Demetrius (Brethren Origins Book 2) (17 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Christmastide at Chichester
Castle featured a customary mass, a holiday festival on the grounds surrounding the great curtain wall, a Shepherds’ Play, and a huge feast, with Arucard and Isolde presiding over the celebrations.  But before they opened the gates to the community, the family gathered in the Great Hall.

It was to Demetrius’s misfortune that he forgot the usual exchange of tokens intended to express affection.  As he sat beside his bride, with his unwed brothers to his right, he cursed his miserable hide when she produced a tied bundle of garments.

“My lord, these are but a few items sewn by my own hands, and I hope ye dost find them serviceable.”  Then she pointed to a new belt.  “And fear not, as I worked the leather, myself, so it is nice and soft.”

As he flipped through the small stack, he discovered two shirts and a black tunic, expertly rendered.  And the strap was remarkably pliable.  Invested with a countenance of hope and anticipation, his wife all but bounced, and he cleared his throat, as he searched for some bit of comfort that might save him from the fray, because he suspected he had just committed a grievous error.

“Athel, my dear, forgive me.”  He shifted in his chair and ignored the sudden interest displayed by his brothers.  “Given the short length of our marriage, and the fact that we just returned from London, I forgot to procure something for ye.”

“Thou didst forget me?”  Athel emitted a pitiable whimper.

In that instant, Morgan, Geoffrey, and Aristide fled the scene, and Demetrius cursed them as traitors.

“Now, my sweet lady, let us not put such store in material goods.”  He gnashed his teeth, when her chin quivered and a tear coursed her cheek.  How could he have neglected his wife?  “Athel, never have I participated in the trade of gifts, and it did not occur to me that ye would do so.”  Mayhap a logical appeal would rescue him.  “Is it not a formality?”

“Thou didst forget me, and thou would characterize thy lapse as a formality?”  Mayhap logic was insufficient.  Downcast, she bowed her head, and he swore under his breath.  “I should check the servants and ensure that everything will be ready for the meal, as Isolde is much in demand, and I promised to supervise in her stead.”

“Athel—wait.”  To his regret, she ran behind the screened passage, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

Shortly thereafter, Isolde, casting him a piercing glare, strolled past, and he tugged at his collar.  Then he noted Arucard’s approach, and Demetrius knew he erred by epic proportions.

“Thou art quite the glutton for punishment.”  Arucard snickered, as he perched opposite Demetrius.  “What manner of lunacy made ye think ye could forgo a present for thy bride, on this of all occasions?”

“Who told ye?”  He narrowed his stare.  “Thou were at the dais.”

“Aristide, as he feared for thy safety,” Arucard explained.

“Very funny.”  With elbows propped on the table, Demetrius slumped forward.

“Brother, how many times must I belabor the point?”  Arucard flagged Margery.  “Prithee, bring us some ale, as Demetrius needs a drink.”

“Thou dost make jokes, when I have hurt Athelyna.”  A strange ache nestled in his chest, and he grimaced.  “How was I to know she required an offering, as never did we participate in such practices, in La Rochelle?”

“This is a new land with its own traditions, which art foreign to us, almost as much as the ladies, but thou should know women require such evidence of devotion for every conceivable reason—and some ye cannot conceive.”  Arucard whistled.  “Hast thou not witnessed, firsthand, my courtship of Isolde?  Dost thou not notice I bring her flowers and other trifles intended to foster affection, regardless of events and circumstances?  Dost thou think I do so because it pleases me, or I enjoy the baiting I get from my brothers?”

“Nay,” Demetrius answered with reluctance.  Of course, he refused to admit that he indulged in his fair share of verbal jousting, at Arucard’s expense.  “Thou should write a book, as thou art a fountain of knowledge, and thou mayest save our descendants a mountain of grief.”

“Oh, our future generations will know much more of romantic endeavors, so I doubt they would benefit from what I suppose they will view as archaic proficiency.”  Arucard paused, as Margery delivered the refreshments.  Then he peered from left to right.  “I anticipate our heirs will manage their women much better, as I am the first to speak the vows, and thou art the second poor bastard to venture into the trap-infested institution the archbishop hath the nerve to call holy matrimony.”  He pointed for emphasis.  “Brother, thither is little holy about it, except thou wilt pray as ye hath never before prayed.”

