen, to assist the staff with food preparation, and then she learned the myriad duties required to maintain the castle and its collective of servants and soldiers.

The task was daunting.

With ruthless attention to detail, Athel balanced the household accounts, ordered provisions from a local merchant, and ensured the dry stores in the undercroft remained free of spoilage.  And while the community aided her, an undercurrent of tension marred an otherwise exciting experience.

Determined to improve relations with the Chichesters, she checked her appearance in the long mirror, smoothed her plaited hair, and tied the laces of her cloak.  In the solar, she gathered her little bag of medicaments and strolled from the chambers she shared with her husband, who had long since departed for weapons practice.

A biting wind cut through her wool garments, as she raced across the courtyard to the more modest accommodations that quartered the guards and their families.  After several wrong turns, she located the correct portal and knocked on the door.

When Isotta discovered the identity of her visitor, she furrowed her brow, frowned, and granted entry.  “My lady, what can I do for ye?”

“I have come to see what I can do for ye.”  Athel assessed the dank lodging.  “It appears thou art in need of help.”

“We can make do with what we have, my lady.”  Isotta’s tone conveyed barely masked resentment.  “Given I am a maid, it is not thy place to tend my needs.”

“Nonsense, as I know no rank during moments of strife.”  Athel set down her bundle on a small chair and surveyed the patient.  “His coloring has returned, and I detect no fever.”

“The physic expects my husband will wake soon, as the bump on his forehead has gone down, but it breaks my heart to look upon him thus.”  Isotta sniffed, as she sat on the edge of the bed.  “He is the mightiest lancer in Chichester, yet he seems so frail, and it frightens me.”

“I am so sorry.”  A glance conveyed numerous shortcomings, and Athel dusted off her hands.  “Until thy spouse has made a full recovery, I am at thy service.  And thy residence would benefit from a thorough cleaning, but I shall work quietly, that I do not disturb Grimbaud.”  After doffing her cloak, she rolled up the sleeves of her gown.  “If thou wilt fetch a couple of maids, we will make things right.”  A baby cooed and then cried, and Athel noted the infant in a cradle.  “Mayhap thou canst take thy beauteous son to the kitchens, as thither is a warm place for ye to nurse thy hungry child and fresh bread and hot tea to sustain ye.  And I shall stay with thy man until ye dost return.”

For a minute, Isotta hesitated, and then she lifted her babe.  “Wherefore art thou so kind to us, my lady?  Thou art a member of the nobility, and I was born into poverty.”

“I may be a product of privilege, but I was raised an oblate, thus I am no stranger to hard work and sacrifice.”  Athel found a broom.  “Go, and be sure to sample the roasted ham, as it is delicious.”

“Thank ye, my lady.”  Isotta swaddled her son.  “Thou art most kind.”

“I owe ye a debt, which I intend to repay.”  Athel smiled and commenced her chores.  Soon a trio of young girls joined in the labor, and they swept, mopped, dusted, and tidied the lodging in but an hour.  With their assistance, Athelyna changed the linens, using great care as she shifted Grimbaud—until he groaned.

“Oh, dear.”  Supporting his head, Athelyna grabbed a pillow.  “Fetch the physic,” she said to one maid.  To another, she remarked, “Summon Isotta, as hither she should be, when her husband wakes, and someone should notify his lordship.”

As the servants rushed to do her bidding, Athel wet a cloth and wiped his brow.  When Grimbaud opened his eyes, he gazed at her and grinned.

“Am I dead?”  He blinked.  “Art thou an angel?”

“I am no angel, Grimbaud, but I suspect ye dost know that.”  When he propped on an elbow, she helped him sit upright.  “Go slow, else thou mayest suffer additional harm.”

“I would kill for a drink of ale.”  Wincing, he rubbed his temple.

In a flash, from a pitcher she filled a mug with cool water and held the cup to his lips.  “Take a sip.”

He did as she bade and quickly spat the contents.  “God’s bones, that is Adam’s ale.  Art thou trying to kill me, my lady?”

Just then, the physic thrust open the door and rushed into the room, followed by Arucard, Demetrius, and Isotta.  To Grimbaud’s wife, Athel surrendered her place and assumed her rightful position at Demetrius’s side.

“What happened?”  Demetrius slipped an arm about her waist.

“I know not.”  She shrugged.  “He woke as we put fresh sheets on the bed.”

“Isotta told me of thy generous deeds, and I am proud of ye.”  His single statement made her efforts worthwhile.  “Mayhap I should give ye a good scrub, after a long soak in a hot bath, as a reward for thy toils.”

“My lord, I would love that.”  When the physic pronounced Grimbaud well on the road to recovery, Athel glanced at Isotta and nodded.  To Demetrius, she said, “Now I must meet with Isolde and continue my study of her duties, but I look forward to our interlude in our chambers.”

As the gathering celebrated Grimbaud’s improving health, she retrieved her cloak and bag of medicaments and retraced her earlier steps.  After crossing the Great Hall, she skipped into the screened passage and turned right.  In the kitchen, Isolde lingered near a steaming pot.

