Unicorn Bride: A Medieval Romance Page 2

  Not knowing what to say, Dagobert watched her hurry from the room. An awkward silence settled over the three men. The candle flame sputtered in the tallow, drawing Dagobert’s gaze, and he wondered how he could in good conscience bring a bride into this battle.

  Even a bride his father had sworn he would take.

  “’Tis a risk we need not take,” Eustache muttered, but Dagobert was unconvinced.

  He sighed, frowning in dissatisfaction at the role he had drawn in life. It was not the first time he had wished that he had been born a man devoid of responsibilities, but the die had been cast and he would not shirk what needed to be done.

  Eustache always spoke of success, but Iolande was right. Should Dagobert fail, he left no heir and he had no brethren to take up the cause. He had no right to discard the future of the bloodline for the sake of his own convenience. He would keep this pledge of his father’s. The woman had been sworn to him and she, too, must follow her destiny wherever their paths might lead.

  His decision made, he gave Guibert de Perpignan an encouraging smile and leaned forward to explain the situation in full to the older knight.

  The bright January sunlight did naught to soften the foreboding facade of the fortress Montsalvat looming overhead. Alienor shivered at the sight of the stone castle crouching atop the steep mountain like some great venomous toad.

  The structure was short and squat, or perhaps that was just an illusion created by the contrast of the sharp incline of the mountainside. It seemed mysterious with its brooding walls, its darkness highlighted by the light dusting of snow. As her horse climbed the steeply winding path and grew ever nearer, she refused to look up again. Her first impression of the château that would become her home had not dispelled her trepidation about her pending marriage.

  “Trust me,” Guibert had insisted when she had balked at the news that she would not meet her bridegroom before the nuptials. She had done so, trusting in the man who had so often put her needs before his own.

  But now, before the forbidding facade of Montsalvat, she could not help but question the haste with which her marriage had been planned, as well as the secrecy and mystery surrounding her bridegroom. There were tales in the town, tales aplenty about Montsalvat and its enigmatic lord.

  Her gaze fell on her foster father’s back as he rode before her, still straight and proud despite his advancing years. How could she doubt this man who had given her so much and whose judgment was always good? She knew that Guibert had been hard-pressed to afford her tutors: indeed, she knew that on more than one occasion he had unsheathed his blade as a mercenary against his own desires to see her raised as he saw fit. She had been schooled as a southern lady, tutored and taught in music, languages and mathematics. Guibert had insisted that her mysterious origins gave her the opportunity to claim a finer destiny than his had been.

  And now she was to wed the Count of Pereille himself, the most powerful man in the province, the ultimate vindication for all of Guibert’s sacrifices, and all she could think about was the fact that she was deeply afraid. She had heard too many rumors in the village, provocatively half-heard morsels of tales of magic, of legends come to life, of strange doings beneath the fullness of the moon.

  Alienor glanced up at the foreboding edifice looming ever closer. Why would anyone build such a château? And why here, virtually in the middle of nowhere? Why was the stone not the pleasing dove gray from the local quarries? Why not build an elegant tower, a spire, an attractive curtain wall instead of presenting this dark menacing face to the arriving traveler? What secrets did Montsalvat so jealously guard within its walls?

  Did she truly wish to know?

  Hours later, Alienor toyed with the seed pearls sewn to her crimson kirtle and surveyed her reflection in the sheet of polished silver hanging opposite, unable to believe that she would be wed before the day was through, unwilling to accept that she was already ensconced in the building that would be her home.

  She had already discovered one secret about the château—its crusty exterior belied the wealth and opulence of the furnishings within, though that revelation did little to ease her trepidation. This tiny antechamber near the gates had been offered for her use, as it was undoubtedly offered to countless other guests, but even its decor easily overwhelmed anything she had known before. Intricate tapestries hung on each of the four walls, a fire raged on the hearth beneath an elegantly arched and ornately carved stone fireplace. A bed draped in brocades and scattered with embroidered pillows dominated the far wall, a comfortable chair and table were placed invitingly before the hearth.

