Time Enough for Love (3 page)

Able to think of nothing more in that moment than going to her side and entwining himself in her tresses, he stood transfixed, hardly able to breathe. He let his gaze follow the lines of her bowed head, her small, square shoulders and slim, shapely hips.

Should he inquire as to her availability? He was in need of a wife to care for the children, the household – he swallowed – and to warm his bed. Fleetingly, Otto considered leaving his hidden spot in the alcove, introducing himself, striking up a conversation to find out who she was.

Her face, I must see her face!
Otto noted a trembling of her shoulders and frowned.
Does she weep?
He suddenly wanted to help her, console her, and shifted on his feet, ready to spring to her aid, but decided against it and reached instead for his discarded cloak.

A cloud blew by outside and the interior dimmed. He looked up at the windows, his thoughts broken. A pair of priests, deep in muffled conversation, passed from behind the altar and stepped through a side door. His thoughts turned back to the girl, and he glanced again in her direction, but she was gone. How could she have left so quickly? He’d heard nothing. How long had he been daydreaming?

Otto hurried out of the shadows, bumped into her, and nearly sent her sprawling across the floor, but he was able to grasp her shoulders before she fell.
“
Mein Gott! Fraulein!
”

Her mouth dropped open when she looked at him, then she apologized in a small, breathless voice,
“
Je suis désolée, mon seigneur.
”

Holding her inches from him, he saw she was indeed young – painfully so – with eyes bluer than his own. So petite was she, he felt his hands alone could encircle her waist.

His heart was aflame. The girl was charming. Beautiful. Timid?

“
Mon seigneur?
”
Her eyes were locked on his, unblinking.

Was she from Frankish Gaul, or perchance Burgundy? He was intrigued by her lilting accent.

Mouth dry, thoughts scrambling, Otto tried to find words to answer her, but none came. Her eyes sparkled deliciously. From recent tears? Mayhap not. He searched her face. A blush crept across her cheeks as he stared down at her, and he liked that the top of her head barely reached his chest.

She lowered her chin, averting her gaze, and discreetly disengaged herself from his grip. She curtsied. “You are from the north.
Allemagne, non?
”

“
Enchanté
.
Oui
, Saxony,” he said, finally finding his voice.

“Ah, you are here for the grand event.”

“
Oui
, I am Otto of Germany, invited guest, newly arrived for the marriage of King Lothaire and Princess Adelaide of Burgundy.”

“Otto… I see, I mean, I have heard your name, Sire. It is said you are a mighty warrior, valiant and just, a fair and good leader to your people. The Pope sings your praises.”

He saw a hint of dimples when her gaze briefly flickered toward his. Did she tease with such glowing words?

Otto cleared his throat, uncertain and beguiled. “Are you of Princess Adelaide’s suite? Surely you will also be attending the nuptials tomorrow?”

She looked directly at him then, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, the barest of frowns creasing her brow. “
Oui
, you shall see me there.”

“Ah, that is excellent news. I––”

“Sire,” she interrupted, stopping him with her raised hand. She hesitated before gesturing toward the statue of St. Monica. “I… I came only to say I am sorry if I disrupted your prayers. I thought the church empty, and would have made less noise, had I been aware of your presence.”

His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and he shrugged to cover his discomfort. “You didn’t bother me, my lady. St. Monica was my wife’s patron saint. Each time Editha bore me a child, she would pray to St. Monica for a safe delivery and wisdom in rearing them. I was saying a prayer for Editha’s soul.”

“Her soul? Your wife has passed away? I’d not heard. I am sorry for your loss.”

“News travels but slowly over the Alps. She is a year gone already, and the pain has eased into gentle memory.”

Seeming anxious, the girl nodded, then looked about, possibly searching for something more to say, as was he. He still wanted to bury himself in her hair, wrap his arms around her shoulders, protect her, taste her lips… so close.

He gestured toward the door. “May I escort you back to the palace?”

“
Oui
… I, er,
non
,” she stammered, her voice so soft he leaned in. “My escort awaits me outside. Please.” She looked up at him again, her lips slightly parted, her eyes still sparkling, but this time brimming with the tears he’d only suspected earlier.

“Why do you weep,
petite?
”

Her gaze moved to his lips, and she swayed toward him.

“What is your name?” he whispered, wanting to kiss her, so near he could feel her breath against his skin. When she didn’t back away, he moved to brush his lips against hers.

Abruptly, she turned her face aside, then shook her head, eyes wide. “
Mon Dieu, non!
I forget myself.”

She took another step back, but he caught her arm. “Don’t go! Forgive me, my lady, I… I meant no harm. Please, do not think badly of me.”

“I
must
go,” she said, her voice strained. Wrenching her arm free, she hurried away without another glance.

“Your name?” Otto called after her. “What is your name? I would that we should be formally introduced.”

But she said nothing as she hurried to the doors, yanked them open, and stepped into the light, leaving Otto to berate himself for his rude and forward behavior.

The next day, the wedding.
Lord Almighty
. Otto’s thoughts veered as he remembered his heartache, for it was then he had learned the girl’s true identity. Princess Adelaide, his beautiful
petite
, was the bride! Desolate, he barely recalled the taking of vows or the nuptial Mass, such was his pain, his shock so all-encompassing as to blind him as she became Lothaire’s property, his queen, his wife.

Thoughts returning to the present, Otto tossed back the rest of his wine. But things had changed. Adelaide was free, as was he, having found all others wanting in her stead.

He bowed his head.
Please, God, what has happened to
ma petite
? I pray I am not too late.

He thought of the margrave of Ivrea and felt his grip tighten on his cup. “You, Berengar,” he vowed, visualizing his enemy, “you shall be undone.”