“I am sorry I am late.”  Athel hung her outerwear on a wall peg and dropped the bundle on the floor.  “Grimbaud is awake.”

“So said the maid, when she called Isotta.”  As had become a habit, Isolde did not glance at Athelyna.  “Thither is thy ledger on the table.  Pellier just delivered a selection of furnishings for ye, in preparation for thy move to Winchester Castle.  Tally the figures, and we can verify the purchases in the storage room.”

Without complaint, Athel eased to the bench and opened the leather-bound book.  Grasping the goose pinion, she dipped the end in ink and made calculations, just as she had been taught.  But all was not well with her friend, and Athelyna decided she had been quiet long enough.

“Isolde, thou hast always been my supporter, but I know something is wrong.”  She put down the quill.  “Have I done something to offend ye?”

“Dost thou wish me to speak freely?”  Isolde pulled a small bowl from a shelf and proceeded to clean and chop some onions.

“I should hope ye would extend naught less.”  Athel gulped.  “Thus I have vexed ye.”

“Nay, I am not vexed.”  Arucard’s wife frowned.  “Rather, thou hast disappointed me.”

“How so?”  Her spirits sank, as she feared she might have lost her greatest ally.  “Pray, what have I done?”

“Thou dost have to ask?”  Then Isolde peered over her shoulder.  To the sculleries, she said, “Leave us.”

“Whatever distress I have caused ye, know that I am sorry.”  Athel bowed her head.  “But I am trying to find my way.”

“And that included abandoning thy husband and breaking thy oath, sworn before the archbishop.”  Isolde compressed her lips and sighed.  “What have I told ye?  His Majesty arranged thy marriage.  If thou dost not honor the commitment, thou dost place not only thy neck but also Demetrius’s in peril.  Canst thou imagine what he would tell the King, regarding thy disappearance, had ye succeeded in thy endeavor?”

“I did not think of that.”  Her mind raced.  “At the time, I believed him sincere in his desire to be rid of me, and I sought only to comply with his wishes.”

“Even if that were true, thou must remain hither and perform thy duties.”  Isolde stood, poured two mugs of hot tea, and returned.  “My dear, life is not fair, and it is often cruelest to the female sex, as we are but chattel in this world ruled by the male sex.  Yet, when it comes to thy husband, thou art his foundation.  Thou art the source of his strength.  Without ye, he hath no home, family, or love.  He hath naught to protect and defend, thus no reason to exist.  Even if Demetrius’s affections are not fixed, thou must keep thy word, else ye art both for the block.”

“Thou art wise, my lady, and I defer to thy sage counsel.”  Athel gazed at her reflection in the full cup and set it aside.  “Wilt thou excuse me, as thither is something I must do, at once.”

“Did I speak too much honesty?”  Isolde furrowed her brow.  “As that was not my intent.”

“On the contrary, I appreciate thy candor.”  Athel clasped hands with her advocate.  “But thou hast forced me to confront an uncertainty that I have avoided until now, and I would resolve the situation, without further ado.”

With that, Athelyna pushed from the bench, gathered her belongings, and strolled to her private quarters.  In the inner sanctum, she stored her bundle of treatments and draped her cloak on a chair.  Then she faced herself in the long mirror.

Garbed and styled as a noblewoman of estimation, she hardly recognized herself.  Yet she belonged to a wealthy and powerful man who would soon demand her most intimate gift, to seal their union in obeisance of a royal decree.  But she mistakenly held tight to the dreams of an unattached oblate, which might rescue her from the situation, when she could do so no more.  Thither was no redemption, not that she desired it, and that unexpected development she had to acknowledge.  Her fingers shook, as she untied the neckline of her gown, reached beneath the heavy fabric, and unpinned the mysterious brooch from her chemise.

The oval-shaped bauble, cumbersome in weight, due to the large gemstones, sparkled in the soft light from the hearth.  Mesmerizing in its design, it beckoned with alluring possibilities that harkened a comparison to fairy stories of old, yet she persisted not in the realm of fantasy, and it was past due for her to grow up and assume her position, sans indecision.

Since Demetrius gave her the fascinating piece of jewelry, she wore it every night.  As per the lore, she experienced vivid reveries of an as yet unidentified knight, whenever she slept.  But the curious tale mattered not, in the grand scheme.  Regardless of fate, she had to renounce the anonymous savior in favor of her spouse, by law and faith.  And she had to accept that she cared for her husband.

And so Athelyna stowed the brooch in a small box atop her grooming table.

“My lady, thou art hither?”  Demetrius walked into their bedchamber and smiled, as his silvery gaze settled on her.  “Isolde told me thou retired to our quarters, and I was concerned for ye.”

“How thoughtful is my knight?”  In that instant, she bade farewell to the illusion born of cryptic tales and seized the truth composed of flesh and blood.  To his unveiled surprise, written in his expression, she charged.  Twining her arms about his neck, she claimed a searing kiss.  Ah, thither were worse things in life.

DEMETRIUS