  The mirror amazed Alienor in and of itself, as wide as she, it was, and nearly as tall, and shockingly expensive to acquire, without a doubt. She could not even imagine how it had been carried up that winding mountainous track and arrived intact. She had never seen a wonder like it. She touched it carefully as if her fingertip alone would shatter it, marveling at the smoothness of its surface. As she touched the glass, she marveled again that she should be the one the count would take to wife.

  Guibert’s ominous assurance rang again in her ears. “The count wills it” was all she had been able to coax from him and Alienor shivered anew in recollection.

  The ringing of the bells in the chapel brought her head up with a snap, her heart skipped, and she summoned a smile of encouragement for the sad bride reflected in the silvery expanse. She rose to her feet to check her appearance one last time before donning her veil.

  The red velvet kirtle was laced snugly to her forearms. The cuffs and high neck were trimmed with pearls carefully removed from an old garment and sewn upon this one. The fullness of the skirt cascaded over Alienor’s knees and ankles. The pearl-encrusted hem stopped just above the floor, revealing a glimpse of the gold brocade trim on her chemise, which swept the ground.

  The toes of her red kid slippers were barely visible and she spun around, checking that the narrowness of the band of brocade was not visible. Her nimble fingers were clever at making less look like more: the sliver of heavily embroidered gold hinted at an entire chemise of the fine cloth, when in fact she had only had the coin to buy a narrow piece. Alienor was not ashamed of her own circumstances, but in the open opulence of this château, she was curiously reluctant to appear less affluent than her intended.

  She had only met her groom’s mother so far, and that lady’s intimidating manner might have sent a more timid soul scurrying homeward through the heavy gates. Iolande de Goteberg was both beautiful and icily pale, so perfectly composed that Alienor found her presence unsettling. Her fair brows, clear blue eyes and pallid complexion were such as Alienor had never seen before in this land of dark-haired, dark-eyed people.

  Both horses had paused of their own volition within the gates when Alienor and Guibert had first seen Iolande, her tall figure draped in pastel mauve velvet, the cold winter sunlight illuminating her fairness as she stood in the courtyard, one long hand trailing over the ears of a huge gray wolfhound at her side.

  It was a deliberate pose, Alienor was certain, but an effective one nonetheless. After all, no one could climb that road unobserved. She turned to the mirror once again for reassurance, seeing no evidence of the regal bearing of her mother-in-law in her own posture. Though Iolande’s words had been carefully chosen, her welcome had not been warm and Alienor wondered yet again what future awaited her here.

  She had plaited her dark hair earlier this morning, winding its length into an elegant arrangement of braids despite its unruly nature, more of the seed pearls gleaming from their perches within the ebony tresses. With a sigh of dissatisfaction, she carefully placed the linen circle of her fillet on her head, draping her sheer white wimple around her neck with practiced hands and tucking the ends into the fillet. A whisper of golden veiling slipped over the entirety, covering her hair and the fillet and flowing down to her shoulders in a sheer cloud, her face a lonely oval in the midst of all the concealing cloth.

  Married to a man she had yet even to see. Al
ienor met her own gaze in the mirror, wondering what her husband looked like, panicking briefly at the thought that he might not find her pleasing. She scanned her reflection with a discriminating eye, noting the creamy skin of her face, the full rosy lips, the tawny eyes with their uncommonly thick lashes that tipped up at the outer corners, that a scandalous hint of some Eastern blood in her ancestry. That same Eastern influence seemed indicated in the honeyed hue of her complexion, the heavy thickness of her dark hair, though those tresses were defiantly wavy instead of ramrod straight.

  Though slender as a reed, she was tall for a woman. Alienor hoped against hope that her husband was not a small man, then chided herself, for his height should be the least of her concerns. She also hoped that he would find her an attractive mate. She had always been a misfit in this province of people who so closely resembled one another and who had learned to regard foreigners as undesirable. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin and compact bodies had confronted her at every turn, even her subtle physical differences drawing attention amongst such startling similarity.