“But I do not understand thy assertion.”  Demetrius scratched his temple.  “I thought ye were happy with Isolde.”

“Make no mistake, as I love her.”  Shaking his head, Arucard rolled his eyes.  “But a wife will test thy patience and faith as none other.”

Now that was the root of Demetrius’s problem.

It unnerved him that Arucard seized upon Demetrius’s failing without even knowing it.  The secret that tore at his gut, that ripped at his soul, and kept him awake as Athel slept in his arms was simple yet absolute in its devastation, and he knew not how to recover what he had lost.

In short, Demetrius had no faith.

Since that dark day in thirteen hundred and seven, when the Knights Templar were betrayed, their order was disbanded, and they were hunted as animals, something inside him fractured and remained in tatters.  Bits and pieces of his battered spirit floated in a seemingly endless miasma of anger, resentment, and guilt, and he knew not how to escape the mire.

So he wallowed in a lonely existence, confined by his secret.

Yet Athel wandered into his life, as a ray of sunlight, casting out the shadows of misery, and he adored her for it.  He craved her company, and in her absence he suffered.  But he wounded her, and that troubled him for scores of reasons he could not begin to discern, unless he eliminated a single undeniable truth.

In a brief period, he had formed an emotional attachment to his wife.

“How can I make amends?”  Demetrius stretched upright, as Athelyna and Isolde reentered the Great Hall and made for his table.  As they neared, he stood.  “Athel, may I speak with ye, alone?”

“Arucard and I should resume our stations at the dais.”  Isolde claimed her husband’s hand.  “What say ye, my lord?”

“As always, I am thy servant.”  Arucard glanced at Demetrius and winked.  “Given I live to fulfill thy every wish.”

Ah, his friend was good.

“Mayhap we might stroll the festival.”  Standing, he downed his ale in a single gulp.  “Permit me to collect our cloaks, if thou wilt but consent to spend this auspicious day with me.”

“That sounds lovely, my lord.”  Her answering smile did not fool him.

“Hither thou should wait, and I will return.”  As he exited the castle’s primary meeting room, he heaved a sigh of relief.

He should have told her the truth.

He should have admitted his feelings.

But he had no interest in winning her heart, as Athel just might learn that her husband had no soul.  Indeed, he was as empty as a hollow tree.  It was better to keep her in the dark.

#

Another nasty winter storm ushered in the New Year, and Athel continued her study under Isolde’s tutelage.  After Grimbaud’s well-timed awakening, the community of Chichester Castle deemed her a savior, of sorts, and she found her somewhat unconventional place in the collective, as various citizens sought her advice for a myriad of ailments.  With the physic’s support, she tended minor maladies but always deferred to his expertise.  Yet it was another tenuous bond forged of sometimes achingly tender moments and still other inexplicably strained exchanges that occupied her waking moments to the detriment of all else.

To her chagrin, Demetrius kept her at arm’s length.  Despite regular intimate interludes, revolving around her baths, during which he washed her, he had yet to permit her to glimpse his nude form.  And although they slept in each other’s embrace, he had not made love to her.  In fact, he made no attempts to advance their passionate cause, and that particular realization served as the source of her quandary.

“Thou dost woolgather, my lady.”  With a grin, Margery giggled.  “Mayhap thou dost ponder sweet memories of thy husband?”

“Dost thou require our special potions to ease unusual soreness?”  As she pounded chicken breasts in preparation to cook her special blancmange, Isolde elbowed the housekeeper.  “Ah, the lady blushes, so I think we art a tad premature in our estimation.”

“Isolde, I told ye of the mystical brooch Demetrius gifted me, on the eve of our wedding.”  It was frustrating that Athel’s thoughts had run full-circle, and she reconsidered her decision to put away the item.  “But I have not discussed the visions it inspired, and I would do so now, if thou art willing to listen.”

“Sounds fascinating.”  Margery sat at the table and stirred a mixture of flour and eggs.  “Didst thou dream of Sir Demetrius?”

