Arucard (Brethren Origins Book 1) Page 3

  “Well, thou hast better think about it.” With an arched brow, Demetrius cocked his head. “And what wilt thou do should the damsel fall in love with thee?”

  Flames crackled, and Arucard gazed into the blaze.

  Love?

  A violent shudder rocked his frame, as he considered the daunting prospect. Although he was quite familiar with the brotherly love upon which his knighthood was founded, he was entirely unfamiliar with the emotion as defined by the relationship between a husband and a wife. Naught on the battlefield could have prepared him for such a predicament. He was a Templar Knight, a creature of habit, and a no-nonsense man who preferred an equally staid existence. In the end, he knew only one way to live.

  Pray.

  Eat.

  Weapons practice.

  Repeat.

  Then retire.

  And thither was no vacancy for a woman.

  “Brothers, I fear we have secured our freedom on very hard terms.” With a terrible grimace, Morgan scratched his cheek. “Very hard terms.”

  “I fear we shall all be expected to wed,” Geoffrey added.

  “Not on thy soul,” Demetrius said with an air of cold determination.

  “Never.” Aristide pressed a clenched fist to his chest. “I should sooner end my own life than take a wife. Regardless of what the English believe, no one shall convince me, not even the King, that a matrimonial commitment is worth eternal damnation.”

  Perchance now was not an appropriate time to tell his brother knights that, indeed, the King had commanded just that, Arucard pondered in silence. The shock of his imminent nuptials had yet to wear thin, and the road ahead would be paved with similar hardship and resignation, he suspected. His marriage to Isolde was just the beginning.

  “Found it!” Demetrius stood, clutching the tattered captain’s log. “Gather round, brothers.”

  In desperate need of distraction, Arucard extended a hand, palm down, and his fellow Nautionnier Knights followed suit, one atop the other, forming a tight bond forged of blood, flesh, and bone. “Brothers, we have fought the good fight, but we have lost the first skirmish. Yet, despite those who would wish otherwise, we survive. Mighty England is now our home, and her King is now our commander, but our destinies belong to us, and we shall not sink into the annals of history, remembered only by our dishonor. From this day forward, let it be known that the Templars remain, though mayhap by another name. We art the Brethren of the Coast. As our Heavenly Father is my witness, in times of war and chaos, we will be revered and feared.”

  A roar of concurrence erupted, and from the surrounding woods the strident cry of some nocturnal beast echoed in agreement. Amid a crescent of oaks, beneath the stars, by the light of a fire, the Knights of the Brethren proclaimed their own oath. It was a promise written by men long dead but not forgotten.

  Love, honor, and devotion were the beginning of our Order. Bonds of kinship and friendship, all-important. We uphold these principles embrace for embrace, desire for desire, for one, for all. For King and Country we stand, for love and comradeship we live.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stifled beneath the heavy gown of blue, the traditional color of purity, with the complimenting wimple and bejeweled veil secured by an identical pair of quatrefoil pins, Isolde gasped for breath as the family carriage came to a halt before the east entrance of Westminster Abbey. Seated in the squabs across from her, and ignoring her as he had over breakfast, her father gazed out the window and frowned. When the footman opened the door, the earl descended and then turned to help her down.

  A canopy of gray clouds blocked the sun’s rays, so the afternoon was dreary and cold, which matched her mood. The previous day’s beating, unusually brutal and lengthy, had left her back covered in raw welts and open cuts, and she fought uncharacteristic weakness, because it had been years since the discipline incapacitated her. Given the weight of the plush velvet garment, in combination with the scarf that obscured her vision, she tripped.

  “Watch thy step, clumsy girl.” Father squeezed hard on her arm, and she winced. “If thou dost shame me, I will—”

  “Aye, Father.” As she gained her footing, she clenched her teeth against the searing sting from her fresh wounds. “Thou hast made thy position quite clear, and I bear thy reminder, so thou mayest rest assured I will not fail thee.” As he steered her to the cloister walk, which they strolled until they reached a double-door entry topped by a Portland stone tympanum, she inhaled and attempted to relax her shoulders.

