Chapter Eight
ARISTIDE
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thither were times when Aristide made mistakes in his life, and a steadfast refusal to admit his error led to naught but added strife and extended suffering. Like a child, he held fast to his faults, believing, however ridiculously, that such stubbornness would mitigate his blunders. In that instant, he vowed that would not be one of those times, because although he valued his pride, he valued Dion more, and he looked to Isolde for answers before he made his next move.
“What have I done?” The trencher of fresh bread, the platters of mouthwatering fare, and not one but two delectable desserts all but declared his wife’s intent, and the realization humbled him. “She wished to consummate the marriage.”
“Return to the kitchen.” Isolde clapped her hands twice, and the maids scurried into the hall. When she leveled her gaze on him, he understood Arucard’s hesitance to pique his bride’s temper. “You miserable gulf of idiocy, could you not have picked another night to fight with Dionysia? I should tell her to make you wait a year to claim her maidenhead, as that would teach you a much-needed lesson in patience and, perchance, some manners. And what was so important that you had to enact an argument, now?”
“I should go to her.” He made to exit, but Isolde grabbed him by the arm. “I should make amends.”
“Sit.” She frowned and eased to the bench. “Let her have her cry, as she will need it, and we shall have our long overdue talk.” She sighed with an extra sniff of unmasked perturbation that did not escape his notice. “When Demetrius did not seek my counsel regarding his impending wedding to Athel, I thought it an abnormality, an oddity owing to a lack of knowledge of the fair sex, based on the fact that he had no prior experience with women, because he was but the second member of the Brethren to venture to the altar. However, when you sought not my advice, I considered it an insult.”
“But I never meant to slight you, Isolde.” Tension invested his shoulders, and he ached to find his lady. “Indeed, I knew not to whom I could turn, given my brothers’ penchant for humor and mischief, and I want to make Dion happy. I would have the love you share with Arucard, and that which Athel harbors for Demetrius. I would see it in Dion’s eyes when she looks at me, and I would have her recognize it in my gaze.”
“Upon my word.” She opened her mouth and then closed it. “You are in love.”
Shifting beneath her too knowing scrutiny, he sat upright. “Well, I would not say—”
“Admit it.” Her expression softened, and she tittered. “Dear man, do you not know that is the answer to your problem?”
“I do not understand.” As he reflected on his quandary, he could glean naught from her statement. “Prithee, explain.”
“Mayhap you will encourage Morgan and Geoffrey to meet with the Brethren wives when it is their time to face the archbishop on the Chapter House steps.” She shrugged. “Who would know better how to win a bride than a happy wife? We are but a treasure trove of marital sagacity, yet you ignore us.”
“I am duly chastised, sister.” With elbows propped on the table, he cradled his chin in his palm. “Pray, explain, else I shall run amok in search of my wife.”
“Nay, you will give her peace.” Peering over her shoulder, she stared out the large lancet window. “When the sun sinks on the horizon, you may go to her, and not a moment sooner.” In opposition to her suggestion, he stood, and she inclined her head. “Sit down, Aristide, else I will tell Arucard you wounded my delicate feelings.”
“But I have done no such thing.” He retreated from the table. “Whither you are concerned, I am innocent.”
“It matters not, as he will still be angry with you, and he will take it out on you during weapons practice.” Smiling, Isolde folded her arms. “So you see, my dear brother, women are not as weak as you might think. We know how to manage our spouses every bit as much as they imagine they manage us, and you would do well to remember that. Now, sit down .”
Chagrined, he clenched his jaw, held his tongue, and resumed his place. “I am listening.”
“That had better be so, for your sake, because I am not in the habit of repeating myself.” Had he thought Isolde strong? In that instant, he found her formidable. “A woman’s heart holds many secrets, but it posses a seemingly limitless store of love for those she deems worthy of her prize. Once gifted, her heart remains true and fixed, but never make the mistake of believing she cannot be hurt.” Averting her stare, she furrowed her brow. “This world is not kind to us. We are passed about, from father to husband, as chattel, with no means of support or survival. We are dependent upon your charity, destined to persist on what you provide, with the expectation that we are to be satisfied, come what may.”
“But Arucard indulges you.” In his mind, he catalogued a lengthy list of extravagances. “Never has he treated you thus, just as I have cared for Dionysia.”
“Yet you are not the standard in this land.” Isolde drew a tankard from a tray, filled it with ale, and served him. “I wager you need this.”
“Gramercy.” He gulped a healthy portion. “Pray, continue.”
“What the Brethren offer is the exception to the rule, although I would argue Morgan will not do so because he is a fool, and Geoffrey will not do so without force.” From another pitcher, Isolde poured a goblet of wine. “You know of the crimes my father committed against me, and you have seen the scars that mar my back. When I returned to Chichester, I believed, deep down inside, whither I am always honest with myself, that Arucard would no longer desire me.”
