Grant What I Wish

Grant What I Wish - Chapter 25 - Immortal Game, Part II

Chapter 25. Immortal Game, Part II

Normandy
1196

For this is the shrine of Love, o fool! it is not a sheep cote!
Rub thine eyes, and behold the image of the heart.
—Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)

Although Eleanor had proclaimed that her party would depart post-haste for England, it had in actuality taken several months for the queen to propel her entourage to the point of departure. Guy had watched helplessly as cloth was ordered for garments, tack and livery prepared, supplies gathered, noblemen and women selected to accompany the queen, and suitable conveyances fitted with all of the comforts the royal family required for such a rough, dangerous journey.

He maintained a stoic exterior, but felt as if he were bleeding inside. Summoning his courage, he had approached Eleanor once more to ask that he be relieved of this responsibility. The queen, however, refused to listen to his reasoning, growing angry at the slightest hint of his desertion. She was implacable, and would not yield in her decision that he and he alone accompany the young prince to London and the relative safety of Richard’s advisors. Her only accommodation was to announce that Archer might share in Guy’s duties as guide and guard; she had grown fond of the rogue, she had confided to Guy.

As the weeks stretched into months, Guy’s patience wore thin. One particular day, he lost his temper completely and took out all of his frustrations upon a cooper who had broken a wagon wheel he had been charged to mend. The wheel could not be repaired; a new one would have to be ordered. In his overwhelming fury, Guy struck the man a terrible blow, and might have beaten him senseless had Archer not intervened.

Eleanor had witnessed this altercation in the courtyard from her balcony window and had sent for Guy, demanding an explanation. She frowned when Archer stepped over her threshold much later in the day.

Before she could open her mouth to question him, Archer had bowed gracefully and explained, “I beg your pardon, your majesty. My brother has gone to apologize to the man he struck, and to make reparation. He asked that I come to you in his place.”

Eleanor took a deep breath. “He had no right to strike my man for such a trifle.”

“It was not a trifle to him,” Archer explained quietly. “Every day’s delay stretches his patience beyond measure.”

“Why is he so hell-bent on the Holy Land rather than England?” the queen demanded, her eyes snapping with ire. “Any reasonable man in his position would welcome the chance to improve his standing with his king—and to marry as well as he could, if he weren’t so pig-headed.”

Archer smiled wryly. “His heart is not his to give away, your majesty.”

Eleanor’s eyebrows rose; he could tell that her interest was piqued. “He has told me nothing of this—in fact, he offers no explanation. Who holds his heart?”

“He loves Lady Marian of Rivenhall, a young woman of gentle birth. It was because of her that he undertook this mission—he wanted to regain his wealth and redeem his reputation for her as much as for himself.”

“Lady Marian?” Eleanor frowned in concentration. “She whose father was sheriff of Nottingham, before that swine Vasey replaced him?” At Archer’s nod, she continued slowly, “Was she not a childhood sweetheart of Robin of Locksley? I am certain I heard Robin speak of her when last we met.”

Archer shrugged. “I know naught of that. What I do know is that my brother loves her with all of his heart. He thought he had lost her once, only to find her again. From what I can observe, she loves him as well.”

“And she now resides in the Holy Land,” the queen finished, as the truth dawned upon her. “So, he has pledged himself to this young woman.”

Gauging that he now held the queen’s interest, Archer proceeded to explain how Marian had been injured in the Holy Land, and how Guy thought she was dead only to be reunited with her when she returned to England. With careful craft, he told her of the rescue in York and all that had transpired during the siege of Nottingham. He finished by describing how Guy had convinced Marian to return to the Holy Land where she would be safe during his mission, and how he had planned to rejoin her the moment he had delivered the papers into her hands.

After a moment’s silence, the queen said heavily, “And I thwarted his plan.” She stood and spread her hands before her in supplication. “But what am I to do? I must ensure our safe passage to Normandy and across the channel to England. Granted, I have my own troops, but I am not certain if they have been influenced by those loyal to John rather than Richard. I need you and your brother’s escort. What am I to do?”

