Beauteous book two age o.., p.15
BEAUTEOUS: Book Two: Age of Honor, page 15
Feeling a pang, not only for her courage but willingness to go where she did not wish—and more difficult for one self-conscious about her scarring—he said, “Then God willing, we wed on the morrow.” He returned his regard to her brother. “Now I shall claim an upper room to gain my rest.”
“The farthest on the landing,” the man said, “There is my squire and where I shall bed down.”
Not an obvious guard set on the unwilling groom, but still a guard.
As Sinjin started past Ondine, she whispered, “I am sorry to be the only rope to hold to.” He paused and, meeting her gaze, hated she who had been confident until her fall from the horse had turned so uncertain out from behind veil and mask—and now in the light of a marriage he did not believe as forced on her as it was him. Still, her regret seemed genuine.
Loveless unions were common, especially among the high nobility who must first consider alliances. But as acceptable as they might be, still some dared hope for more, especially when feelings ran high as they did between Sinjin and this woman who was his only rope—at the moment.
Having nothing more to say in her brother’s presence, he continued to the door. Even with good sleep, the day ahead would be long. And if recovery of the youths allowed for vows to be spoken, a longer day yet.
Chapter 17
Stern Castle
A bride. A groom. And soon a joining of lives before the disapproving priest who feared all would be undone absent the reading of the banns despite it being warranted for what was witnessed of the lady and the knight.
Then there was Lady Héloise who had first praised the Lord for answering prayers for the healing of those of Wulfen, second rebuked her granddaughter for behavior that, despite good intentions, was unworthy of a Wulfrith.
Ondine had feared her heart would break when her grandmother turned from her, but the old woman had sighed and worked her cane back around. “As I know from the keeping of The Book of Wulfrith, others have been guilty of behavior not befitting a Wulfrith, just as I have been. But ever the hope of keeping loved ones from making similar mistakes.” She had smiled sorrowfully. “Hence, more I am disappointed in me.”
Ondine had protested, and Héloise had hugged her with a ferocity surprising for her age and said in her ear, “He who glowers and grinds his teeth knows not how blessed he is. Be assured, if I must make that known to Sir Sinjin by way of a beating, my cane is at the ready.”
Had not Fira’s and Séverine’s concern over the hasty marriage been slight compared to that of others, including Ondine’s eldest sister, tears would have fallen faster.
Though she had longed to go to Skyward in the upper room, Fira had assured her sister she had tended the owl when Hector’s messenger informed the family Ondine was at the lodge. Too, there had been no time.
Hastened to her chamber by her sister-in-law and youngest sister, she had been bathed and scented oil rubbed into her skin, then laced into the gossamer gown Sinjin had first seen on the woman in the wood who called down an owl. For that, she had nearly chosen another, but it was her favorite and its blue symbolized purity.
Though the cover of hair worn loose that also attested to virtue should have sufficed, it did not. As the three women prepared to depart the chamber, Ondine had turned back and, ignoring the protests of the two, drawn over her face her most beautiful veil of white. Though Sinjin had told he would not have her wear such again, she was not yet his to command and not until consummation.
Unsurprisingly, Hector had also disapproved of the veil, and now as he led her toward the family’s private chapel, she steeled herself for Sinjin’s reaction—but first her own over sight of the one who stood in profile at the threshold.
She stared at the man who seemed to have taken as much care with his appearance as done hers. He was thoroughly bathed, hair and beard trimmed, and wore fine garments surely on loan from Hector. And then there were his fine boots.
Now as he turned without a walking stick, her heart jumped, and her brother corrected the falter in her step by drawing her closer. “Whatever I must do to make good of this, I shall,” he said, another reminder of what she neglected to make good with him. However, guilt was displaced by regret over Sinjin.
Despite Ondine being beautifully garbed and hair brushed to the texture of silk, he did not look upon his bride with appreciation—nor show recognition of her gown. Mouth compressed, he stared as she passed those gathered to witness the vows, which would be followed by the nuptial mass inside the chapel.
She wanted to believe the veil displeased him, and it surely contributed, but his greater discontent had to be for this marriage forced on him.
“Lady,” he said when Hector drew her to a halt.
Glimpsing the scar on his chin amid shortened whiskers, just as described to Fira, she answered, “Sir Knight.”
Her brother set her hand in Sinjin’s. “May your union be blessed by God and King Edward,” he said, then strode to his wife.
The priest cleared his throat and the ceremony commenced, throughout which the bride’s expression remained concealed and the groom’s solemn as his blue eyes sought to penetrate the veil.
Doubtless, all felt tension that had not been present when the Wulfrith heir wed, silence so complete even little Sebastian at Dangereuse’s side made no sound. But then, the usually disruptive boy had something special to hold to—a wooden sword gifted by Hector—and possibly he sought to earn some other item promised for good behavior.
“Sir Sinjin,” the priest prompted, then recited words he was to repeat in plighting his troth.
They were familiar to Ondine who had attended weddings of the nobility and the common, and yet she was unprepared for the promise her husband was to make—to hold her through all, in bed and at table, whether she be fair or ugly.
