Chapter Eight #2
More than that, he was positive that if she gazed into his eyes long enough, she would be able to read of his terrible guilt, his sweeping grief.
Discovering his betrothal not an hour before still had him reeling with shock, a shock that transformed into unimaginable pain every time he gazed in Arissa’s eyes.
He knew, without a doubt, that she would take the news much harder than he had.
Arissa suddenly leaned against his arm, sending a surge of shock bolting through his body.
His first reaction was to move away from her lest William take note their close contact, but in the next breath he realized that Arissa had oft leaned against him over the years, an affectionate gesture and nothing more.
And if she was not leaning on him, she was sitting upon his lap and demanding stories.
There was nothing unusual about their contact and he struggled to maintain a casual manner.
Her cheek against his massive bicep, Arissa yawned. “When are they going to commence dancing?”
He gazed down at her dark head, resisting the urge to deposit a kiss on the raven tresses. “Give the word, kitten, and I shall command it.”
She raised her head, gazing up at his incredible face. “The word is given. I want a lively dance, if you please.”
He frowned, feeling himself being sucked into the powerful vortex of her gaze. “Not too lively. I will not be able to keep pace.”
“You mean you are too old to keep pace,” she laughed softly at his menacing expression. “Hurry, now. Go and tell them to begin playing before I fall asleep.”
“You would fall asleep at your own party?”
It was a comment more than a question. Obediently, he rose to his full height and Arissa couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Casting her a bold wink, he stepped around his chair and moved off the dais.
Just as he was passing in front of the table en route to the orchestra, he came to an abrupt, if not disbelieving, halt.
Arissa tore her eyes off of him long enough to glance to the source of his focus.
Bartholomew was moving into the room, clad in yards and yards of white fabric that had been dirtied with soot or some other sort of blackness. His face was painted white and dark circles ringed his faded blue eyes. Beside her, she heard her father groan.
“Good Christ, now what?” he said miserably, motioning to Richmond standing on the other side of the table. “Get him out of here, Richmond. I shall not have him spoiling the celebration.”
Richmond stepped in Bartholomew’s direction, but Arissa leapt to her feet and held out a quelling hand. “No, Richmond, leave him alone. He’s about to perform a special skit in honor of my birthday.”
Richmond halted his forward momentum, his gaze moving between Arissa and her father. William focused on his daughter. “What sort of skit? Did he tell you?”
“Of course not, father. It is a surprise.”
William cast a long glance at his son, who was currently taking position by the elaborate hearth. He shook his head slowly. “He looks as if he’s just survived a bout with the plague. What sort of performance could he be planning with that costume?”
Lady Maude stood up on the other side of her husband. “If it is in honor of his sister’s birthday, then we will all sit and enjoy it. No matter what it is,” she regained her seat, waving a stern hand to Richmond. “Return to your seat, Richmond.”
Richmond obeyed. As soon as he pulled his chair up to the table, Arissa wound her warm fingers around his hand. Under the table, he clutched her tightly.
The crowd saw that Bartholomew was about to speak and a hush settled over the smoke-hazed room. Bartholomew faced his sister, his parents, and raised his arm in simulation of a Roman salute.
“Greetings, friends, guests, relatives, honored nobles. In tribute to my sister’s most monumental day of birth, I have prepared a prolific Greek prose that, in itself, hinges the meaning of life,” he focused on his sister dramatically.
“For you, my dear sister. Congratulations that you have achieved this day:
‘Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate,
Sad Acheron of sorrow black and deep;
Cocytus named of lamentation loud
Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon
Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.’”
The prose was delivered with great flourish, gloom-and-doom that would be better suited for a funeral than a birthday celebration. William put his face in his hand and shook his head with disbelief while the rest of the hall was deadly silent, listening with intense concern and puzzlement.
“He’s praising her by reciting a poem about the River Styx?
” Gavan was suddenly crouched by Richmond’s left hand.
Two seats down, Daniel and Penelope sat with open mouths as Bartholomew raised his voice with great theatrical control.
Regine, loitering at the end of the table, watched her sister and Richmond closely for their reaction.