Archer smiled broadly. “I am glad that you ask. I have a plan.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After what seemed an eternity, all was at last in readiness for the queen’s journey to the coast. With a leaden heart, Guy tolerated the interminable good-byes and last minute instructions the queen had for her courtiers and staff until finally the heavily guarded party struck out for the coast. Guy rode at the head of the procession, with Archer taking up the rear; they had agreed to switch positions when they stopped to rest.

Guy found that travel helped to keep his mind from his sorrows; the necessity of remaining alert to any sound or movement from the wooded copses or the edges of open fields distracted him from his private torments. It was only at the end of each day when they set up camp that his mind was free to wonder what Marian was doing at that moment, and if she had given up all hope of him.

The days passed quickly, with little issue. Perhaps John realized the lunacy of launching an attack upon his mother and nephew. Guy began to think that the real siege would occur in London, when John would attempt to influence his mother and brother with his oily sentiments and a false contrition. And he will probably succeed, and this trip will have all been for naught, he thought with sour humor.

They proceeded at a snail’s pace, as the queen and her ladies in waiting tired of confinement in the carriage all day, and insisted on stopping mid-morning and mid-afternoon to refresh themselves and stretch their legs. Guy said nothing, but rolled his eyes in frustration. At moments when he feared his temper would be loosed, Archer appeared at his elbow with a quiet word or jest that helped him maintain his sense of humor. Still, he feared that seasons would come and go before they reached their destination.

When they finally did reach Normandy and caught a glimpse of the great, roiling gray-blue sea, Guy was surprised to find their ships awaiting them at the docks. He had feared some seagoing disaster might cause an additional delay, and was thus thrilled to be proven wrong. He spurred his horse toward the queen’s conveyance in excitement to inform her man of arms that he would seek out the ship’s captain to ascertain how soon their contingent might board. “I suggest that her majesty await word in La Colombe Blanche,” he announced decisively, gesturing toward a large inn across the way. “I imagine she and her attendants are tired of their ride, and will be in want of refreshment. I will return as soon as I complete my business with the captain.”

Not waiting for a response, Guy turned and strode toward the quay. The piers were teaming with people going about the business with bustling energy. After months of the stifling atmosphere of court, the sights and sounds dazzled him and set him off balance. Upon making several inquiries of sailors loitering about the docks, he finally found a young seaman to escort him aboard their ship and to the captain’s quarters.

A short, stocky man with gleaming epaulettes stood as the cabin door was opened and Guy was ushered into his presence. Setting aside a sheaf of paperwork, the man exclaimed heartily, “Ah, you must be Gisbourne. Your party has made better time than I expected.”

Guy shook the man’s hand and responded. “I must confess that I did not expect to find your ship awaiting us.”

The captain laughed. “Nor did I, but we had fair breezes throughout our passage and made good time. Those I conveyed from London warned me of the queen’s exacting standards and how she would react if I were not in port when she arrived.”

Guy looked at him blankly. “Those you conveyed from London?” he echoed in puzzlement. “Have you brought representatives from the king with you?” This was news to him.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “Indeed he has,” a laughing voice replied as Guy spun around in shock.

“You?” he exclaimed in a voice pitched high with surprise.

Standing directly behind him was Robin of Locksley, with John Little and Much behind him, framed in the cabin doorway.

Robin laughed with delight at having pulled off his surprise. “We have crossed the channel with this fine captain,” he stated, nodding toward the smiling officer, “and stand ready to escort the queen and her party from this point on.”

Guy’s jaw dropped. “But—how?” he asked dazedly. “I had no word of this. My orders were to accompany the queen and her party to London.”

