Fire Song. Catherine Archer

Yet from what he could see Roland did not think that much of the food had been consumed. It was the free-flowing wine that was disappearing from the many flasks that had been set about the tables. If he did not miss his guess there was not one completely sober man in the room, himself included. The wine seemed only to have heightened the sullen atmosphere rather than lightening it.

      He looked to his bride’s father. That man seemed even less inclined to revelry than his folk. His man, Sir Giles, looked the same. Sir Giles had been introduced to Roland as Penacre’s most trusted knight and even now sat at his other side.

      Something about the fellow prodded at Roland, though he could not say what. The knight was a tall spare man, lean muscled and hard. His skin was dark and his cheeks sunken over a heavy black beard.

      Then even as Roland made to turn away, Sir Giles raised his head and met his gaze with his own. Roland was surprised at the depth of animosity and ill will he saw there. It was a look of such malice that his hand found the well-known curve of his sword hilt. Immediately he withdrew his too hasty fingers. The knight had done nothing beyond look at him. This night, his wedding night, he would ignore the man’s ill will.

      He had not expected to find friends here.

      His eyes lit immediately on another face that glared back at him, that of young Orin, offspring to the Earl of Hampstead. No friends indeed.

      The pale scar that traced the length of the lad’s cheek was obvious even across the room. Now, Roland was not surprised by this one’s attitude toward him. Neither was he completely unmoved by it.

      His father had once been the boy’s foster father. Roland had been set the task of teaching him the ways of knighthood. But Orin had not taken well to instruction. Roland had done his best to teach the boy to use his sword properly, had taught him over and over again not to duck his head behind his sword arm when attacking. It had been Orin’s own fault that Roland’s sword had slid along the dangling length of his own, the blade grazing the lad’s cheek deeply.

      Orin’s father had angrily fetched his son home. That had been when King Richard was still alive and Roland’s family was known to be favored by the king. Roland had always wondered as to the earl’s loyalty to Richard, having heard rumors that Hampstead had secretly supported John in his efforts to keep Richard from returning to England. His father had refused to listen to such speculation, had been angry with Roland over his suspicions and even more so after the incident in which Orin was disfigured. Until this day, Roland had not known that Orin was now receiving his training in the home of his enemy, who also was a staunch supporter of the recently crowned King John.

      Roland corrected himself. “Former enemy.” The king’s decree of a marriage had ended the feuding between their families.

      Since his father’s death the previous year Roland had been well occupied in running the varied estates that had fallen to him along with the title of Baron of Kirkland. Neither Albert St. Sebastian nor Roland had ever quite forgotten that Geoffrey was the son who should have been his heir. That it was their father’s own act of banishment that had changed that did not lessen the pain of the outcome.

      Having had enough of these thoughts, Roland stood. He had a lovely, if somewhat reticent, bride waiting for him.

      The noisy assemblage grew quiet, all eyes turning to study him. “I am for bed,” he said, being as deliberately casual as he could under the circumstances.

      A shout of encouragement rang out from his men. Brian, his squire and the youngest, called out, “We’ll soon be hearing her cries of pleasure from here. No woman can resist you, Lord Roland.”

      Roland shrugged and cast him an indulgent smile. Being more than slightly drunk, the boy was making no effort at subtlety.

      The baron, Sir Giles and the rest of the company were conspicuously silent Sir Giles stared down at his gloved fists with those intense burning blue eyes of his and Penacre raised his cup to drain it.

      

      After first taking another glass of the cool wine for courage, Meredyth lay back in the depths of the huge dark-stained bed. She had pulled the bed curtains all around so that anyone coming into the room would not be able to see her. She did not trust the maid to stay away. There had been too much concern in the older woman’s voice when she repeatedly asked after her charge’s well-being.

      But it was not to Meredyth’s liking to lie there all alone in the darkness. As time passed she only seemed to become more and more apprehensive and confused about what she might say to the baron. She now realized she should not have drank the wine, for it had only eased her for a time. She felt more than slightly befuddled.

      What was she going to say to St. Sebastian when he came to this room expecting to find Celeste? She could only pray that the words would come, that he would not become completely enraged before she could make him understand.

      The fire died down, but Meredyth had neither the heart nor the energy to rise and tend it. All her being was centered on clearing her mind and finding the words to make Roland St. Sebastian understand that she had not meant to do anything against him, that she was simply trying to help her sister.

      Meredyth tried to imagine what he might say, how she might answer him. The thoughts swirled in her mind until they became less and less coherent, until nothing remained but a circle of confusion.

      To her utter surprise Meredyth felt tears sting her eyes. She was not one to cry, did not feel that there was any honor in tears. Yet the day’s events had taken their toll and she was crying. Meredyth could not seem to stop, once begun.

      She curled around the aching ball of loneliness in her chest and buried her face in the pillow. How had this happened? Why had she allow Celeste to convince her to do this mad thing?

      Because she was Celeste.

      All her life Meredyth had been accustomed to thinking her sister needed more looking after, even though she was the elder by a year. When Meredyth was six and Celeste seven they had been playing in the clearing near the castle. Celeste had been picking flowers and had begun to wander further into the wood. Meredyth had told her she should not, that Agnes had said they must stay within sight of the walls. Celeste had replied by taunting her to come along. Meredyth had remained where she was, and when Agnes had come to fetch them she had been horrified at realizing that her elder charge was indeed gone. Celeste had not been found for hours, as she had tripped, hurting her ankle in the dense forest, and been unable to walk back.

      The thing that Meredyth would never forget was her father’s surprising anger toward herself. He had said that Meredyth should not have allowed Celeste to go off alone, that she was never to abandon her sister again. Did Meredyth not realize her sister was of a delicate, fanciful nature and therefore must be cared for?

      There had been no words of comfort for Meredyth, who had feared for her sister. No words of praise for having obeyed Agnes’s instructions. From that day Meredyth had understood that to keep her father’s love she must protect Celeste, who was dearest to him of all things.

      It had been a hard lesson to bear, but bear it she had, and without tears, until now.

      How long she cried, Meredyth did not know; only when she was physically exhausted did the sobbing cease. She lay there drained, her lids heavy over swollen and gritty eyes. She closed them, needing to rest, to regain her courage, to ready herself…

      

      Roland followed the directions that had been given to him by the serving woman. This was the most peculiar marriage he had ever heard of, to say the least—the groom expected simply to present himself to his bride with none of the accustomed preliminaries.

      Yet the closer Roland got to his destination, which purportedly lay at the top of the tower steps, the less concern it gave him. He could think only of the beautiful woman who awaited him. He knew she was frightened and inexperienced, as was evidenced by her fearful manner toward him. Yet he recalled again the trembling of her body when he had touched her hand. Surely his instincts did not play him false and there was passion in his bride.

      He was