Fire Song. Catherine Archer
through the large stained-glass window behind the altar and lit the well-scrubbed stone floor. Roland was more concerned with watching as it lengthened with the passage of time. He willed himself to hide any sign of his growing irritation as he leaned his chin against his steepled fingers. But he could not completely disguise the impatience and displeasure in his narrowed blue gaze as he surveyed the other two occupants of the long narrow chamber.
Where was his bride?
The aforementioned bride’s father, Hugh Chalmers, Baron of Penacre, a tall slender man with much gray in his dark blond hair stood silent and withdrawn in front of the altar, which was draped in rich red velvet and bore two ornate golden candle holders. Beside him stood the equally richly garbed and clearly uncomfortable priest.
As the priest leaned close to him and murmured a comment, Hugh made only the barest of replies. His lean body was held stiffly in his long blue tunic and a fine damask cyclas of darker blue. But Roland saw his gaze flick to the open door at the end of the room.
It remained vacant.
Obviously Penacre, too, was growing impatient for his daughter to arrive. Roland knew he had not wanted the match, but this waiting served no one.
King John had decreed the marriage would take place. Plainly the king had decided the feuding between the houses of Penacre and Kirkland had gone on long enough when one of Roland’s smaller keeps had been destroyed and many stores with it. The stores were sorely needed in this time of shortage after the wars in the Holy Land.
Roland grimaced, and raked a hand through his black hair. He had even less desire to remind himself of the war in the Holy Land than he did to be married. It had claimed his elder brother, Geoffrey, who should have been the baron on their father’s death. Roland was still not quite easy with his position as his father’s heir, even though he had, in essence, been acting as overlord to the lands for some time before his father’s passing the previous year, in 1200, just one year after King Richard had met his end at Châlus-Chabrol. If not for a series of tragic events he would bear no more exalted title than that of youngest son.
He would concentrate instead on his coming nuptials to Celeste Chalmers. Though the daughter of his enemy and not a bride he would have chosen for himself, she was quite exquisite. He had seen her only once from across the king’s audience chamber, but when John had announced that he felt a marriage was the best solution to their difficulties, Roland had felt that she would do well enough.
Celeste Chalmers was only a means to an end. He wanted peace and prosperity on his lands. Her rich dower would greatly assist him in his efforts to bring the estates back to the abundance they had known before his father’s descent into the hell of drink. Beyond that this wedding would change his life in no great measure. A wife’s place was to do nothing more than warm her husband’s bed and produce a legitimate heir. She would grace his table with her beauty and attend to his needs when he required it.
Roland would not make the mistake of putting all his faith in a woman as his father had. It had been his downfall.
Love was highly overrated. It had driven his father to his knees when his wife left him, and again when he had allowed it to come between himself and his eldest son.
Roland shook his head and straightened. He would not think on these things. Again he looked toward the open door of the chapel with impatience.
Where was the wench and what did she think to keep them waiting so? She need not think her beauty would protect her from obeying Roland once she was his wife. He cast Penacre an assessing glance, saw the older man’s growing frustration in the tight line of his lips. He had thought better of the man than that he would allow a mere slip of a girl to try him thus. Once they set out for Kirkland in the morn she would soon learn her place.
He’d arrived at Penacre’s castle only hours ago with no more than four of his most trusted knights in attendance. Roland had been correct in thinking he would not meet with perfidy. Neither was there any warm welcome, but this he had known as well.
They had been met by Penacre and led to the hall. After a brief time, Roland had been asked to leave his men and come to the chapel where the girl was expected to be waiting.
Penacre had volunteered, as they went to the chapel at the far end of the keep, that his daughter had requested that no one but the bridegroom, her father and the priest attend the ceremony. Roland had thought it odd to coddle the girl so, but he would not tell Penacre what to do in his own household.
As two hours had passed, Roland had grown more and more to wonder if his father-in-law was a weak fool. It amazed him that this was the same man who had been feuding against him with such determination in recent times. The two families had long been enemies, being often on opposing sides of political conflict, but in the past year the vehemence of Penacre’s attacks had seemed almost personal. Only two short months after Roland’s father’s death a man had entered the castle grounds at Kirkland by stealth and managed to steal his father’s favorite horse. They had only discovered that the deed was wrought by Penacre’s own man because he had thrown off his cape as he rode away, displaying Penacre’s colors of yellow and green. That it was his recently deceased father’s horse that had been taken Roland had told himself was mere chance, but the incident had enraged him.
The very thought of it now raised his ire to such a degree that he could no longer sit silent. “I grow tired of waiting. Where is your daughter?” A full hour had passed since the last time Penacre had very calmly sent someone from among the servants who waited outside in the hallway to inquire as to the time of his daughter’s arrival.
Hugh Chalmers, who it seemed, might have finally reached the end of his patience at this prodding from Roland, turned and strode down the aisle. This time he spoke gruffly. “Go and see what on earth is keeping my daughter.”
Meredyth Chalmers looked at the serving man, Max, with regret. “Tell Father I am trying.” She turned to her sister’s closed chamber door. Nothing any of them, not even her sister’s personal maid, Agnes, had done or said in the past hours had drawn Celeste from her room. The door remained bolted.
She took a deep breath. “Celeste, please, you must let me in. I will try my utmost to understand whatever is frightening you.” Meredyth could only think that her sister had been overcome with terror at the thought of marrying this stranger. Mayhap if she would speak of it the fear might ease.
To her utter surprise and relief she heard the bolt slide open with a slight creak. For a long moment, Meredyth simply stood there, unsure now that the opportunity was upon her as to what she would say to her sister. Then taking another breath in an effort to appear calm and patient, Meredyth opened the door.
Her worried gaze quickly found Celeste where she had gone to sit near the window. She was dressed in her wedding gown of ivory. The gold embroidery that decorated the long sleeves and the full skirt glowed in the last dying rays of the sunlight coming through the open window. It shone on the gold veil that covered Celeste’s pale blond hair, which hung loose to her waist. Her face, every feature in perfect harmony with the next, was also outlined in this luminous light. Though Meredyth had lived with her sister her whole life, she found her breath catching in wonder. Celeste was like the angels she had seen on the illuminated pages of religious texts the priest had taught them to read from.
Her loveliness found a perfect setting in the sumptuously furnished chamber, with its thick eastern carpet and richly colored tapestries. The huge dark-stained bed with its heavy sapphire hangings bore a gilt impression of the Penacre griffin, and seemed a fitting place for a creature of such perfection as Celeste to find her rest.
The words Celeste spoke without looking away from her contemplation of her slender white hands drove every other thought from Meredyth’s mind. “I cannot marry Kirkland. I am in love with another.”
Meredyth Chalmers stared at her sister with dawning horror. “You are in love with another? Celeste, who could you be in love with?” A sudden impossible thought occurred to her. “It is not the earl’s son, Orin? He is hardly more than a boy.”
Celeste gazed at her, her guileless