  Lingering to the left, a group of impressive knights, all mountainous men with clean-shaven faces and short hair, wearing identical attire, the shade of which matched her garb, gathered before the Chapter House. When Archbishop Winchelsea loomed as a specter of ill tidings, preparing to dispatch her to her doom, Isolde’s knees buckled. Everything happened so fast, and while she tried to be brave, the pitiable truth was she shivered with terror, as she had no time to adjust to the change in her situation.

  Despite societal customs, no marriage notice had been posted for the requisite forty days, and her father boasted the King—not her family, provided her dowry. So her personal items had been packed into a small trunk, which had been tied to the coach, and never again would she return to her home or her familiar and comforting friends.

  As she scanned the witnesses, she wondered when her groom would arrive. Hoping for an aged, dull, and feeble noble in search of an heir, a chatelaine, and naught more, and possessed of a deep-seated abhorrence for belts, she assessed the spectators, but none met her low but reasonable expectations. Perchance her intended had no penchant for punctuality.

  “Now then, as both parties art present, let us begin the ceremony.” Archbishop Winchelsea held up a leather bound tome and cleared his throat. “Please, join hands.”

  When the tallest, most colossal giant stepped to the fore, a harsh realization dawned, and Isolde emitted a whimper. Uttering a silent entreaty for mercy, as she would never survive one of his lashings, she retreated in panic, but Father shoved her forward, into the enormous arms of her future husband.

  “My lady Isolde, art thou unwell?” With tenderness of which she had not thought him capable, her soon-to-be-spouse held her upright. “Dost thou require a moment of rest, as thither is a small bench around the corner, whither thou might take thy ease?”

  “What my daughter needs is strict authority to reinforce obedience.” Sneering, Father adjusted his cloak. “Heed my advice, Sir Arucard. Spare not the strap, as she is a willful sort.”

  With that she teetered, but the knight extended unshakeable support.

  “How very kind of thee to offer sage counsel, Lord Rochester. But whither I come from, we shield our women.” So her new master was called Arucard, and she favored his judgment and his name, as well as his rich baritone. “We do not batter them.”

  “That may be, but thou art in England, now.” A telltale red hue spread across Father’s face, as he stuttered and stammered, and she was grateful she no longer shared his house, but she worried about the servants who often bore the brunt of his ire in Isolde’s stead. “And thou must honor our traditions.”

  “Allow me to assure thee, I am aware of my locale, Lord Rochester.” Twining his fingers in hers, Sir Arucard peered at her and smiled. “But I would argue thither is little honor in such barbarity.”

  “Thank thee for thy concern, my lord Arucard.” In that instant, she decided, were she given a choice between the two, she rather preferred her knight, despite his immensity, as his proclamation did much to soothe her frazzled nerves. And in light of her father’s reliable temper, she opted to hope for a new and better future. “We may commence the service.”

  Without further ado, the archbishop flipped through the parchment, until he found his mark. “Dearly beloved friends…”

  And in the next hour, Isolde became a wife to a creature she knew not.

  In true English tradition, the actual nuptials took place outside the Chapter House. Listening with determina
tion, she made her vows, repeating the archbishop’s pronouncements with care and nary a misstep. With the King in attendance, her husband lifted her veil. For a few minutes, he simply scrutinized her. Then he bent and pressed his lips to hers.

  Theirs was not the most romantic kiss, as they were, for all intents and purposes, utter strangers. But she viewed the simple formality as the beginning, of sorts, to a long journey; the destination of which she pledged would end in friendship. Again, she kept her presumptions modest, as never would he love her, and she was not so naïve to set such lofty aspirations that would only result in desolation and disappointment. If they could form an abiding connubial bond based on mutual respect, she would be content.

  After the marriage mass ended, Arucard escorted her to his carriage. “Well, it is done.”

  “Indeed.” As she grasped for something to say, or a bit of courtesy to impart, her mind wandered, and she started when he rested his hands at her waist to lift her to the seat. “My lord, I am quite capable of negotiating the step, and I would not burden thee.”

