Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [102]
“Don’t leave me, Joram,” she whispered, looking into his eyes as he held her close, his hands gentle and tender, yet trembling even as she trembled. “I do care! I do! I don’t know why I said those things! It was wrong and cruel of me —” Hiding her face in her hands, she began to cry.
Joram clasped the young woman in his arms, smoothing the silken hair beneath his fingers. Blood pounded in his ears. The fragrance of her perfume, the softness of the body pressed close to his, intoxicated him. “Gwendolyn,” he said in a shaking voice, “may I ask your father for permission to marry you?”
She did not look at him or she might have seen the darkness inside him, crouching like a savage beast in a corner of his soul; a darkness he himself believed was chained and manageable. Had she seen it, girl that she was still, she would have run, for it was a darkness only a woman who has wrestled similar darkness within her own soul can face unafraid. But Gwendolyn kept her eyes hidden and only nodded, in answer.
Joram smiled and — seeing Marie coming in the distance, the shawl in her hand — whispered a hasty warning to Gwen to compose herself, adding that he would talk to her father without delay. Then he was gone, leaving Gwen standing on the path, hurriedly blinking back her tears and trying as best she could to wipe the blood from the cuts on her feet, concealing the wounds from the loving eyes of her governess.
The third evening following the momentous occasion of the Emperor’s visit, another couple walked in the garden, milord having brought milady here for the express purpose of having a private talk with her.
“So the story of the wicked uncle is not true?” Lady Rosamund asked her husband in disappointment.
“No, my dear,” said Lord Samuels indulgently. “Did you really think it would be? A child’s tale….” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
“I suppose not,” Lady Rosamund said with a sigh.
“Do not be downcast,” said milord in a low voice as he drifted through the evening air at her side. “The truth, while not as romantic, is far more interesting.”
“Truly?” Milady brightened, looking up fondly at her husband’s face in the moonlight, thinking how handsome he was. The conservative blue robes of the Guildmaster became Lord Samuels well. Just over forty years old, milord kept himself in good physical condition. Since he was not a nobleman, he was not tempted to indulge in the dissipations of the upper class. He had not grown fat from too much food or red-faced from too much wine. His hair, though graying, was thick and plentiful. Lady Rosamund felt a good deal of pride in him, as he felt in her.
Their marriage, arranged by their families as were so many in Merilon, had not been one of love. Their children were conceived — as was right and proper — through the intercession of the catalysts, who transferred the man’s seed to the woman in a solemn religious rite. The physical joining of two people was considered a sin — being barbaric and animalistic. But Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund were more fortunate than most. Affection for each other had grown through the years, springing from mutual respect and suitability of minds and purpose.
“Yes, truly,” Lord Samuels continued, glancing at the roses with a critical eye and reminding himself to check for aphids on the morrow. “Do you recall a scandal, some years ago —”
“Scandal!” Milady looked alarmed.
“Be easy, my dear,” Lord Samuels said soothingly. “It was seventeen — almost eighteen — years ago. A young woman of high birth …” milord paused, “I may say very high birth,” he added meaningfully, obviously enjoying keeping milady in suspense, “had the misfortune to fall in love with the family catalyst. The Church disallowed their marriage and the two ran away. They were later discovered in very shocking and dreadful circumstances.”
“I recall something of the sort,” Lady Rosamund said. “But I don’t think I ever knew any details. We were not yet married, if you