  Alienor clasped her hands together, recalling the taunting comments she had endured for so long, the teasing when she had been a long-legged adolescent towering over most of the other women and not a few of the men in her town. She clenched her fingers tightly and prayed to the powers that be that her husband be anything but a short man who thought her an abomination of nature.

  Then she hoped he might be kind to her.

  She started at the sound of a light tap on the door and turned away from the mirror, her heart leaping as she struggled to pull on her gloves despite the trembling of her hands. When she opened the door, the admiration in her foster father’s eyes coaxed her smile.

  Guibert’s mail gleamed from the enthusiastic polish it had received. His tabard had been carefully mended by Alienor’s quick fingers and newly trimmed in crimson silk cording. Even his silver mane had been brushed to some measure of order.

  He beamed at Alienor with pride, and as he offered her his elbow, her heart swelled with love for this man who had so gallantly seen to her upbringing. Guibert pressed her hand with affection when she slipped it through his arm and her tears rose unbidden, the older man gruffly tolerating the kiss she planted on his cheek.

  Neither of them said a word as they stepped out into the corridor, the moment too fraught with emotion for them to trust their tongues. Alienor could hear her heart beat as Guibert steadily paced off the seemingly endless hall, its length lined with curious onlookers who murmured to one another as they passed. So many lived within these walls—would she ever grow accustomed to it? She blocked her ears to their whispered comments, focusing her attention on the brightly colored light fanning out of the chapel doors at the far end of the hall, matching her pace to Guibert’s.

  Guibert paused in the chapel doorway an eternity later and Alienor took a shaky breath, forcing a tight smile when her foster father squeezed her hand. Rather than look at the assembled crowd, she lifted her gaze to the stained-glass window that filled the wall behind the altar.

  It was a remarkable and fine piece of work, larger than any she had seen before. It was rich in detail and she studied the strangely entwined images of grapevines ripe with fruit as she walked ever closer to her destiny. The battle scenes between a unicorn and a lion seemed an unusual choice for a place of worship. There was no crucifix, she noted with relief, refusing to so much as glance toward the spot where she knew her bridegroom must stand.

  When Guibert paused, Alienor eyed the priest in customary black before her for the barest instant before she dropped her eyes to the floor. Why was he amused? She could not think of any explanation for the impish glimmer in the cleric’s eyes.

  His red hair and blue eyes hinted that he was a Celt. Were they not said to be merry? Perhaps he thought all marriages to be cause for laughter.

  Perhaps he did not know the details of this one.

  Squaring her shoulders as he welcomed the guests, Alienor risked a quick glance to her right.

  The spot where her husband-to-be should have stood was empty.

  She stood alone before the altar.

  Astonished, Alienor looked up at the priest. She distrusted the mischievous twinkle in his eye even more in that moment. Indeed, he almost chuckled aloud at her reaction. Then he lifted his hand to beckon to someone at the side portal. Alienor followed his gesture, her mouth dropping open in shock when a shabbily dressed man appeared, coaxing a single-horned goat toward her.

  A goat.

  She blinked but it was indisputably a goat. A garland of flowers and ribbons was draped around the goat’s neck, the man tugging him forward by a scarlet cord while the beast chewed nonchalantly on a blossom it had apparently pulled from its ornament.

  Did they mean to sacrifice it here? Surely not!

  “’Tis a goat!” Alienor blurted, and the goatherd glanced up sharply, the warm glimmer of humor in his slate eyes sending a tingle right to her toes.

  ’Twas hardly his place to look at her so boldly, she told herself indignantly, even as she felt the heat rise over her cheeks. As if he had had a similar thought, the man dropped his gaze, a secretive smile playing over his lips.

  “Why a goat?” she demanded of the priest.

  “A unicorn, child, a unicorn,” the priest corrected her softly, admonishment in his tone. “You surely understand that he can only remain in the chapel for the ceremony itself,” he added in an undertone, and Alienor raised her gaze to his. He smiled. “After you are wedded, he will leave the chapel.”