  “Thou art displeased with me?” He chuckled, as he perched beside her, and the entire bench shifted, which sent her lurching into him. “Easy, my lady.”

  “Nay, my lord. I am not displeased, as a dutiful wife would never object to her husband’s inclinations.” Brushing the wrinkles from her skirt, she scooted to the right. “But I would not encumber thee, when it is unnecessary, as I am no fragile waif.”

  “I find it rather intriguing that thou dost profess an unimpeachable allegiance with my proclivities, even as thou dost express opposition to my noble actions, which were motivated by naught more than a sincere desire to attend to thy welfare, Lady Isolde.” Stunned by his reproach and her unforgiveable breach in decorum, she almost swallowed her tongue, until Arucard glanced at her and winked. “I tease thee, my lady. But it is nice to see some sign of life.”

  “Often my mouth has provoked trouble and brought shame to my door.” She bowed her head, as she had been married for all of five minutes and already erred. “I apologize, my lord.”

  “No apologies necessary, and may I call thee Isolde?” With a finger, he tipped her chin and brought her gaze to his. “Thou art charming when thou dost blush, and I prefer thee look at me, when we speak.”

  “Thou mayest address me however thou dost wish, as thou art my master.” Goodness, how had she neglected to note the clarity and compassion invested in his blue eyes? “And I wonder if thither is a pet name thou would rather I employ?”

  “A pet name?” With unmasked confusion, he arched a brow, and she laughed. “I must confess I have none.”

  “Then I shall have to compose one, just for thee, as a sign of endearment.” When he grimaced, her confidence flagged, and she remembered her proper place. “That is—if thou dost not protest.”

  “Wherefore would I protest, unless thou dost plan to mock me?” With his elbow, he gave her a gentle nudge and narrowed his stare. “Wilt thou make me thy fool?”

  “Oh, no.” As they neared Westminster Palace, the site of the wedding feast, she bit her lip. “Never would I—thou dost bait me, sir.”

  “Aye.” In his booming chortle, she found refuge and solace. “And I should compose a special term of address, just for thee, but I would ask thee to confine use of such informalities to our private conversations, otherwise my men would taunt me without mercy.”

  “That seems a very wise request, and I shall defer to thy judgment.” When he handed her to the walk, she demurred. “So we dine with His Majesty?”

  “I am afraid we have little choice in the matter, as he insisted.” As before, he settled her palm in the crook of his elbow. “And now that we art wed, may I inquire after thy age, Isolde?”

  “Of course.” Yet, as she acquiesced, she wondered if he would regret taking her to wife, given her advanced years. “I am eight and ten. And thou?”

  “Two and thirty.” Having anticipated an exclamation of shock, given her declaration, his unimpaired composure rendered her giddy. “I hope the difference in our years does not trouble thee.”

  “Not at all.” She lied, as his youth and handsome features inspired myriad fantasies and possibilities she dared not covet. “Must confess I supposed I might disappoint thee, as most brides celebrate their nuptials at four and ten. Dost thou feel slighted?”

  “By thee?” When she nodded once, he frowned. “Never.” Then he did something that surprised her. Cupping her chin, he trailed his thumb along her jawline. “Thy skin is like alabaster, and thy lips lush and ripe as a pomegranate. Thou art quite lovely, and I count myself fortunate to be thy husband.”

  For as long as she could recall, Isolde had considered herself something of a wit. Forever garnering rebukes from her father, she could always be relied upon to formulate clever repartee, without notice. But in that instant, her dependable faculties abandoned her, as no one had ever proclaimed her attractive.

  “Ah, hither is the happy couple.” Standing large in Westminster Hall, the King took her hands in his. “And Lord Rochester never told us his daughter was so beautiful. Wherefore have we not seen the Lady Isolde at court?”

  Because he never permitted such luxuries, she longed to reply, but she would not admit the truth and embarrass herself and her father. “I prefer the country life, Majesty. But hadst thou commanded otherwise, I would have obeyed.”

