Chapter 19
Ash
In a muddy clearing in France on the edge of a blood-ready battlefield, Ash had made his vows. He had sworn himself away, dedicated his body and soul and all he owned to one person. He had exchanged a promise, a kiss, and a ring.
Today, outside the church of the town he had grown up beside, he would be making vows again. He wondered if God could sense his lies.
All eyes were upon him. Him and the person who was to be his wife.
Since the announcement they were to be wed, word had spread, and the churchyard was full of people: some he recognised, many he didn’t. He missed that field in France – silent save for their words, and the words of their marshal, and the gentle sound of the trees in the breeze above them.
Agnes squeezed his hands. Perhaps she could tell he was nervous.
She, too, seemed out of sorts. She had spent all morning twisting her hands in her skirts, jumping out of her skin every time someone brushed past. Ash was not sure if it was nerves for the marriage, or the same affliction that had troubled her the previous day.
He squeezed her hands in return. Their mutual anxiety was likely making them both feel worse, but it was reassuring to know he was not alone.
They stood in the door of the church, the priest between them dressed in his holy finery. Ash felt the reassuring presence of Olly behind him – in full armour, no less; something Olly had insisted upon himself.
‘Should anyone try to steal your bride away,’ he had said, making Agnes laugh and Ash roll his eyes.
The priest announced them, as if anyone present did not know who they were, then began the long process of reading the vows: the words handed down from God to bind them together. Ash found them washing over him without ever touching him, already bound by promises he had made so long ago.
The words hung between them like clouds. Their own unspoken vow – Agnes’s allowance of Olly’s presence – the heaviest of all.
They spoke with confidence, eyes upon the other. Yes. I will. I do. Agnes never let go of his hands.
They were declared married with a kiss – the kiss given from the priest to Ash, and from Ash to Agnes, a light, chaste thing that barely brushed the corner of her lip.
And then it was done.
The road back towards Dunlyn was one Ash had trodden before; one he had walked not so long ago, the imagined smell of smoke in his nostrils, his face throbbing and his heart hollow.
The man who walked that path then, with Raff keeping him upright at his side, would never have imagined that this was the way he would walk this path next.
That day, he was sure that the next time he was taken down this road he would be travelling the other direction. He was sure that he would be alone.
Today, he was not. Agnes stayed at his right side, their arms linked, her own nerves clearly abated now the ceremony was complete. To his left strode Olly, the perfect picture of a knight. Raff came behind, and behind them the allies who had seen fit to join.
The procession arrived beneath the outer gates of the keep to a chorus of cheers from staff and servants. He was sure that for many of them, their joy was feigned – a way to win his favour.
Despite the terribly short notice, Joan and Ellen had pulled together a grand celebration for the event.
As they headed into the great hall, he could not hide how impressed he was: the central fire was burning, rushlights burned on every surface, and the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling shone with candles.
They had found a band willing to play on short notice for a hefty fee, who struck up a happy jig as soon as the party entered the room.
Ash was met with a parade of people eager to congratulate him. The mug in his hand emptied, but never for long. On his arm, Agnes smiled at him. At his side, Olly kept his ear full of filthy jokes. It was not, Ash realised, as awful an event as it could have been.