Page 23 of Promise of a Knight
Chapter Nine
Within the hour, Princess Margaret would officially become Queen Consort to King James IV of Scotland. And while that was all very well and good, Alaric couldn’t stop staring at the woman on his arm—Lady Alexandra, Alex…
King James had decreed that those knights who begged favors from the princess’ ladies, should then escort them into Holyrood Abbey for the marriage celebration. So, the Scottish knights were paired with English ladies and vice versa. Which meant—Alaric got to escort Alex into the church.
Alex was dressed in a fine gown of emerald green satin, pearls sewn along the bodice and gold lace trimming her wrists and hem. A stomacher emphasized the trimness of her waist, and skirts billowed to show the swell of her hips. Her hair was pulled into a neat twist at the back of her head, with several curls purposefully loose and framing her face. She wore a matching hood and collar to her emerald dress, and when she walked, he could see her slippers, in the same shade of green, poking out from beneath her hem.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured as they crossed under a massive, carved, marble archway, and over the threshold of the abbey.
The high-domed ceiling was impressive to say the least, and the mass of courtiers were already lined up along the sides, watching the procession of royal escorts entering. Music floated softly through the archways and, with it, the pure voices of children singing.
“Thank ye, Sir Alaric.” Her blue eyes caught his. “Ye look verra handsome as well.”
Not one to dress to impress usually, Alaric had taken his time in picking out his garments that morning. When he’d gleaned that Alex would be wearing a green gown, he’d chosen his doublet of green and gold to match hers.
The closer they moved to the front of the nave, the more Alaric kept wondering what it would be like if he were the groom and Alex was his bride. These disturbing thoughts had been coming to him with more frequency of late. He was four and thirty, marriage had not yet been on his mind, though the thought of returning to England without Alex did something painful to his insides. She was warm pressed to the side of him, her fingertips burning through his sleeve. Perhaps the thought of marriage was no longer as disturbing and unwelcome as he’d once thought.
“This abbey is impressive,” Alex said. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“We have many beautiful abbeys in England as well,” Alaric said, subtly checking her receptiveness to his country.
“Oh? Any that come close to Holyrood?” Her tone was inquisitive, no hint of disapproval.
“Indeed, Westminster Abbey is one I admire.”
“Another royal abbey, of course.” Alex seemed ready to roll her eyes but caught herself, ducking her gaze.
Alaric chuckled. “I do not think a king or queen would abide their very own abbeys to be ugly.”
“This is true. We have many abbeys in Scotland, some beautiful and some not.”
“That is the same for England. I wish I could show you the chapel at Castle De Garde.”
“I’ve not heard of that one.”
Alaric smiled. “Not many have.”
“Tell me of it.”
He steered her toward their place near the front of the nave just before the choir where the rest of the nobles were gathered. “’Tis not nearly as big as this, a modest chapel really, but we’ve just had stained glass by Barnard Flower, the king’s own artist, put into the transept windows and the chancel by the altar. The colors gleam and glow when the sun shines on them. Truly a divine presence.”
“Sounds beautiful,” Alex said wistfully, her gaze off toward the distance as though she would imagine it herself.
Alaric’s chest swelled with pride and he smiled at her, wishing to ask her to come with him.Come to Castle De Garde. Come and see our chapel. Stay with me…“Aye, ’tis. Though it isn’t as grand or royal as Holyrood or Westminster, there is a great history behind its walls, too. The great Alaric de Garde, my ancestor whom I’m named after, is buried there beside his love, Charlotte. All of the windows paint the stories of my ancestors’ great victories.”
“Yer ancestor, this Alaric de Garde,” she giggled. “He is the talk of many ghost stories around bonfires on cold winter nights.”
“Is he truly?” Alaric chuckled.
“Aye! He is the ghost that will sneak into a child’s room and steal their breath,” she wriggled her eyebrows and fingers. “Or leap from a darkened corner in the middle of the night when one needs to make use of the privy.”
Alaric rolled his eyes. “From what I’ve heard, de Garde would be proud. Did you know the love of his life, Charlotte, was Scottish?”
Alex’s eyes shot toward his and he couldn’t help but mirror the thoughts that were most likely going through her mind—were they going to repeat history?
“I think I may have heard that before,” she said softly. “A great love.”
The music grew louder and then the room fell hushed as Margaret Tudor was presented to the court. Alaric watched his princess walk down the aisle of the nave, but he only had eyes for Alex.