“Despite everything you shared?” Shocked, he drained his flagon. “But everyone knew Arucard loved you, mayhap before he realized it, himself.”
“This is a man’s world, Aristide, and we are but the decorations.” Thither was reason in Isolde’s declaration. “From birth, we are taught not an occupation. Rather, we are garbed and coiffed for your delectation. Our sole purpose is to win a husband and then to beget children. And the two defining characteristics upon which our worthiness is based is the sum of our dowry and the fairness of our face.”
“Whither Dion carries her wound.” He nodded, as so much made sense to him. “And I thought it best to ignore it.”
“Yet she can never escape it, anymore than she can forget the vicious circumstances by which she came to be marked.” With a visage of sympathy, Isolde reached across the table and rested her palm to his wrist. “But with your help, she can accept her reality, or her damage, as Louvel so rudely put it. While I suspect she will mourn her injury until she breathes her last, just as I grieve the pain my father inflicted upon me, the suffering need not consume her, but you cannot make that decision for her. However, that is not to suggest you cannot direct her.”
Hope glimmered, as Aristide mulled her guidance, and with lethal precision he identified his miscalculation, in regard to his wife. “Tell me what do.”
~
Tucked warm and comfortable in her bed, Dionysia nuzzled Aristide’s chest and sighed. As always, just before dawn, she reclined amid the blankets and listened to the steady beat of her husband’s heart. Then a flood of memories—the argument, the burning of her veils, and the rejection assailed her, and she flinched.
“Shh, fair Dion.” With his arm locked about her waist, he kissed her forehead. “It is all right, sweetheart. I have you, and I will never leave you.”
“How did you find me?” Beneath the sheets, she rested in her night rail. “And who undressed me?”
“I sought your company after my unforgivable slight, that I might make my apology and beg your forgiveness.” Now he pulled her impossibly close, and his heated flesh called to her. “You cried yourself to sleep, and I may never atone for that, but I shall try, thus I was loathe to wake you. And Isolde attended you with one of the maids, as I would not take advantage of your vulnerable state and compound my err.”
“Are you so noble, my lord?” Given he retired in naught but his linen braes, she traced his nipple and kissed the pebbled tip. “I recall otherwise, during our last exchange. Did you not profess an intent to make an apology?”
“I am sorry, my lady wife.” Shifting, he tipped her chin. “I see now the flaw in my ways, and I seek reconciliation, if you are amenable.”
“Whither you are concerned, I am always amenable.” Because she cared for him, though she had not proclaimed it. “Wherefore did your anger spike at the sight of the veil, when I have worn it on previous occasions, and you voiced no complaints?” Since their wedding, he had been the soul of charity, and his reaction confused her, as she could make no sense of it. “It is just a piece of silk to diminish the weight of a sorrowful appearance, which might spare me the open derision—or worse, the pity associated with my travails. It is not, nor has it ever been, about Peneus.”
“I beg to disagree, but you must come to that realization on your own.” Then he clamped shut his mouth, as he appeared to give consideration to his words. “However, if you wish to take up the wimple and veil, I will not forbid it.”
“Oh?” She sat upright. “You would not protest?”
“Nay.” He rolled onto his side, took her hand in his, and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Rather, I encourage you to do what pleases you.”
“I am to understand you support me?” In light of his outburst, she suspected his motives, because she could not bear another rejection. “Wherefore the change of heart?”
“Thither is no change of heart, fair Dion.” He toyed with a lock of her red hair and then drew her to rest beside him again. “But I failed to show proper deference to your feelings on the matter, as should a dutiful husband, and I would rectify that, if you permit it.”
“You ask my permission?” In that instant, she turned in his hold and pressed herself to him. “You acquiesce to my wishes?”
“I do.” He offered a tender kiss, and she melted. “But thither is something I would request, in return.”
“My lord, I am at your service.” Braced for the consummation, she closed her eyes and reclined on her back. “When you are ready, take your ease.”
“Come with me.” To her shock, he scooted to the edge of the mattress, dropped his legs over the side, and stood. Then he flicked his fingers. “Prithee, Dion. I will never hurt you.”
“But you did when you refused me.” She hesitated, as he pulled on his breeches and shirt, raked his fingers through his hair, and fetched her slippers.
“For that, I am more sorry than I can say.” As she stretched her feet, he draped a thick robe about her shoulders and tugged her from the bed. “And we will seal our vows when you trust me enough to approach me again, as I would not take you when your face is still swollen from your tears.”
“Are you so honorable, great one?” With care, he drew her to loom before the long mirror, and he positioned himself behind her. “What are you doing?”
“Do you know what I see when I look at my bride?” Suddenly shy, she could muster naught more than a half-shrug. “I see beauty such as I have never beheld, but it has little to do with your heart-shaped face, your alabaster skin, your fiery red hair, your crystal blue eyes that shimmer with the light of the sun, your tempting mouth, your adorable upturned nose, or your smile, which can move me to tears in the glow of your magnificence.” He settled his palms to her hips. “In my dreams, I envision your belly round with our babes, and in your countenance, I conceive of their characteristics, considering myself most fortunate if they take after you.”
