Page 73 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set
P assing through Oxford’s impressive outer walls and through the town gates, narrow, unpaved streets welcomed them. Wooden and thatched houses lined the winding streets, their architecture reflecting a mix of Norman and Saxon influences.
“Those bells are from St. Frideswide’s Priory,” Roland said.
“St. Frideswide?”
“The patron saint of Oxford.”
“There are so many churches here,” she said. “Is that a church as well?”
“Nay,” Roland answered, having been here before. “It is a university building. A gathering place for scholars and students engaging in intellectual pursuits.”
They passed a central marketplace with merchants peddling their wares. Amalia might have wished to stop and visit the herbalists, but after the past days’ journey, she wanted nothing more than food, and sleep.
At least they were safe.
After that second attack, Amalia had mended more wounds than the first and decided...being a healer was not for her. She loved growing herbs, trying them for various purposes, watching as they worked to heal. But open wounds and broken bones? She could do without both.
They rode to the manor house, the nobleman and supporter of Matilda’s that would welcome her standing in front of it, and Amalia and Roland dismounted along with the other men.
Although the imposing defensive walls they’d passed would protect the empress and her men, St. John Manor was not nearly as large as Lincoln Castle or the Tower of London.
Only Matilda and her inner circle would be housed there; the rest of the men would find monasteries or inns at which to take a respite.
“I’ve arranged,” Sir Eamon said, coming toward them, “for some of the men to stay at Griffin Inn, others at...”
Amalia stopped listening. She watched as Roland and the others took orders from their leader.
He was an impressive-looking figure, the man that insisted he would be her husband.
After seeing his brother nearly killed in the attack—one they’d learned was a coordinated effort by Stephen’s supporters to kidnap the empress to exchange her for their king—Roland had been unusually quiet.
In the opportunities they did have to speak, Roland said only Eamon would reassess once at Oxford. He did not know what came next, but it seemed likely they would return to Blackwood.
“Come,” Roland said, apparently finished speaking with the men.
“Where are we going?” Amalia asked as Darien and Alden joined them. As usual, Alden appeared grim, and Darien’s expression was unreadable.
“The Griffin Inn,” Roland said.
“Why is Sir Eamon looking at me, displeased?”
“Because you have been invited to lodge with the empress. But I told him you were coming with us instead. He believes it to be improper, as you are not chaperoned, and thinks you should stay in the manor house.”
“He is correct,” Amalia said, avoiding Sir Eamon’s gaze. “Darien, why are you smiling?”
Roland shot Darien a look. Something was odd between them.
“I will tell you while we eat. If Alden does not get food in his stomach soon, I fear what may happen.”
A handful of Guardians followed them to the inn.
A timber-framed structure marked by a hand-carved wooden sign depicting a majestic griffin with wings outstretched, the inn was just as charming inside.
Flames from a massive stone hearth cast a flickering glow across the great hall.
Wooden benches and sturdy oak tables were scattered around, the inn’s walls adorned with rich tapestries depicting mythical creatures and heraldic symbols.
Banners bearing the inn’s griffin emblem hung from the rafters.
The three of them made their way to a long wooden bar stretching along one side of the common room, adorned with brass tankards and barrels of ale. The innkeeper, clad in a simple yet well-kept tunic, poured them ale as they approached.
“Tables and a meal,” Darien said to the white-haired man. “There will be many others as well,” he added. As he said the words, men streamed into the inn.
“You are the Lady of the English’s men?” the innkeeper asked.
“Of sorts,” Darien replied.
“Then you and the others are most welcome. Sit,” he indicated a table near the hearth. “I will send a serving girl to you.”
It was only after they sat, meat pies and cheese in front of them, that Roland said, “Eamon agreed for you to stay here when I told him we would be handfasted.”
Amalia nearly spit out her ale.
“Surely,” she said, recovering, “I misheard you.”
Alden and Darien averted their gazes.
“I’d ask for more privacy, but we need witnesses.
And have two willing ones”—Roland waved his hand—“here. If we marry before I can speak to my father, he will surely disinherit me. And may do so anyway. But I am not willing to be parted from you Amalia and wish for you to know my intentions are honorable.”
“Handfasting,” she repeated. “It is not done where I am from.”
“In my village,” Alden said, “it is common. Shirsten St. Mary was founded by an Irishman, and many of his family’s traditions have woven their way into our practices.”
Amalia looked at Darien. “I’ve known it to be done,” he said, “but neither is it common in Crimson Hollow or its village.”
Heart pounding, she asked, “Tell me of it.”
Alden spoke. “It is derived from the Old Norse ‘handfesta,’ which is to strike a bargain by joining hands. It is a commitment to marry. Though there are legal implications, it is not always recognized by the church.”
“For a year and a day, unless we marry sooner, we are bound by the promise to become husband and wife.”
“Can it be broken?” Amalia asked.
Roland looked at Alden, who said, “Aye. As a betrothal can be broken. ’Tis not taken lightly, such a matter. But,” he added, “no knight on his honor would break such a vow.”
Amalia did not wish to slander him, but this was a serious matter. “You broke your betrothal,” she whispered to Roland.
“One my father made that I never agreed to. We will be as good as married, Amalia, allowing my mother and sister the opportunity to plan a wedding. Allowing my father to believe he has some impetus in the matter.”
“Does he?” she asked.
“Nay. It will be done.”
A handfasting. Amalia took a bite of meat pie, considering everything.
She loved him. Their future would be as uncertain as Evelina and Gareth’s.
But in those moments when he engaged with the enemy, Amalia had known true terror for the first time in her life.
Not for herself, but for Roland. She understood well what he was feeling about his brother, Roland expressing to her that he’d never been more afraid on a battlefield than in that moment.
“I may not,” Roland said suddenly, “inherit the earldom.”
“I am a farmer’s daughter and care little about such things.”
Both Alden and Darien smiled.
Amalia reached across the wooden table, the hall now filled to capacity, and took Roland’s hand.
“What are the words?”
His eyes widened. Roland took Amalia’s other hand and looked at Alden.
“You promise to love and honor each other, binding your lives together,” he said.
Darien stopped eating and leaned forward.
“Amalia, I give thee my most sacred vow to love and honor, and protect you, for all my days. With these words, I bind my life to yours.”
Endearingly, Roland peered at Alden, as if for approval. In response, Alden shrugged. It was as strange a “ceremony” as any.
“Roland,” Amalia said, “I give thee my most sacred vow to love and honor, and protect you, for all my days. With these words, I bind my life to yours.”
Roland smiled. “Will you protect me?”
“Aye.”
He seemed amused. “How will you do so?”
“I will protect your heart by being true, always. And would ask the same of you.”
“Ahh, she has you there, Roland,” Darien said, chuckling.
Roland smiled. “I will remain true and faithful to you, Amalia.”
They both turned to Alden.
“I’ve witnessed many handfastings, but have not officiated one before. I believe, however, ’tis done. You’ve pledged yourselves to each other with witnesses.”
’Tis done.
Roland let go of her hands and stood abruptly, coming around to Amalia’s side. Pulling her up to him, Roland kissed her so thoroughly that the entire hall of the Griffin Inn erupted into cheers.
They had lost the day in London. England’s future was uncertain.
But Roland and Amalia had won each other. A celebration was in order.