Free Sworn Loyalty - A Medieval Romance by Lisa Shea Page B

Mary knew they had missed him sorely while he was gone.
    Erik’s stride slowed, and Mary wondered how many times he had imagined this day, had thought of his return home. His arm at her waist drew her in, holding her close, and she leant against him.
    His step hitched, and Mary followed his gaze. He was looking at the empty grey fieldstone above the fireplace. A frown crossed his face, quickly erased again.
    Mary knew what he had reacted to. From the day he had turned one, a painting of him had hung in that spot. Over the years the images had been updated. The day he had stormed out, the painting had shown him as a strong young man, dressed in a forest green tunic, his blue-grey eyes gazing resolutely out over the hall.
    Now there was nothing to show he had ever been there.
    They walked past the long, wooden tables, heading for the main table setting across the back end of the hall on a raised dais. Erik’s mother had had a flair for the dramatic, and everything from her ornately carved chair to the elegant tapestry tablecloth and gold chased plateware spoke to her high station. Mary had often wondered what Erik’s father had thought of all this, but the man had passed away only a year after his son’s birth, gored by a stag on a Christmas day hunt. His wife had ruled with an iron fist, determined to pass a strong holding down to her son.
    And then that son had abandoned her.
    Erik’s eyes were steady on the chair as they approached, then he lowered his eyes and moved to his seat at its right. He helped Mary into the smaller seat beside him, and Mary fell into it gratefully, a sigh escaping her as she relaxed into the familiar chair.
    It was going to be all right. She was home.
     Michael was at her right, Zelda poured her a glass of her favorite wine, and she smiled up at the buxom lady, giving her a toast before drinking down half of it in gratitude and relief. Tina, her tight red ringlets shining in the firelight, lay down a trencher with chicken stew and turnips, and Mary could have kissed her. The smell was nearly intoxicating.
    She folded her gloved hands before her.
    To her left, Erik’s voice was hoarse. “May I say grace?”
    Mary started, shaken out of her near dream state. For a moment it had all been so familiar, the fragrant smells, the presence of Michael at her side, the chair she had sat in for over ten years. Erik’s voice zinged into that peace with the force of a lightning bolt out of a clear summer sky. He was here, now, present in the chair which had remained vacant for a decade. That empty chair had remained a stark reminder, throughout her time at the keep, that she was only second place in Lady Cartwright’s heart. There had always been a spot between them, and it would only take Erik walking through that door to permanently keep them apart.
    Her voice was shaky. “Of course,” she murmured.
    Erik clasped his fingers together, bowed his head, and Mary could hear the raw passion in his voice as he spoke. She wondered how many times he had recited these words when huddled around a tiny campfire in the deserts of Jerusalem, or crouched over a small hunk of bread in the creaking hull of a merchant ship.
    “Dear Lord, bless You in Your wisdom. I cannot fathom the plan You have for me, or the twists my life must take to reach Your goal. I can only pray for the strength to meet the challenges You have set for me, and the courage to do what must be done. Thank You for this nourishment, that I might live another day and move one step closer toward –”
    There was a rough break in his voice, and Mary glanced sideways through shuttered lids. Erik had brought his forehead to his hands, and there was a glistening at his lashes. Mary looked down at her food again. She could only imagine how hard this must be on him.
    At last he spoke again, his voice rough. “Thank You,” he said simply. “Thank You.”
    Mary found her own throat was tight. “Amen.”
    They opened their eyes, and the feasting