*

Adelaide closed her eyes against the darkness of her cell, thinking, remembering. Soon, she was wandering in that peculiar state of half-dreaming, lost between wakefulness and deepest slumber.

After a time, she drifted back to the day before her wedding to Lothaire. She was young, a maiden, barely sixteen. She had just met the man of her dreams, but – Lord in heaven – he was
not
her future husband.

Adelaide saw herself hurrying down the stairs of the Church of the Golden Ceiling. She brusquely waved aside her ladies-in-waiting. Her bodyguards fell in step behind her, keeping themselves at a cautious distance.

She sheltered her eyes from the glaring sun with one hand, her other clenched in a fist at her side. Otto. King Otto of Germany. Though until now she’d never been interested in any man, this one had unsettled her heart in an instant. How dare he! How could that be? His wavy, golden hair and blue eyes were seared into her mind.

Her heart was cruel to leap so, come alive, and betray her on the very eve of her nuptials. She swiped angrily at her tears and then stomped back through the crowded streets to the palace.

Dismissing her ladies, Adelaide entered her bedchamber and slammed the door. Not once in her life had she thought about kissing a man, not until she nearly threw herself at this one. Standing a full head taller than she, his chest twice as broad, she was drawn to him in a way she had not imagined possible.

“Ahhh!” She seized a comb and flung it blindly across the room. Otto!

Her mind veered when the comb hit the amber-colored silk gown she would wear for the wedding. Lothaire, her fiancé. The two men were kings and of an age – in their thirties – but Otto was vital and alive, while Lothaire seemed placid, without presence. Lothaire’s height was hardly greater than her own, his belly soft and bulging, his eyes and receding hair a dull brown. For the second time in her life, she thought of kissing a man, of kissing Lothaire, as she knew she would soon have to do. A shudder coursed through her body.

They had been promised to one another by contract and treaty fourteen years before, when she was a toddler. A few years ago, her mother had married Lothaire’s father, King Hugh, after Adelaide’s father had passed away. Her mother claimed she did it for Adelaide’s sake, to further cement the union of the two houses. Now Hugh was dead, her mother a widow once more, and Adelaide’s time had arrived. She would belong to Lothaire by noon tomorrow. She would be his wife and Queen of Northern Italy. He would be able to kiss her, touch her, and she would have to allow his touch, mayhap be expected to respond in kind.

Otto.

She ground the heels of her hands against her eyes. She had to forget his face, his name, the feel of his powerful hands, the curve and promise of his lips.

“Ahhh!” she cried out.

Tears coursed down Adelaide’s cheeks as she threw her box of ribbons across the room. Why had Otto come here? Why?

*

A day later, the formal ceremony over, Adelaide stood with her new husband at the top of the church steps, the dazzling sunlight painful after the gloom of the interior.

The cobbled square before them was crowded with people waving, cheering, and calling blessings upon them. The air held the scents of the costly spices being burned throughout the city for the wedding festivities, and Adelaide breathed deeply, smelling a delicious mingling of cloves and cinnamon. The people tossed blossoms of every color and kind to anoint the first path Lothaire and Adelaide would walk together as man and wife. A pair of matching white horses awaited them at the end of the path, garlanded with ribbons and flowers, a gift from Lothaire to her, so beautiful.

Guards with pikes made a good display of holding the crowds back, but this was just a formality. Everyone was polite, relaxed, and eager to see their king wed at last.

Adelaide let her gaze flicker over the invited guests, searching their faces as they issued from the church.

When Lothaire raised his hand and smiled, accepting the good wishes of his people, Adelaide mimicked his gesture. She was their queen now and knew she must appear happy, regal, wise, and confident – attributes a subject would hope to see in their monarch’s bride.

Although she didn’t feel any of those things, Adelaide knew where her duty lay, and she would not disappoint the people – her people now.

Duty. Ever her mother’s favorite word. How many times had Adelaide heard it since childhood? Since her father’s death? Since that very morning?

“We each have a duty now, child. Your father drew up this treaty many years ago, and we are duty-bound to see it through. Besides, you shall be queen consort to Lothaire. Is that duty not worth any price? Follow my sage leadership without qualms, daughter. Did I not follow duty in giving myself to King Hugh, even so soon after your father’s passing? Despite my grief, I felt duty-bound to ensure the bonds of treaty between Burgundy and Italy remained unbreakable, by our uniting with both father and son.”

Duty, duty, duty. Looking out at the crowd, Adelaide sighed behind her smile and waved again. Her mother stood beside her, also waving.

“Queen Adelaide!” a high-pitched voice cried. A little girl pushed through the crowd, rushing past the armed guards, and into the open. “My lady, you are very pretty. Here, I brought you flowers. Some are blue, like your eyes.”

The child curtsied, then handed Adelaide a fist full of wild blooms.

Smiling, Adelaide made a show of inspecting them, then held them to her nose. The scent was sweet, lovely. “Thank you very much.”

The girl beamed with pleasure and then, with another curtsey, she disappeared into the crowd.

The bishop came out of the church at that moment. When he raised his arms, the throng grew quiet. “This morning, Princess Adelaide of Burgundy and King Lothaire of Italy were united before God. May their union be blessed, fruitful, long lasting, and abounding in wisdom. People of Italy, behold your king and his new bride.”

Cheers and applause filled the air. Adelaide smiled politely at her husband, remembering her first sight of him on the day of her arrival in Italy some five years ago. The meeting had been formal, their words stilted and courteous. Her initial impression of him? As bland as milk toast.

She had been immediately enrolled in Pavia’s famed Palatina School and rarely saw Lothaire, rarely thought of him, so busy was she with her studies. And her husband was as much a stranger to her now, as on that first day.