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July 3, 1193
"Papa!" Agathe shuffled across the bench and snuggled up to Vulcran's side. He had no idea where she'd learned to be so affectionate, or how she hadn't unlearned it. Her mother had always brushed her aside, and he himself just couldn't manage enough of the touchy-feely to more than tolerate it. He loved his daughter--at least, in so much as a useless old drunk like him could love--but it just wasn't in his nature to hug and cuddle.
Neither was it in his nature to tell his daughter that her mother was dead. So, if he had to tell her that, he might as well hug and cuddle her too. "Agathe... sweetie..."
How to even start? He barely remembered firsthand just what had happened; he'd been refreshed by his steward only an hour prior. He'd come home from the inn the night before, about half a drink away from not being able to keep himself atop his horse. He'd stumbled into the castle, about to drag himself into bed, when Eumelia's maid had approached him, screaming. She'd dragged him and the steward to Eumelia's corners, where they'd found her cold body, clothed and meticulous as ever. Beside her lay a bottle of sacramental wine, plus whatever poison she'd stirred into it; his steward had sent it to a local apothecary for examination.
It had only been a matter of time, he'd supposed once he had a sober moment to process it all. She had always been more interested in spending time with God than with any mortal, though Vulcran's sickest imaginings couldn't conjure a deity who'd find Eumelia good company.
"Papa?"
It was his own damn fault, really. Ought to have released her to a convent years ago. His daughters might not have been born, but at least he wouldn't have known that heartache of Riona's death. And at least Searle might have been somewhat well-adjusted, or at least as well adjusted as a son of Vulcran Sadiel could be.
"So... what were you doing here in the chapel?"
He regretted the question as soon as he asked it. The chapel was where Eumelia could usually be found, and the first place Agathe would go had she gotten it into her head to seek her out.
But, he'd worried for naught. "Just praying.
"I don't know why God wants us to pray in this dingy old room, though. I think a field of flowers would feel closer to God--but Mama would call that blasphemous."
"Maybe. I think I prefer your field, though." Not that Vulcran was much of a praying man at all.
"Thank you! The way I see it, God made fields. Stuffy old priests made chapels."
Stuffy old priests. Such an obvious zest for life.
How had he and Eumelia managed to make this girl?
"Agathe... I have to tell you something..."
NEXT CHAPTER:
January 15, 1157
Dalston had found his brother, but it seemed that Arkon had already settled in the company of his in-laws.
They were seated on the bride's side--not surprising, seeing as Lileina was their niece, after all. Lileina was an Andronei, but it was obvious that the Sadiel clan from which her mother came would dominate her seating. Most of the guests had not yet gathered on the platform where the ceremony would take place, but the Sadiel men seemed to have made a point to congregate earlier than everyone else. Sir Marsden, the youngest of the Sadiel brothers, exchanged a good-natured, yet visibly bored glance with Dalston from where he stood behind the back bench, where silently sat Karlspan, the sickly Earl of Bandera, another Sadiel in-law. In front of him was Arkon, seemingly talking to his father-in-law in the row in front of him, and wearing the absolute ugliest tunic Dalston had ever seen; he was somewhat surprised that Renata had allowed him to come to her niece's wedding sporting something that was seemingly made from a faded tapestry and a few old bedsheets.
Dalston was rather surprised to find the redheaded Sir Vulcran here, sitting with his brother Sir Tarien; ordinarily, Vulcran could be found only wherever wine and women could also be found. Perhaps he was showing some restraint for the sake of his oldest sister's oldest daughter, though, whether of his own accord or by the insistence of some other family member.
Tarien too seemed rather out-of-place. As usual, he had not bothered to comb his hair--he had probably come straight from the stables.
However, the oldest two brothers, Koradril and Sir Ovrean, were as immaculate as ever.
And of course, there was their brother-in-law--Haldred, the Baron of Hoprine. The father of the bride looked as majestically apathetic as he ever did, despite the occasion; Dalston suspected that the act was all he could do to keep himself from bursting into tears.
Behind him sat his wife's father, the Count of Valcria and Sadiel patriarch. Dalston had been quite young when Cladelia had married Haldred, but if he remembered correctly, Searle was exactly as he had been in the front pew of the chapel at Hoprine that day.
He'd forgotten how much he missed these men, and everyone else at this wedding. They hadn't necessarily been close, but with only ten fully interbred noble families in Dovia, they had certainly been a part of each other's lives--spending holidays in a distant shire, sending younger sons off to be raised by other lords...
Weddings and funerals; that would be it for them now. Personally... Dalston was hoping for more weddings.
NEXT CHAPTER:
