He had even tried with great diligence—though to no avail—to restore the spiritual faith Damien had forsaken. Aye, Ben had dragged him unwillingly back to this world, coaxing him, pushing him, until Damien had been able to feel the driving force of life pumping through his veins for himself.
But for all that, Ben had pled ignorance about any but the barest details concerning the matter they were riding to confront here today. He claimed to have been told only that the woman in question was a young and wealthy widow who had needed to remarry swiftly, and to a man of imposing physical stature and superior training in sword-fighting and battle.
The whys of it—why she sought a skilled warrior, why such a hasty union…why him of all men, when he had been tainted by the charge of heresy and half in the grave already from torture—he had been unable to learn.
And so it was that as he rode through the gates of the lady’s estate, he reviewed everything that he planned to say to the stranger who was his proxy bride, the most important being that he could not accept the role of husband she had thrust upon him.
He would not.
Nay, when he met with her for the first time he would demand release from this union, which needed only the utterance of public vow and consummation to make it lasting. Marriage was not for one such as him. He had learned that hard truth long ago, when he’d been a newly knighted youth, still pure of heart and innocent to the darker side of love.
All that remained was to inform the lady awaiting him of it, and to establish what kind of payment he could offer in exchange for the union she expected.
It did not take long for the sentry to escort him and Ben into the large, cool hall, down a series of corridors, and through several chambers. All who met them along the way stared with open curiosity, and Damien’s back tensed. After the time he’d spent isolated from human comfort in the inquisitors’ dungeon and then with none but Ben for company during his recovery, it was almost painful to be surrounded by so many people—especially people who gaped at him so frankly. And yet in all logic, he could not hold them to blame, for they knew him only as the former Templar Knight their lady had bought for a husband…a curiosity to behold, even if the kingdom wasn’t embroiled in the mounting call for the Brotherhood’s dissolution. That he had asked for none of this rankled, and it was all he could do to keep from scowling as he strode onward, following the sentry.
At last they approached an elegantly carved door, which, he suspected, would open to the castle’s solar. If the opulent rooms he had seen thus far were any indication, this chamber would prove to be as spacious and welcoming as the others had been, free of dust, and richly scented by the costly beeswax tapers he had seen in staggering abundance throughout the keep.
Ben seemed to have been accurate in his depiction of the woman as wealthy: She must be, to afford the kind of luxuries that surrounded them. Jaw aching with tension, Damien fixed his gaze on his friend, who was just now turning to face him. Ben’s expression was kind, and for some reason it caused the lance of resentment to stab deeper.
“Are you ready?” Ben asked.
“Nay. And yet I would wager that matters not at all.”
Ben looked surprised before irritation flashed in his eyes. “As unfortunate as that is, there is no need to be belligerent about it.”
“You would be, were you in my damnable position.”
Lips tight at Damien’s use of the curse he had asked him on numerous occasions to forbear, Ben retorted, “Were I you, Damien, I would endeavor to sweeten my voice and my tongue. You will recall that the bee flies more readily to the honey than it does to the vinegar.”
Damien was readying a rejoinder detailing his thoughts on that sentiment, when the sentry’s scratching for entrance at last resulted in the door creaking open. Still clenching his jaw, he flashed Ben a final, dark look before striding past him into the chamber. He’d as soon turn and flee as be led into this room like some sort of prize for the lady’s inspection.
The chamber was large, as he’d imagined it would be, but he hadn’t been prepared for the sumptuous effect of the light that filled it. The room fairly glittered with the sun streaming in through an astonishing array of glazed, diamond-pane mullions on both sides. However, as he approached the center, his steps slowed and finally stopped altogether. There was no lady present. There seemed to be no one at all, in fact, aside from the serving boy who had pulled open the door.
In the next instant he realized he had been mistaken. A young man stood in silence at the far end of the chamber, within the shadows near the empty hearth. He had escaped Damien’s notice at first because of his dark clothing.The garb of a priest.That realization sent a ripple of discomfort through Damien. Unlike Ben, who dressed in the simple gray robes and corded belt of a Franciscan friar, this man wore a floor-length black cassock buttoned down the front; it was cinched at the waist with a matching strip of finely woven faille cloth, the entire ensemble complimented by a rosary of glossy, obsidian beads.
The crucifix that dangled from that string of beads drew Damien’s attention, and without warning a wave of nausea engulfed him. He broke out into a sweat, his eyes closing for an instant at the image that flashed into his mind of another, similar crucifix swinging into view as his inquisitor moved in to question him. He’d been stretched upon the rack, almost senseless from the agony of it as he’d watched the dull gold pendant sway before his eyes, to and fro, to and fro….
Breathing in deeply to dispel the memory, Damien clenched his fists and strode forward, closing the distance between himself and the dark-robed cleric. This man had no connection to the zealots who had tortured him. In fact, most of the inquisitors had been Franciscans, like Ben; he could not forget that. Right now all that mattered was that this man likely possessed the answers that Damien needed concerning the lady who had arranged the proxy marriage, and he intended to hear them.
But the nearer he came, the more something about the priest niggled at the back of his memory, like a whisper not fully audible. When at last he reached the end of the chamber, the man nodded his greeting, and Damien nodded back, narrowing his eyes to study him and trying to place where he had seen him before.
Yet before they could exchange any words, the man’s face brightened, and Damien realized that he’d caught sight of Ben, who swept past Damien to clasp him in a hearty embrace. The two gave each other a few resounding thumps on the back before they pulled apart, grinning.
“Ah, Father Michael,” Ben said with a laugh, “by the blessed saints, but it has been too long!”
“Aye, friend, that it has…that it has. You’re looking well, though. The ocean air must have agreed with you.”
Michael.Damien turned the name over in his mind, the whispers growing louder as the images began to converge in his mind.
Michael…aye…young Michael de Valles, third son to the Earl of Harwick—that was who this was. Little Michael, grown into manhood…
The priest’s identity crashed upon Damien in the same moment that the man himself directed a more searching look to him again, asking, “Do you recognize me then, Sir Damien? I was hardly more than a lad when last I saw you, and it has been nearly six years.”
“Aye, I know who you are,” Damien said quietly, his discomfort and the prickling awareness of what this all might mean increasing with each breath.
“You have done well, Ben,” Michael said, shifting his gaze once more to the friar. He smiled. “I do not recall if I’ve told you before, but I once yearned to become a knight because of Sir Damien; when I was a boy at court, he was a nearly matchless champion, consumed with righteous fury when battling an opponent, but at the same time so pure of heart that those who knew him dubbed him Archangel.”
Michael glanced back to Damien, then, the smile of fond memory still warming his eyes as he added, “Time has been kind to you, sir. You look much the same as you did then.”