At his declaration, her knees buckled, but he failed her not. “ Aristide .”
“Nay, do not interrupt me.” He wrapped his arms about her, as he kissed her temple. “But it is your inner strength, your unimpeachable character, your inherent concern and charity for others that draws me to you, as a bee to honey, and I am yours, Dion.”
“You make me sound like a saint.” Giddy, she laughed, yet he relented not. “And we both know I am corrupt.”
“With that I do not concur, but I comprehend your reasoning from your perspective, given what you endured.” Now he kissed her crown. “Just as you are not defined by the mark upon your flesh, you cannot shed your grief with that veil, and therein lies my ignorance of the situation. So, if the scarf appeases you, if it offers a measure of protection, however fleeting, avail yourself of it, and I shall broach no objection, because you have every right to mourn. And when your sorrow overtakes you, and you require solace, hither am I to provide it.”
During Aristide’s moving oratory, Dionysia was not sure when the tears first fell, but he remained true to his proclamation. With neither censure nor admonishment, he held her as she released the tension that gripped her frame, until at last she was spent.
“Soon the bell will ring, signaling the noon meal.” Reluctant to let go, she clung to him, and he did not once refuse her. “Mayhap I should repair to the kitchens to oversee the servants.”
“Isolde and your mother will manage without you.” In small, circular motions, he massaged her back, and she turned her head. Without prompting, he covered her mouth with his, and the fire ignited.
In a tantalizing sashay of her flesh, he nipped and licked her lips, as he trailed his hands along the curves of her bottom. Searing heat swirled and soared, carrying her to a new and enticing realm. How she ached to know him, to enact the intimacy that would render their nuptials irreproachable. More than anything, she needed to be close to him, to his unquenchable fortitude, and thither was no closer an attachment than the joining of their bodies. Yet, just as the situation erupted, he set her apart from him.
“My lord, if you are so inclined, I would give you that which is yours by right of the sacrament.” She stepped in his direction, and he retreated. “I would surrender myself into your capable hands, if you would but take what I offer, of my own free will.”
“My ship and crew arrived last night, and they are anchored offshore, on the River Medway.” Behind the screen, he donned a brown tunic. “I am expected to greet my men and inspect my rig.”
“Am I to accompany you?” In her mind, she mulled her wardrobe. If she wore the dark green wool with the matching cotehardie, she could fashion a wimple and veil from an old linen couvre-chef she found in one of the guest rooms. “As I can dress for the occasion, if you can summon a maid to plait my hair, and you are willing to wait.”
“If you wish, I should like naught more.” With a wink, Aristide bowed. “So prepare yourself, fair Dion.”
Alone, she ran into the closet, located the green garb and matching shoes, and returned to the bedchamber. At the washstand, she scrubbed her face and cleaned her teeth. As she doffed her night rail, a maid appeared.
“My lady, I have come to style your hair.” The young girl, almost Dion’s age, named Eulinda, curtseyed. “And thither is a great hall filled with visitors. Is it not exciting?”
“Indeed, thus I must look my best.” Bouncing with nervous anticipation, Dionysia endured the lengthy task, as the servant braided a crown, of sorts, about Dion’s head, leaving the remains of her long locks in a cascade down her back. “Now let us affix the wimple and veil.”
“But, my lady, you are so beauteous.” Eulinda wrinkled her nose, as she reflected on the large square of linen. “And the purple goes so lovely with your coloring. Wherefore would you don the green, which does you no favors, in my estimation?”
“You recommend the velvet and silk combination?” Yielding to the maid’s suggestion, Dionysia returned to the closet and collected the particular item. In the bedchamber, she held it to her shoulders and studied her appearance in the long mirror. “Will it not clash with the wimple?”
“Wherefore must you wear it?” The maid shrugged. “Mayhap the circlet would suit our purpose.”
“What about the—” Dionysia just stopped herself from mentioning her defect. “You do not think it advisable to shield my profile?”
“Wherefore?” Eulinda blinked.
For Dionysia, the answer seemed straightforward, yet the maid’s response lent itself to another course of action. Scrutinizing her reflection, she walked to the mirror and traced the scar with her finger. As usual, the pain of the past charged the fore, and she shut her eyes against the memory.
Yet, how much power would she surrender to a moment in time she could neither alter nor erase? In truth, Aristide was right. Peneus won control only insofar as she surrendered it. But, somehow, when her husband granted her permission to mourn, he diminished her desire to do so. As long as she was free to indulge in a bit of self-pity, every now and again, she had no need of her daily exercise in commiseration.
Flinging aside the couvre-chef, Dionysia smiled. “Eulinda, bring me the purple gown.”