Robin grinned more broadly still. “Your plans have changed. The queen sent messengers to London apprising her son of this change in plans, and to Nottingham to ask if we would be willing to escort her across the channel and on to Westminster,” he explained gleefully. “It appears that our brother told the queen that you had pressing business elsewhere, and suggested that we might be pressed into service,” he added as he slyly smiled.

Guy looked at him in confusion. “And the king agreed?”

“Of course, the king agreed,” Eleanor pronounced in an imperial voice.

As everyone hastily bowed, she moved into the cabin and came to stand before Guy. “Your brother has explained your situation to me, Sir Guy of Gisbourne—as you should have done yourself. Had I known you had been separated from the woman you loved and to whom you were pledged by this mission, I would not have prolonged your agony—or attempted to find a wife for you,” she added, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

Guy flushed and opened his mouth to apologize, but she waved him off. “No matter—Archer came up with an admirable plan, and you see the result of his schemes before you.”

She smiled archly. “Robin of Locksley, I am delighted to see you again…and you as well, John Little.” She offered her hand to Robin and he raised it to his lips as John blushed at the suggestive tone of her voice.

“Then, all is in order, and we may part on the morrow,” the captain announced, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. He had feared the whims of royalty might hold him and his cargo of goods hostage for days, delaying payments due in London.

As if afraid that this was a pleasant dream from which he might awake to cold reality, Guy said in a low, hesitant voice, “If you are certain, your majesty…”

She cut him off. “I am certain. You will dine with us tonight and have time to say your farewells to your friends and your brother. On the morrow, you may be on your way to your lady love.”

Her gaze softened, and she added in a surprisingly tender tone, “I am not so old that I do not remember what it is like to love and long for the one that you love.” She winked at John, and his flush darkened.

A brilliant smile transformed Guy’s face, so that the queen drew in a quick breath in amazement at how his features had changed from attractive to dazzlingly handsome. “Thank you, your majesty,” he exclaimed fervently, bowing over her hand with uncharacteristic chivalry. Glancing at his dark profile as he turned away, she thought, what would it be like to be loved by one such as he?

With a quick clap on Robin’s shoulder, Guy strode forth from the cabin and made his way down the gangplank to shore. As he rushed up the hill toward the inn, he turned a corner and nearly collided with Archer.

Archer reached out to steady himself against a wall, and found himself pulled in a crushing embrace. “Thank you, brother,” Guy exclaimed with fervent sincerity. “I will never forget your kindness. I am in your debt.”

Archer laughed awkwardly. “You are very welcome, brother, and wholly deserving of it. When I have completed this journey to London, I believe I shall make my way to the Holy Land to see how you and your wife fare.”

Guy smiled exultantly. “You will be welcomed with open arms.” He sobered and placed a hand upon Archer’s shoulder. “If there is ever anything I might do for you….”

“I do have one small favor to ask,” Archer responded promptly, devilment in his eyes.

“It is yours to ask,” Guy replied quickly.

“That you name your first born child after me,” he tossed over his shoulder as he set off for the queen’s ship.

After a second’s pause, Guy threw back his head and laughed at the cheekiness of his younger brother. However, with a moment’s reflection, he quickly sobered. The image of Marian with his child at her breast filled his senses. Perhaps someday, he thought with a throb of longing. For now, it would be enough to be with her and possess her once more. His heartbeat quickened with anticipation.

~ Soon enough, I will lay claim to her—and take her to my bed once more. ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Holy Land
1197

Now the words are over
and the pain they bring is gone.
Now you have gone to rest
in the arms of the Beloved.
—Rumi (translated by Jonathan Star)

The heat of the day eased and evening rapidly approached. With the dying of the day, the wind had picking up in intensity, and blew wisps of hair across Marian’s face. She pushed the strands from her eyes impatiently to maintain a clear line of sight out to the horizon. The coolness of the air, however, was welcome after the relentless sun.

From her vantage point, she was able to look out upon the shifting dunes that stretched endlessly in all directions, their sands brick red in the reflection of the dying sun. It had been yet another day of merciless heat; however, as night crept in, cool winds blew streaks of cloud across the horizon, and the evening star shone low upon the horizon.

It was late—she must feed her child and prepare for bed. Dawn came early, and she had much to do on the morrow. As much as Fatima and the other women longed to care for her babe, Marian was firm that he must spend the lion’s share of the day with her. Ash was the pet of all of the women in the compound, a lovely child with a lusty cry upon whom they doted. Marian could not bear to be away from him long, and usually carried him about with her in a makeshift sling. It had been less than an hour since she had deposited him with the women, and she ached at his absence. He was all that she had of Guy now, a precious reminder of the man she had loved, and loved still, and always would love.

She thought yet again of the night that Ash had been born: how she had longed for Guy’s presence and lamented his absence in great, weepy gusts of tears that frightened those about her. Fearing that she was in great pain, Fatima and the other women had hovered about her, and their cries and consolation helped her through her labor. After several terrifyingly strong contractions, the lusty cry of her child had rent the air.

Fatima had laid the wailing child upon his mother’s breast, and Marian had stared at the baby in rapt amazement.

“You have a son, Mawiyah,” her adoptive mother had cried in an exultant voice. “What shall you name him?”

“Ashraf,” Marian had declared without an instant’s pause. “Ashraf Roger.”

As she soothed her son, she noted Fatima’s look of pleasure and surprise. Marian had noted distractedly when she slipped from the room while the baby was cleaned and swaddled. When the child was laid upon his mother’s breast once more, Fatima returned, leading Ashraf into the room. The broad smile upon her adoptive father’s face told Marian that he knew of his namesake.

He laid a gentle palm upon the babe’s head, saying nothing; the tears in his eyes told Marian that he was greatly pleased.

That had been six months ago, and still she had received no word from Guy. She had regained her health, but her spirits were subdued—how could she find joy when torn apart from the one she loved? Guy knew nothing of her state of mind—or of this wondrous miracle that had transformed her life.

She sighed and wondered how old Ash would be before Guy learned of his existence, let alone laid eyes upon his son. Ashraf had urged her to write to him of the news, but she had stubbornly refused—this was not news to be written casually into correspondence. She wanted to see his face when he learned of his heir, to feel his arms go about her and feel the wild joy that his touch elicited within her.

The moon cast a warm, bright glow about the deserted yard. Marian lifted her hot braid from the nape of her neck, relishing the sensation of the cool air against her skin. She sighed and stood, preparing to reclaim her son for their nightly ritual of feeding and bedtime.

As she turned toward the courtyard, she felt a prickle of apprehension—she was not alone. A dark figure stood in the shadows.

Starting with fear, she braced herself and squinted against the contrast between ink-black shadow and moonlit yard. Dear God, she thought, I am hallucinating again, seeing Guy everywhere. I want him so badly that I conjure him from thin air.

But this evening was different. The figure did not melt back into the shadows, but stepped forward into the bright light cast from the moon. He—for it was a man—was dressed in white robes. She hesitated, sensing his presence before she could name it.

“Marian.” The man spoke and his deep voice caused a quiver deep in her belly. It was the voice she had yearned to hear more than any other. It was the voice from the depths of Sherwood Forest, the battlements at Nottingham Castle, a small intimate bedroom deep within the castle keep, and a stable at Locksley.

She covered her mouth with her hand, as her knees buckled beneath her.

In one fluid movement, he caught her before she collapsed and pressed her to him so that they were fused from chest to loins, her legs held between his own. Not one night had gone by since he had left her that he had not dreamed of holding her like this once more. To be with her again was the heaven he remembered promised from church services attended long ago as a boy. His mission, the queen’s journey, King Richard’s worries and strife—these were nothing to him now. She was everything.

“Guy,” she gasped out, still not able to control her breathing or her limbs which refused to hold her up.