  The goat was to witness her nuptials? Why? What madness was this?

  “But why?”

  The priest tut-tutted under his breath at her question and she heard whispers from those gathered to witness the ceremony. Her cheeks burned with the conviction that she was the victim of a cruel jest, the worst teasing ever, but the priest leaned closer. “We cannot have dung in the house of the Lord,” he murmured.

  Alienor shook her head impatiently, keenly aware of the goatherd’s amusement with the situation. “Nay, I would ask why must he be here at all?” she demanded and the priest regarded her in surprise in his turn.

  “’Tis his nuptials, lass,” he hissed back. “Surely you know that your groom is a goat by day?”

  Alienor opened her mouth and closed it again. She stared down at the beast beside her, but it merely returned her regard from alien yellow eyes. The goatherd who had led the creature handed her the end of the silken leash with a bow that seemed mocking, his gray eyes twinkling with some barely suppressed amusement.

  “This is a cruel jest,” she whispered fiercely.

  “Guibert gave his word,” the goatherd replied, his tone filled with unexpected steel.

  With the cord dangling from her fingertips, Alienor glanced over her shoulder to find the assembled group watching her without undue interest, as though nothing untoward was occurring and this wedding was proceeding as customarily as any other.

  Incredulous, she sought Guibert, but he was studying his toe with great interest. She glanced back to the beast at her side, wishing now that she had not prayed so fervently that her betrothed be anything other than a short man.

  “A goat,” she whispered.

  “Unicorn,” the priest reminded her sternly. “Do not be so foolish as to insult his family again.”

  At his words, Alienor stifled an urge to laugh. Insult his family? And what of Guibert, her sole family? What of her dignity? Surely she was not alone in thinking the situation bizarre. This was a joke, a prank, a test of her good humor, a frivolity to allay her nervousness. It simply had to be, for she could think of no other plausible explanation. To wed a goat was beyond belief.

  Perhaps her intended was a prankster who enjoyed teasing others and she would do well to learn to play along with his games.

  Perhaps it was a test of how biddable a wife she meant to be.

  Alienor decided to do as was obviously anticipated.

  ’Twas the solemnity w
ith which they all waited for the creature to nod its agreement to the vows that first triggered Alienor’s suspicions that the jest went too far. The priest seemed to sense her doubts for he hastened through the rest and slid a gold band onto her finger.

  A second, larger ring had been threaded onto a length of red cord from which already hung a signet ring. The priest handed her the makeshift necklace with complete solemnity. Alienor slipped it over the beast’s neck.

  Surely this was no more than a dream.

  Surely she would awaken shortly to dress for her wedding in truth.

  But the numerous hands pressing hers and the myriad kisses of congratulations forced upon her cheeks were more than real. The slim cord in her fingers was tangible beyond belief. The smell of the single-horned billy goat was unassailable evidence that it did in fact stand at her side, chewing. Having extended their felicitations, the assembly filed out of the chapel, laughing and joking in anticipation of the feast Lady Iolande would spread to celebrate her son’s nuptials.

  The beast sniffed the velvet of her kirtle, then opened its mouth to take a nibble. Alienor slapped its nose. Her uncertainty made the blow harder than she had intended and the creature sneezed as it backed away, fixing her with an accusing glare.

  “You wed me to this beast in truth!” she said to the priest, the horror of it all finally sinking in. “’Twas no jest.”

  The priest shook his head, apparently surprised that she was displeased. “There is no jest in wedding the Count de Pereille,” he answered, his russet brows drawing together in a frown. “Surely you knew his circumstance?”

  “No!” Alienor responded. “No one told me of this detail, for it is not one I would easily have forgotten.”

  The cleric laughed behind his hand, his eyes twinkling as he nodded in agreement. His good humor did little to ease Alienor’s frustration. “Aye, ’tis an affliction that would stick in one’s thoughts.”