Richmond kept his gaze straight ahead, on Bartholomew. “Hardly appropriate.” Beside him, Arissa hushed them both sternly.
Bartholomew took a dramatic pause, propping his foot on a chair and pretending to pilot a boat as one does when crossing water, by using a pole and pushing it across the bottom.
“‘Far off from these slow and silent stream.
Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls
Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks
Forthwith his former state and being forgets,
Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.’”
He suddenly bowed with great embellishment before any applause was attempted. As he took his third bow, the stunned audience began to clap weakly for a performance that was obviously concluded.
Bartholomew soaked up the timid adoration like a sponge.
As if he had just completed the greatest performance of his life, he thanked the crowd graciously, working his way toward the dais, shaking hands and kissing women’s palms as he went on his way.
He knew, without question, that he was the greatest actor in all the civilized world.
Soon enough, all of England would realize it as well.
The applause was already dying out as Richmond and Gavan watched him approach. “God’s Teeth,” Gavan muttered, rising from his crouch. “Of all the….”
Arissa shot him a nasty look, giving her brother a loud standing ovation as he approached. Gavan bit his tongue and removed himself from the dais lest Arissa physically attack him for his opinion. Richmond, however, was not so fortunate.
“That was by far the most unsuitable act….”
Arissa turned to him before he could finish his sentence. “If you say one negative word to him, Richmond le Bec, I shall have your head. Do you understand me?”
Richmond glanced at William, his back turned against his daughter and the great knight as he conversed softly with his wife. And Richmond had little doubt regarding the subject. Turning his gaze to Arissa once again, he nodded once in resignation. “Perfectly, kitten.”
Pleased with his submission, Arissa returned her focus to her brother as he came upon the table. His smile was bright as he took both of Arissa’s hands into his own, kissing them loudly.
“For you, my darling Riss,” he said happily. “Are you pleased?”
She nodded vigorously. “It was wonderful, Bart, simply wonderful. Thank you so much for a most memorable gift.”
His smile threatened to divide his face in half.
He glanced at Richmond, waiting expectantly for the same words of praise.
Richmond cocked a stubborn eyebrow until Arissa stepped on his foot.
It was not a painful action, but he took the hint nonetheless.
It would please Arissa and, therefore, he would perjure himself.
“Most accomplished, Bart,” he mumbled.
Bartholomew bowed courteously in thanks. “I am glad you are pleased. I have saved several others for later this eve when everyone grows tired of dancing.”
William had turned away from Maude and sat listening to the conversation. Maude had managed to convince him to praise his son’s talents and he was fully prepared to do so. But when Bartholomew intimated that his performance was not yet complete, he could no longer remain silent.
“This is a party, Bart, not a theatre performance,” he said sternly. “You cannot expect people to sit still when there is music and food and entertainment to be had. Truthfully, I do believe one dose of Greek tragedy is quite enough.”
Arissa turned to her father, highly aware of her brother’s feelings. Bartholomew was terribly sensitive when it came to his craft.
“I…. I think it would be wonderful, Father,” she insisted. “Mayhap Bart could grant us another recitation later on this evening. I would certainly enjoy it, and you saw the favorable reaction of our guests to his act.”
William cast her a droll, irritable glance. “Aye, I saw their reaction. And I would hardly call it favorable.”
“It was grand!” Maude leapt to her son’s defense.
“However, I would suggest that you change out of your costume and enjoy the evening. You are a host and certainly not expected to entertain your guests as a common artisan. Truthfully, dear, it is beneath your station as heir to the earldom to perform in front of those you would preside over.”
Leave it to Maude to tactfully put an end to Bartholomew’s act. His expression dampened somewhat and he glanced at Arissa uncertainly. Seeing his indecision, Arissa took her mother’s lead.
“I must agree with mother, Bart,” she said gently. “Although your performance was magnificent, it is quite different when you perform for the immediate family. To display yourself for your vassals, subjecting yourself to their review, is hardly fitting for the future earl.”
Bartholomew’s gaze roved over the entire table, his eyes veiled with doubt. After a moment, he nodded reluctantly. “If that is your wish, then I shall adhere to it. I am sorry you feel that way.”