Epilogue
ARISTIDE
EPILOGUE
As had become the custom, the married Brethren gathered at Chichester to break the news to the next Nautionnier Knight scheduled to meet his bride on the steps of the Chapter House. While Dionysia helped Isolde and Athelyna in the kitchen, Aristide, Arucard, and Demetrius sat in the solar, recounting their good fortune and engaging in harmless but nonetheless lethal verbal jousting.
“So, does Morgan suspect anything?” Aristide recalled his date with destiny and smiled. “I heard Geoffrey pledged to fling himself from the cliffs, rather than take a wife.”
“He promises to run himself through with his sword, and we will have trouble when it is Geoffrey’s turn.” Arucard rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. “He is adamant in his defiance of the Crown, and the King will brook no refusal, so it does not bode well for Geoffrey.”
“You might think he would have a change of heart, given our success.” Demetrius stretched his booted feet. “Athel is again with child, and I am overjoyed.”
“As is Isolde.” Arucard rolled his eyes. “Finally.”
Then the two stared at Aristide, and he shifted beneath the weight of their scrutiny.
“Believe me, we are trying.” And he revisited one such attempt en route to Chichester, atop his destrier. Whither she learned that trick he knew not, but he would not dissuade her, given the soul-stirring outcome. “Dion is quite determined, and the work is good, so who am I to complain?”
“It will happen, eventually.” Arucard propped on his elbows. “And usually when you least expect it.”
In a delicate but formidable caravan, of sorts, the wives entered the solar, and Aristide admired his bride. Bearing trays laden with trenches and savory fare, they surrounded the table and placed the dishes with the skill and precision a grand master would envy.
“Whither is Morgan?” Isolde rested fists on hips.
“Hither, am I, your ladyship.” Morgan stood for inspection and saluted. “And on time.”
“Then let us dine.” Athel waved to Demetrius. “Come, my lord, as I am famished and eating for two.”
“Of course, my lily.” Demetrius assumed his station.
“Wherefore do you waste such efforts, when I am not hungry, and I know the purpose of the summons?” Morgan folded his arms. “Whither is the letter from His Majesty?”
“What letter?” Arucard replied, with the countenance of an angel.
“The one Pellier brought from London.” Morgan jutted his hip. “The note revealing the lucky lady I am to take to wife.”
Arucard peered at Demetrius, who glanced at Aristide.
“Give it to him.” Aristide shrugged and twined his fingers in Dion’s. “He wishes to know.”
Without ceremony, Arucard produced a folded parchment, which Morgan snatched. After breaking the seal, he scanned the contents and sneered. “I wanted the younger sister.”
In unison, the ladies gasped.
“Well, I suppose I shall have to content myself with the older girl.” Morgan shoved the missive into his tunic. “And if she does not satisfy me, I can find someone else to please me.”
“Disgusting, disgraceful stewsman.” With a wooden spoon, Isolde smacked his hand. “Get out. Be gone from my sight before I am moved to violence against you.”
“Isolde.” Arucard drew her to his lap. “Calm yourself, before you injure yourself or our babe.”
“Do not worry, brother, as I am happy to take my leave.” Morgan strutted to the door. “And thither is plenty of amiable company in town.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Athel shook her fist. “The Brethren are men of honor and fidelity, characteristics of which you are sorely lacking.”
Morgan made no reply, and the mood turned sour.
“How sad for the lady.” Dionysia served a portion of brewets and frowned. “Mayhap you might recount my husband’s reaction when it was hit turn.”
“Actually, it was unremarkable.” Aristide leaned to the side and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Because I knew you were to be my bride, and I celebrated with food, drink, and family, in this very spot.”
“Really?” How charming she looked, in her gown of purple silk and velvet, with her fiery locks loose in a cascade down her back. Then he recalled the mess he made of her hair in the wee hours, after they arrived, and he smiled. “You celebrated?”
“Truly, fair Dion.” Surreptitiously, he trailed his hand down from her waist, to pinch her bottom, and she jumped. Ah, he would have her again when they retired.
“Shall we dine?” Isolde sniffed and passed a trencher of bread. “As we labored over this meal, and we deserve to enjoy it.”
“Honey flower, I will talk to him.” Arucard kissed her temple. “I will not permit him to bring dishonor on our family.”
“Gramercy, my lord.” Isolde poured a steaming brew into two mugs. “I should have known you would handle him, as you are wise as well as kind.” To Athel, Isolde said, “Would you care for chamomile tea, sister?”
“Aye, please.” Athel nodded.
“Might I have some?” Dion asked, as she nibbled on a piece of bread, and Aristide noticed she did not put much in her trencher.
Isolde and Athel flinched, and the solar grew silent as a tomb.
Perplexed by the strange reaction, Aristide scratched his chin, as Demetrius and Arucard grinned.
“Is something wrong?” He set down his tankard of ale. “What is it?”
Tension built, yet the group said naught.
“Oh, all right.” Dionysia clutched his hand. “Great one, I wanted to tell you for Christmastide, but our sisters have discovered my gift. You are to be a father.”