The Vampire & Her Witch

Aubin had been worried since the morning Jocelynn brought Eleanor’s body to his temple, wrapped in a blanket and refusing to let anyone else touch her cousin’s remains. He’d been worried through the memorial, through the funeral, through the long days of mourning that followed. And he was worried now, standing before the full court of Lothian March, presiding over a ceremony that he couldn’t refuse to perform but couldn’t bring himself to celebrate.

Jocelynn stood beside Owain with her veil lowered, the cerulean silk casting a blue shadow across her features that made her expression difficult to read. Her hands were folded at her waist, her posture was flawless, and to anyone watching from the tables, she looked like a composed, if somber, bride preparing to speak her vows.

Aubin knew better. He’d seen what Eleanor’s death had done to this young woman, and he’d watched the light in her eyes change from grief to something harder in the days that followed. He didn’t know what Jocelynn was planning, but the steadiness in her bearing frightened him more than trembling would have, because women who trembled were still fighting. Women who were this still had already made their peace with whatever came next.

”Lord Owain,” Aubin said, following the ritual’s prescribed form. ”Take your bride’s hands in yours.”

Owain reached for Jocelynn’s hands with the practiced grace of a man who had been performing for audiences his entire life. His fingers closed around hers, and Charlotte, watching from the Otker table, saw the faintest ripple pass through Jocelynn’s shoulders, a shudder so small that only someone who was looking for it would have noticed.

”Let us bow our heads,” Aubin said, raising the ceremonial staff, ”and offer our prayers for this union, that the Holy Lord of Light may bless this man and this woman and watch over them in the days to come.”

The great hall fell silent as hundreds of heads bowed in prayer. The minstrels set aside their instruments. The serving girls retreated to the edges of the room. Even the candle flames seemed to steady, as though the air itself had stilled in deference to the moment.

Aubin closed his eyes and began to pray. The words he spoke were the traditional blessing of union, the same words that had been spoken over every noble marriage in Lothian March for generations. But the prayer that lived in his heart was something else entirely.

’Holy Lord of Light, watch over this child,’ he thought. ’She has suffered more than any bride should suffer. She has lost her sister, her cousin, and her faith in the goodness of the men who rule over her. If there is mercy in Your light, let it find her tonight. If there is justice in Your design, let it reach her before it is too late. And if there is even a single bright star remaining in her sky, let it guide her way to a better life than this.’

When the silent prayer ended, Aubin raised his head and his staff, and the great hall lifted its eyes to the old priest as he prepared to lead them in a hymn that tradition required before the speaking of vows.

Aubin had chosen the hymn himself. Most priests chose something joyful for a wedding, a hymn of celebration and new beginnings that would fill the hall with the warm, hopeful energy that the Church believed should accompany the union of man and wife.

When Aubin had presided over Owain and Ashlynn’s wedding, he had chosen the hymn ’Two Flames Burn Brighter’ to offer hope that the union of Owain and Ashlynn would lead to an ever-growing, ever-brightening future, filled with the warmth of family, children, and hope for the march. Most people in the audience likely expected him to select something similar for Owain’s second wedding.

But this time, Aubin had chosen differently.

His voice rose alone at first, thin but clear, filling the great hall the way a single bell filled a tower before the others joined it.

”The Sun ascends the Eastern sky,

To watch the humble and the high.

He gives the crown, he gives the sword,

But all belong unto the Lord!

From Eastern seas to Western sand,

The Light shall cleanse this holy land!”

It was an old hymn, dating to the earliest days of the Kingdom of Gaal and the First Crusade. It had come from a time when the Church created a king, a kingdom, and a people out of a dozen different colonies and settlements.

The song had been a reminder, sung far and wide across the nascent kingdom of Charles duGaal, and as the lords, ladies, and even the servants in the Great Hall joined in, that reminder rang out loud and clear.

-STOMP- ”Holy is the Lord of Light!”

-STOMP- ”We walk the path, we guard the right!

Though kings may wear a golden crown,

Before the Sun, they all bow down!

Before the Sun, they all bow down!”

The loudest voices in the hall belonged to the common folk, and the minstrels joined in on their lyres, lutes, and drums, playing with an intensity that few hymns received. The song had always been popular among the people who turned to faith and the warm embrace of the Church in times of need.

It was even more popular among those who sought sanctuary behind the Church’s walls from the noblemen of the kingdom, because even the king himself couldn’t knock down the gates of the Church to harm a man the Church had granted sanctuary to.

Aubin had chosen the song today as a reminder, though it meant something different to everyone who heard it. From the dark look on Owain’s face, the Lothian Lord certainly understood Aubin’s meaning, especially after he’d claimed victory over Abbot Recared this morning. Clearly, Aubin was moving to regain some of the ground the Church had lost to the new Marquis over the incident with Percivus.

It meant something different to the lords in the hall, though oddly enough, the knights and ladies sitting at the Dunn table seemed particularly pleased by Aubin’s selection, while others, like Valeri Leufroy and his son, Tulori, wore looks similar to Owains. Whether the lords understood Aubin’s intention or not didn’t matter much to the white-haired priest.

What mattered to him was that Jocelynn understood that there was still a power in this world that could keep her safe... If only she would place her faith in its ability to protect her.

The music swelled. The voices rose. And beyond the heavy oak doors of the great hall, masked by the singing and the instruments and the fervent, thunderous sound of nearly five hundred voices raised in a hymn that shook the chandeliers, the sounds of steel on steel and men fighting for their lives went unheard...