My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Father Ellis’ dark robes mirrored his even darker mien. Catrin chose to ignore the nagging pangs of guilt, but the good father seemed unable to do the same. Thus, he’d ordered the ceremony to take place in the castle chapel, far from the customary church doorway and the trappings of the Church’s high altar.

Bran ap Madog had agreed. After all, the king’s decree ordered the nuptials to take place quickly. With no time for lengthy preparation, no family present, and the recent deaths of Olwen’s cousins to consider, the union of the lady of Northbridge and the king’s champion would likely be a somber affair. Ne’ertheless, Sir Bran had ordered all the castle folks to witness the event and bear testimony to its legitimacy.

Catrin waited for Olwen’s betrothed near the massive stone hearth, keeping her head lowered and hiding her face behind strands of her unbound hair.

Meg had adorned her in Olwen’s wedding finery—a blue gown made of silk from Sicily, cut full and long, hanging in folds, and a surcoat in a deeper shade of blue, made of baldekin and decorated with images of hounds and harts embroidered into the fabric with gold thread. The skirt of this outer garment was so long and generous that it covered Catrin’s kid leather shoes and formed a small train when she walked.

Catrin’s stomach complained loudly. Could others hear it? She glanced at those standing near and placed a hand against the folds of her surcoat, as if that gesture would ease her hunger pains. She had not broken her fast in preparation for the marriage communion. Now, with heat suffusing her face, she felt lightheaded.

Servants had hastily prepared the broad open space of the upper-story hall for the wedding feast. Rough timber floors had been swept clean and then strewn with fresh rushes and sprinkled with dried herbs—spicy basil, sweet-smelling balm and lavender, and refreshing hyssop. Tallow candles impaled on iron candlesticks flickered, casting splotches of stark light that failed to brighten the cavernous hall or alleviate the sudden chill in the October air.

Catrin sidled nearer to the roaring fire.

“He comes, my lady,” Meg whispered.

Catrin’s breathing faltered. Her bridegroom halted at the far end of the hall, hard-pressed by a crush of castle folk. Although Father Ellis had attended to Olwen’s flock since the death of Lord Northbridge, they hailed the arrival of a true overlord, one provided by King Edward. Strength was always respected in troubled times.

Would she be discovered? Catrin kept away from the servants, letting Meg insist on privacy for the lady of the castle. Olwen’s gowns fit well enough, and Catrin’s hair and physical appearance gave credence to the charade. Yet Catrin felt exposed and vulnerable. Was it because her hair was unconstrained, the symbol of a virgin, flowing in soft, shining waves around her face and down her back to her knees?

She watched him from under her lashes. The black knight was at ease with the servants and the lesser tenants, who had been summoned to the castle for the event. His laughter sounded effortless and genuine. How dare he win over Olwen’s people so readily?

Welsh ruffian. Wizard. Caster of magic spells.

As if he had heard her thoughts, his gaze found hers, focusing on her like a raptor fixed on its doomed prey. She sucked in a breath. His hard eyes cut into her like talons. That dark stare penetrated her inner soul, almost as if he saw her failings, her lies, and her hate.

Bran ap Madog broke away from the crowd and, with the sweep of his black cloak, closed the distance between them in long strides. Everyone in the hall paused to watch. His footsteps echoed in the expectant silence.

Dressed from head to foot in black with no ornamentation except for the sapphire brooch clasping his cloak together across his broad shoulders, he stopped just inches from her. Meg stood a respectful distance away, and so did a small sergeant-at-arms who had followed his master.

’Twas as if they were alone amidst all the wedding guests and servants.

Her heart racing, Catrin had no trouble pretending to be the shy Olwen. She could but glance at him, hastily, and then lower her gaze, as any demur maid would.

“Ah, cariad , you are lovely,” he said so softly only she heard.

Her head jerked up. “I told you never to call me that! ”

He assessed her, silently, his face unmoving. What was he thinking? Pinpricks of tension held her erect. She lifted her chin and stared back at him.

“I warned you, as well.” His words, when they came, were a quiet hiss between his teeth and meant for just her. “You will act the part of my wife, if only for the sake of your good people here.” He swept an impatient hand, indicating the assembled crowd.

She drew a sharp breath. His threat wasn’t idle. She saw it in his resolute stance and in his eyes, those raven’s eyes. Bran ap Madog was a hired killer, the king’s mercenary as well as champion. He would think nothing of wrecking havoc on Olwen’s people if she failed in her scheme. She must succeed, conceal her fear, and go forward as planned.

“I will do my duty, sir, for I know my obligation,” she said, letting him see by her own icy gaze that having his way with her would not be easy.

“Your duty is to call me by my given name. I am Bran to you, Olwen.”

Olwen . Sheets of chilly fear paralyzed her. She played a deadly game. Yet he had stopped calling her cariad and that was victory enough for the moment.

She bowed her head. “As you wish…Bran.”

He accepted her simple gift and nodded. “Father Ellis awaits.” He took her right hand gently in his. “Come, let us both do our duties.”

Before the sixth hour, the ceremony began inside the tiny chapel with Mass. Bran, as she now tried to think of him, presented the formal decree from King Edward to Father Ellis. After that, the clergyman announced the terms of her dower and the dowry. Catrin paid scant attention, not caring what was said nor promised. She concentrated solely on the way her bridegroom’s massive grip swallowed her hand.

His fingers were long and tapered, strong and tanned from days in the sun. Still, she felt no safety with her small hand in his. Conversely, she felt dizzy, her face hot and flushed. ’Twas as if smoldering embers somehow extended from his fingertips, shooting up her arm and down her body, and bursting into flame somewhere near the core of her being. That place where last night she had yearned for him—nay, lusted for him—so much so, she had gone without sleep, dreading the day to come.

Now, they stood side-by-side facing the priest who appeared flustered and ill at ease. He had every right to be so, knowing what he was about to do was a sin before God and holy church. Catrin thought only of the man beside her who was casting his dark spell upon them all.

Father Ellis crossed himself and glanced pointedly at her. Catrin stared up at him. Would he go through with the ceremony? Would his courage falter?

The priest looked at Bran and then began slowly, “Since it is your intention to enter into the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and his Church.”

Jolted by the gravity of the words, Catrin fought hard to attend to the priest’s pronouncements. Was she actually doing this? Marrying Olwen’s husband? She could no longer ignore the import of what she was about to do. The weight of her wrongdoing nearly buckled her knees.

His soft brown eyes turning bleak, Father Ellis looked at them. Pointedly. At one and then the other. “I require and charge you both,” he said, “as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, that ye confess it now.”

Lawfully joined together.

She wasn’t Olwen, the heiress of Northbridge. She had no entitlement to do what she was doing. Only her own gut-wrenching conviction told her this was right. She must wed to pursue justice. To protect her cousin.

Catrin held her tongue and held to her purpose. She glanced once more at the unyielding countenance of the black knight who stood straight and motionless beside her. He already held himself like a lord. His loose hair, longer than fashion dictated, bespoke his Welsh heritage, a heritage she shared, but denied.

Once again, she tempered fear with determination, and drawing a breath, turned back to Father Ellis, carefully repeating the vows when asked.

Yet she could not shake the deeper dread that settled in her stomach when she thought of the coming night.