  Elegantly dressed lords and ladies filled the chasmal hall, which boasted opulent tapestries, resplendent paintings of kings past, marble-topped tables decorated with bird and lion figurines molded from jelly or pastry, and a massive dais at one end, beneath an intricate hammerbeam roof. The tempting aroma of roasted beef hung in the air, but a splendid fountain that produced wine and spiced pimento manifested an extravagant masterpiece unlike any she had ever seen.

  Seated beside her husband, at a place of honor, Isolde devoured generous portions of miniature pastries filled with cod liver, brewets, broth with bacon, meat tiles, capon crisps, frumenty, lampreys with hot sauce, and venison. And Arucard consumed his fair share, which brought a query to mind, as she sought to win his approval and affinity via his stomach.

  “The feast is delicious, is it not?” She scooted a bite of beef across her plate.

  “It is outstanding.” As she discovered was his habit, he paused and gave his full attention, which she found a bit discomfiting. “And I see thou hast a robust appetite.”

  “Art thou vexed?” Mayhap she should forgo the final course of sweets.

  “Not at all, Isolde.” When he pronounced her name in his velvety deep tone, he carried out the ‘o’ and gave her delightful shivers. “I prefer a woman with a healthy palate.”

  “Lucky for me.” She forced a laugh. “My lord, if I may, thither is any particular dish thou dost favor?”

  “Thither is.” Leaning to the side, he whispered, “My mother made a most excellent blancmange, and I have never sampled its equal.”

  “What a fortuitous coincidence.” At that minute, Isolde could have jumped for joy. “As that is my specialty, and more than once it hath been declared the best in England.”

  “Then thou shalt cook it for me.” In close proximity, she admired his chiseled cheekbones and the thick lashes she could study for the better part of an hour, if given the chance. “And I will be the judge.”

  How she wanted to believe in him. “Arucard, thou art—”

  “We would ask the ladies to perform a carol for us, to commemorate the wedding of our esteemed knight.” His Majesty stood and raised high his goblet. “And we bid the Lady Isolde adieu, as she must prepare to fulfill her duties. Guards, escort the new bride to her chambers.”

  #

  The hour was late when Arucard, surrounded by royal sentries, returned to his private apartments in the palace. After several hearty backslaps and bellowing guffaws from his fellow Nautionnier Knights, and an unequivocal order from the King, Arucard surrendered his tankard of beer and mulled the monumental task, which neared with each succes
sive second he counted as a death knell.

  Although he posited himself no expert in such affairs, he considered the day a triumph of cooperation, and his wife bespoke a naïve charm he found unutterably arresting. To her credit, she struck him as possessed of uncommon good sense, so he approached her with a single objective, fostering and maintaining honesty, which had driven his conversation, at times, to his embarrassment, because he thought her the most striking creature of his acquaintance. Of course, he had no one with whom to compare, given Isolde ranked as the first and the last woman he would ever know beyond mere polite exchanges. Thus the prospect of marital familiarity had led him to seek advice from an unusual source—His Majesty.

  According to the Sovereign, the female sex lacked the physical strength to pose any real threat, and they were singularly deficient in their ability to reason. Incapable of surviving alone, ladies relied upon men to persevere in a harsh world, and as such had been relegated to chattel, for their own protection. The lone weapon in their arsenal, and it posed a perilous hazard unlike any other, which could drive a sane man mad as a March hare, given it could consume the most ruthless warrior, rested between their legs.

  It was with that thought swirling in his brain he entered the solar of his rooms. A fire in the hearth warmed the space, and the double doors to the bedchamber stood open. Then he spied Isolde, wearing a simple linen night rail, with her long hair, black as a raven’s feather, cascading over her shoulders.

  “Hello.” Wringing her fingers, she shuffled her bare feet and then curled her toes. “I turned down the bed. Shall I help thee disrobe?”

  “Uh—no.” In a flash, below his belt any signs of life vanished from the most necessary part of his anatomy for consummating his vows, and he sought an escape or, at the very least, a delay. “Wilt thou take a drink with me?”