The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series by Claudia Dain Page A

over him without penetrating. The fire licked and swirled within and around the logs, playing with the wood even as it consumed it. Such was life, playing with a man's dreams until it handed him ashes, though he had not thought so even an hour ago. He had hoped for much, planned for much, after the wreckage of his childhood. Through all the years of toil and striving and blood, he had fed the dream of again having his own land, his own bulwark against whatever man could throw against him. He had striven to prove his worth to an overlord who could reward him with land, since Henry of Anjou had land aplenty. He had fought and fought and fought again, both the Saracen and the Christian, and now he had to fight anew—against his own wife.
    The need to be with Rowland, to hear his friend's even voice and to speak his own thoughts, lay heavily upon him, but he would not speak of Cathryn and what had been revealed on their wedding bed. She had betrayed him, but he would not betray her. They were bound in the sight of God, and he would honor his vow—not to her, but to God. What passed between them was private and would remain so.
    Rowland continued with his task, careful not to look into his friend's eyes, careful to give him the time and the privacy he needed to speak his thoughts. His sword had ceased needing care long ago, but he did not halt in his precise handling. He waited for William. He would wait all night and rub his sword down to a dagger if need be.
    "The sum of my plans lie there," William said softly, pointing to the ash that ringed the glowing yellow fire.
    Rowland chose his words carefully, remembering a night when he had first learned how fragile were a man's plans when brushed by the mighty hand of God. Indeed, it was not so far off in his thoughts even now.
    "A man's plans often lie charred and crumbling in this life, yet God will have His way," he said quietly.
    "I vow this is not God's way!" William argued, his voice urgent in its intensity. "And if it be His, then it surely is not mine!"
    Rowland smiled sadly and looked up from his sword. "'Tis rare the two are one."
    William looked deeply into Rowland's eyes and found himself smiling reluctantly. "That is truly so and truly said." When he turned back to the fire, his smile collapsed. "Yet 'tis mortal hard to release the dream."
    "Even if all you release is a fistful of ash?"
    William looked again into Rowland's dark eyes, and now he did not smile. "Even so. Yea," he answered with wistful intensity.
    Rowland answered him with equal intensity: "Then construct a new dream, William, and brush the ash off your warrior's hand. If God wills, you will succeed."
    William sat on the bench opposite Rowland, trying to heed the wisdom of Rowland's words—words he knew Rowland had lived himself.
    "And if God wills not?" he finally responded.
    Rowland smiled gently. "'Tis said there are dreams aplenty."
    But what men said and what they believed often had little in common, and so it was true of Rowland's counsel. The two sat in companionable, if solemn, silence, alone in the vast darkness of the hall, each lost in the mystery and beauty of the flames. But William could find no new dream among the ashes at his feet.

 
     
     
    Chapter 7

     
    Cathryn awoke just minutes before the dawning, alone in the bed. The rain of yesterday had stopped, but the mist and low clouds remained to block the rising sun. Fog ruled the day.
    Someone had covered her, tucking the cover around her as snugly as one would bind a child, and the fire blazed hotly in the hearth. Marie. She could not remember actually falling asleep last night, but she knew the fire had been out before William had left the room and that she had been curled on top of the coverlet. With the thought of William, an overwhelming sense of loss and lethargy pervaded her. Their marriage had begun much as she had feared; she should be thankful. She had no bruises to sport throughout the day. It could have been worse—much