Her chin dropped, and she caught her breath when Sinjin’s calloused fingers met the soft of her jaw. He had not removed the veil, but gone beneath it to raise her face.
“…to have and to hold my bride through all, in bed and at table,” he said, “ever fair in my eyes regardless what comes.”
His reworking of the words and firmness with which he spoke made her eyes pool and heart hurt over its movement toward great affection.
So shaken was she, it surprised when the ring blessed by the priest appeared in his hand. “In the name of the Father, and of the Holy Ghost, with this ring I thee wed.” He slid the gold band provided by her family on and off the first and second fingers and settled it on the third.
The nuptial mass inside the chapel followed, Ondine and Sinjin before the altar beneath a pall stretched over them, one of the corners held by Hector. At the conclusion, the husband who might not remain a husband raised up the wife who might not remain a wife, then the priest gave Sinjin the kiss of peace.
Ondine tensed in anticipation of him passing it to her, and she had cause, her husband having no intention of kissing her through the veil again.
Feeling the eyes of all, she moistened her lips as his fingers closed over the veil’s lower edge, swallowed as it brushed her nose, blinked as it coursed her lashes. Then his face was before hers, no crossed threads between them, eyes studying her scarred visage whose only cover was the hair framing it.
“Ever fair,” he repeated, then as if his earlier displeasure had been only for her donning a veil, he smiled. It was no bright movement of the lips, but she thought its curve a reflection of kindness, encouragement, even appreciation.
“Sir Sinjin,” the priest prompted.
The kiss of peace received by the groom was far different from the one Sinjin bestowed. As if they were alone, he gripped her shoulders, lowered his head, and closed his mouth over hers.
Seeking the rasp of whiskers less felt for the shortening of his beard, she became his eager accomplice, pressing nearer and returning what was more than a kiss of peace though it might be viewed as evidence she should not have worn her hair loose.
Loudly, the priest cleared his throat.
Sinjin drew back, and when she opened her eyes, said gruffly, “No matter what comes, never again the veil.” He drew off that which he had folded atop her head. “Aye, Ondine?”
She wanted to comply, but recalling the reaction of children surprised at the sight of her, whispered, “As neither of us knows what is to come, I cannot agree.” Averting from what was becoming a glower, she reached for her veil.
He pulled it away. “Never again this one, nor any other you think to wear in my presence,” he said, then looped it over his belt and knotted it. “So do not, Wife.”
Though needled by anger, when another throat clearing reminded her of their audience, she looked to Stern’s priest whose frown was no less severe than Sinjin’s, albeit for a different reason.
The man closed the wedding with a blessing, after which the groom led his bride to the hall where a hastily prepared feast awaited them.
The blessedly short meal at its end, there would be no joyous procession to put the bride to bed ahead of the groom, and all knew not to expect it since their lives would not truly be joined unless the king decided their marriage was in his best interest.
Pray, do, Ondine silently and selfishly appealed as she took the hand Sinjin extended and rose from the high table whose seats of prominence had been yielded to two who were to forge a new line of Daschiels if this knight escaped further imprisonment. And death.
Having exchanged only niceties with Sinjin throughout the meal and unable to hear what was spoken between him and Hector on his other side, Ondine longed to be alone with him. “Will you deliver me to my chamber?” she asked low.
He turned to her brother who had also risen. “I shall escort my lady wife to her chamber.”
Hector looked to her, back to his provisional brother-in-law. “I trust you will soon rejoin me in the hall so none think too much of your absence.”
“I shall.” Sinjin led Ondine from the dais and among those gathering for the evening’s activities which would be of longer duration for the day’s final meal served early.
Feeling forsaken for being a bride who was to lie down with none for company on this night of nights, Ondine was tempted to join the womenfolk at the hearth for Héloise’s reading from The Book of Wulfrith, but stayed on the arm of a husband she had thought never to have.
As they neared the stairway, he said with what sounded appreciation, “You glide,” and when she looked up, his mouth curved slightly. “I should have known my savior was the one I believed a widow for being veiled—at least suspected, and more so once it was revealed you were she who commanded an owl.” His eyebrows jumped. “The warrior of me is aggrieved.”
If not for lightness about him, she would have apologized again for deceiving him. After glancing at her veil fixed to his belt, she turned her gaze forward, and they ascended the stairs and traversed the passageway aglow with the flames of hooked lanterns.
“Here is my chamber.” She nodded at the door they neared.
“Overlooking the donjon steps,” he said.
“Aye, where…” She trailed off.
He drew her to a halt. “Where, I am fair certain, you looked down upon me ere I could look up at you.”
The heat in her face tempted her to deny it, but she said, “’Tis so, your wrists manacled and, once dismounted, ankles.”
“Now weeks later, I have put a ring on your finger.”
Unwillingly, and one not of your choosing, she thought and, though there were words she longed to speak, pressed her teeth into her lower lip.
“Tell me, Ondine.”
A small laugh escaped over his ability to read one he hardly knew, the same as Hector read Séverine and his wife had read him almost from the start of their marriage. As if…
As if ever they were meant for each other, she followed that thought to its conclusion that sought to fit itself into her own marriage.
