She thought a moment. “My mother used to call me Ali when I was a child. But that was long ago.”
He smiled. She smiled. He could not help himself from reaching up and stroking a finger across her soft cheek. “Ali is for a child,” he murmured. “Alixandrea is for a woman, and a beautiful one at that.”
He might as well have scorched her face, for that was the same effect his finger had upon her flesh. She could still feel the heat from it and it set her heart to racing. Their eyes held one another for an eternity of small moments until someone shouted encouragement to Matthew of a personal nature and he broke away, looking out over the room. To his right a table of his men were shouting at him to kiss his bride. He waved them off. He did not want their first kiss to be a spectacle.
Alixandrea returned to her fowl. A servant had set a marzipan subtlety in the shape of a little castle near her left hand and she commandeered a slice of it. Off to her right was an almond milk pudding with raspberries and sugared rose petals; she took some of that, too.
Matthew watched her as they ate, smiling when their eyes met. The wine was particularly good and she downed two cups of it in short order. With the music and festivities, she forgot about her harrowing day, only thinking of the wonderful life she wassure to have in this place. Matthew no longer seemed resistant to their union and she was doubly pleased. The White Lord she had dreamt of for ten years would soon be hers.
“Do you sing, my lady?”
The soft male voice came from her left. She turned to see that Adam was speaking to her.
“Somewhat, my lord,” she replied.
“Excellent,” he said happily. “Will you honor us with a song?”
She visibly blanched. “Now?”
“Please,” Adam begged gently. “It has been too long since I have heard a fine lady sing. Caroline has many talents, but singing is not one of them.”
Alixandrea glanced around the room of feasting, drinking men. They were loud and boisterous and she was intimidated. She caught Matthew out of the corner of her eye and she looked at him, trying to think of a way to gracefully decline the request. He could see her reluctance.
“Now is not a good time, Father,” he said. “The lady has had a trying day. It is too much.”
“Nonsense,” Adam scoffed. “How difficult is it to sing a little song? I wish it.”
Matthew did not look particularly pleased. “I do not think it would be wise.”
“Iwishit.”
Alixandrea could see that there was no way out of the situation and she did not want to create a battle between them.
“Very well, my lord,” she said. “What would you like to hear?”
“My Own True Love,” Adam said without hesitation. “It was a favorite of Matthew’s mother.”
She stood up to leave the table. A glance at Matthew showed him to be still seated, his expression bordering on displeasure. She did not understand why he seemed so unhappy with his father’s request. But he stood up, dutifully took her hand, andled her through the maze of drunk men to the minstrels on the other side of the room. Leaving her with the musicians, he took to the shadows but stayed nearby, mostly for protection against the drunken masses.
Alixandrea asked the minstrels to play the song that Adam had requested and the men heartily agreed. They were very young men, four of them, that had proven quite skilled with their talents. They played the vielle, citole, harp and flute. She turned to face the crowd as Mark and Luke whistled loudly for silence. The hall quieted somewhat as the men, and their drink, turned to the lovely vision in yellow standing against the north wall. Even the servants in the gallery above stopped in their duties to listen. The air quieted.
She had a captive audience. Alixandrea tried not to think of the hundreds of eyes staring at her. She had sung in an assembly before, many times, but this was different. She did not know these people and she did not want to make a fool of herself. She hoped they would like her.
The music began, the soft introduction of the many-stringed citole. After a few delicate bars, the words came.
O lovely one… my lovely one.
The years will come… the years will go…
But still you’ll be… my own true love…
Until the day… we’ll meet again….
Her voice was as pure as the ringing of silver bells, sweet and lilting and high. Her tone and pitch were perfect, in delicate combination with the haunting sound of the citole. There wasn’t one person in the hall that hadn’t come to a complete halt, in movement or in conversation, within the first few notes of her song. The second verse continued.
O lovely one… my lovely one…
My love for you… will never die…