“Well, I am not sure.”  Recalling the series of images, in detail, Athel shrugged.  “No matter the time of day I sleep, the reverie is always the same.  It begins with a vicious battle and the clash of swords.”  She pulled up a chair and reclined.  “An unknown champion defends a group of innocent pilgrims, beneath the glare of a brutal sun.  With incomparable skill and speed the valiant knight charges numerous assailants, kicking sand in his wake and dispatching his enemies with lethal aim, until the enemy cowers in the shadows of the faceless warrior, but he is merciful.  Anon, as he walks amid the bodies scattered across the dunes, the sweet stench of blood hangs heavy in the air, and he doffs his gauntlets.”

“How thrilling.”  Isolde paused to wipe her brow.  “Dost thou never glimpse his face?”

“Thus far, nay.”  Athel searched her memory for the slightest oddity, which might yield an overlooked clue.  “Then the activity ceases, and I am transported to a different scene, whereupon the encroaching night sky signals the advancing eventide, and the defender enters a tent.  As he removes his armor, he reveals an intriguing mark etched into his flesh and barely visible in the soft light from a brazier.”

“And dost thou recognize the symbol?”  With unmasked interest, Margery bit her bottom lip.

“Aye.”  Athel nodded.  “It is the Crusader’s Cross, black in color, and marred by a distinct scar in the shape of a jagged spike.”

In that instant, Isolde dropped her wooden spoon.

“Lady Isolde, is something wrong?” Margery started.

“Arucard bears such a badge in the spot as ye dost describe.”  Isolde swallowed hard, and Athel feared she might swoon.  “But it is unmarred by the injury ye dost recount.”  She poured herself a tankard of ale and downed an impressive portion.  “It is a brand rendered by Coptic priests outside the walls of Jerusalem, to commemorate a pilgrimage to the Holy Lands.”

“But I thought the church banned such cutting of the flesh?”  Consulting her knowledge of scripture, Athel tapped her chin.  “Wherefore would they commit such a breach of faith?”

“Because it serves as unimpeachable proof that they completed the religious journey, which they revere.”  Isolde narrowed her stare.  “And I believe all the Brethren are similarly branded.”

“Art thou aware of the capacity in which they made the trip?”  Despite repeated attempts to question Demetrius, Athel had gleaned naught from him on the subject, and his reticence only inflamed her curiosity.  “He hath not been very forthcoming with his history.”

“Thy husband will tell ye when he is ready, and it is not for me to discuss.”  Isolde’s curt reply increased Athel’s suspicions.  “We should complete our chores.”

Thither persisted a great secret in Chichester Castle, and Athel believed only she remained unacquainted with the truth.  What were they hiding?

“Would thou like to borrow the brooch, and see what it reveals to thee?”  As was her charge, Athel cleaned and separated beans for supper.  “I can fetch it for ye.”

“I told ye already, I need no object to tell me what I know in my heart.”  Isolde pummeled the chicken with uncharacteristic fervor.  “And I warned ye not to set store in illusions, as they art dangerous.  They have no imperfections, because ye canst control them.  They art what ye doth make of them, and that is not fair to Demetrius.  He is flesh and blood, and thou wilt do well to focus thy efforts on him.”

When Athel peered at Margery, she shook her head, smiled, and hugged her protruding belly.  “I have no need of thy bauble, my lady, as I already know what particular part of Pellier’s anatomy it would show me, and I am quite familiar with it.”

“Woman, what dost ye grouse about now?”  Pellier strutted into the kitchen, followed by Arucard and Demetrius.  “If thou art compelled to employ thy mouth, I wager I have use for it.”

“Whither hast I heard that before, little man?”  Margery eased from her seat and tossed a cloth in his face.  “And I might be temped if ye could compose something original, as I am acquainted with what ye hath to offer, and I am not impressed.”

“Did I or did I not make ye scream, last night?”  Waggling his brows, Pellier smacked her bottom.  “And I will do so again, this eventide.”

“That is much more than I wish to know of thy relationship, Pellier.”  Isolde inclined her head, and Arucard kissed her cheek.  “If thou dost insist on announcing such crude information, ye may exit my presence and return to the garrison, whither thy boasts are appreciated and celebrated.”