“One moment you are all seriousness, now you laugh at yourself,” Sinjin said. “Or do you laugh at me?”
“’Twas merely a thought come after talk of the ring you were forced to put on my finger.”
He raised her hand and considered the band. “What thought that?”
Inwardly, she braced herself. “That I would have the ring remain for reasons beyond keeping you from imprisonment or worse, but only if I can be more than the only rope within reach.”
Expression softening, he bent his head as if to kiss her, then released her and stepped back. “I do not mean to hurt you, but I am not the man you need nor deserve. Thus, should King Edward reject our marriage and an annulment be granted, ‘twould be best.”
She understood. Whatever war was between the two, it was unlikely Edward’s approval of their marriage would end it, nor that Sinjin would be content training warriors for the King of England.
“As my brother will come for you do you not soon return, good eve,” she said and opened her door, stirring the air and making the flames of candles within leap as if welcoming the two who should become one this night.
She stepped inside, but Sinjin pulled her back and pressed his mouth to hers. It was a kiss of little duration, but so passionate it felt capable of tumbling them onto the bed. Then he said, “I do want you, Ondine, but oft what one wants cannot be safely had.” He released her and swept his gaze around the chamber.
Imagining it through his eyes, she nearly cringed for how fanciful—perhaps childish—its furnishings and gossamer hangings.
And yet his mouth curved. “This is a fine fit for the one I happened on in the wood commanding an owl and wearing a gown of blue that appeared woven of the wind.” He touched her sleeve. “The same one worn to speak vows.”
He had noticed…
“Vows with this fugitive who that day heard a woman converse with what he believed a lover turned violent and, cautiously approaching to give aid, discovered it was no lover.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Skyward,” she said.
“Aye, and so long did I indulge in my sighting of a nymph, belatedly I realized I might endanger her by drawing the attention of men I could not guarantee would do her no harm. Thus, I spurred away to give warning and distance myself.” He frowned. “Did they pass near?”
“Close enough that had you not alerted me, I might not have had time to cover your tracks and take cover.”
His eyebrows rose. “My tracks?”
“I recognized you and saw blood on your horse, evidencing you were injured. Certain you paused to watch me since I heard only your departure ahead of approaching horses, I hastened to the place from which you spurred lest you bled out enough the king’s men confirmed they went the right direction. And you had, most noticeably on a large rock. I had only enough time to scatter leaves across it ere hiding myself.”
“Even then you wanted to save me. Why?”
She hesitated. “I did not know your crime against our king, but for Séverine’s good regard, I knew you were not bad. And I…did not want you locked away.”
He delved her face, looked around the chamber again. “I do not think a more fitting place could be had for Ondine of the owls. Regrettably, ’tis no fit for me.” He turned and started down the passageway.
Regrettably, Ondine turned that word over. Meaning?
“Naught,” she whispered and began easing the door closed, but then Skyward’s wavering hoot sounded.
Stepping from the chamber, she saw Sinjin had halted before the steps to attend to the bird. As she neared, he swept his questioning gaze to her.
She paused. “I found Skyward in the wood and, with predators scenting him out, brought him home. He resides in the upper room. ’Tis temporary, the same as his name, for he must regain full use of his wings.”
His stare was so intent, she nearly looked away, then he glanced up the steps. “I have no doubt you shall gift him his freedom,” he said, then the one she had also found in the wood and whose freedom she failed to gift, began his descent as she began her ascent.
Chapter 18
Once more my husband has composed a report to the king, and with it an appeal,” Séverine said in her French-accented English, drawing Ondine’s regard from Hector who had pulled Sinjin aside following the breaking of fast to present the missive to be delivered to London.
Feeling the cool of the hall though the great fireplace had warmed away much of the night’s chill, Ondine said, “Let us pray Edward bends as he did with your cousin and you.”
“As beseeched on the night past, this morn at mass, and I shall continue to do,” said the Lady of Wulfen, then offered a smile so encouraging it made Ondine long to embrace she who was becoming that rarest of beings to this scarred Wulfrith—a friend.
“Prayers in abundance, Ondine,” her grandmother spoke up out of the chair angled toward the two seated on the bench, then frowned. “Though Dangereuse told she would take Sebastian to observe the warriors at practice, was not Fira to have joined us?”
It was assumption only since on a day like this, absent clouds to block the sun and sky, the youngest Wulfrith likely searched out another piece of the family’s past, perhaps even that which aligned with her fondness for archery—the elusive tree said to have grown around an arrow stuck through it when a twelfth-century lady disguised as a lad fled the Wulfrith who later took her to wife.
Ondine nodded at what her grandmother’s maid had placed on the table beside her mistress. “Methinks she hunts for more items to enlarge The BOW.”
Héloise swept a hand from the neck of the wolfhound alongside her to the cover as if to safeguard its ears from foul language. “You know I do not like you calling it that, Ondine. Proper respect is due The Book of Wulfrith.”
It was only banter as since tiny Ondine crawled into her grandmother’s lap and, excited over lessons in letters, noted the large ones of the second through fourth words formed the word bow. She smiled. “I must needs remember that.”