With a swift movement, he lifted her into his strong arms and carried her to a seat by the wall where he gently set her down before stepping back. His desire for her was so overwhelming that he was afraid to touch her again lest he pull her beneath him and sink himself into her body.

She, however, had no such compunctions about touching him. Tugging him down beside her, she caressed his face with questing hands as if she were blind and eager to learn the contours of his beloved face once more.

Smoothing her palm over his hair and down the nape of his neck, she struggled for words to express the myriad of emotions flooding through her.

“You have come to me at last,” she finally blurted out.

“Yes,” he replied unsteadily, pulling her into the warm confines of his body and gentling her with his broad palm, alternately soothing and setting her afire for him.

“And your mission—it was a success?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“It was,” he answered, tenderly kissing her brow.

“Are you free to divulge it now?” she queried breathlessly.

He heaved a long sigh before replying. “I carried a message to Arthur of Brittany—Richard made his nephew his heir. I had to place the documents in Queen Eleanor’s hands, to keep them safe from John’s greedy fingers.”

Pulling away, she stared at him. “John is no longer the heir? Does he know of this decision?”

Guy nodded grimly. “He is all too aware of it. He sent assassins after us, but we managed to elude them.”

She continued to stare at him. “Us—you were not alone?”

He eyed her apprehensively, but knew that honesty was his only recourse. They were so completely united that they had moved beyond lies or subterfuge. “I had a small party of men with me—and Archer accompanied me, at Richard’s request.”

“I see,” she said after several moments of silence.

“Marian—” he began, but she cut him off.

“I was not allowed to accompany you, but Archer was,” she said in a brittle tone, averting her face from his. “I guess it was to be expected—he is family, where I am not.”

He grasped her shoulders roughly and turned her toward him, and the heat of his eyes scorched her. “You dare say that?” he asked harshly. “You are my family, more than anyone, more than anything. Do you think I would have willingly subjected you to the dangers I have lived with these past months? I could handle the risk of an arrow or knife in my own back—but I could not have done so with yours.”

She shook her head from side to side in desperation. “I am sorry, Guy. I don’t know what to say or think. I have longed for you so—it has been like a pain that does not cease.” She stared at him, remembering the words of Ashraf’s messenger months ago. “Are you not supposed to be in England, with the queen?”

He smiled softly. “She released me from my duty when Archer explained that the woman I desired above all else resided in the Holy Land.”

She sniffed, not so easily placated. “What of the woman of royal lineage that you were to marry?” She had suffered long bouts of jealousy imagining him wooing some young beauty of birth and upbringing, who would bring him wealth and status, unlike herself.

He gazed at her, his eyes tender. “There is no other woman for me but the bad-tempered wench with whom I fell in love so long ago.” Before she could protest, he lifted her and settled her across his lap. “I love none but you, Marian. Your name shall be the last word on my lips, the thought of you the last idea in my head before I die.”

She turned swiftly and kissed him with all the ardor and frustrated passion that had sustained her for so long. He was surprised, but quickly pulled her to him and covered her mouth with his own. His tongue coaxed her lips open so that they kissed with hot, wet, open mouths. His hand slid from her waist up to her breast, and he caressed her with his clever fingers. She was all lush curves, and he was surprised at the ripe plumpness of her breasts. He pulled at the neckline of her robes in an anxious frenzy to kiss and caress her further, but her hand stayed him.

“Guy, it will not do to be found thus in the compound,” she said in a breathy voice. “We must find Ashraf and let him know of your return, so that you may be made welcome in his home.”

He sighed in frustration. Greeting Ashraf was the last thing on his mind, but he knew that it must be done. Gritting his teeth in discomfort, he set Marian aside and stood, pulling her to her feet before him.

“Very well, but first I have something to ask you—and a gift for you, if you will accept it.” Holding her gaze with eyes ablaze with desire, he dropped to one knee before her. Reaching into an inner pocket of his robes, he brought forth a delicate ring of woven silver bands embossed with intricate carvings. “Will you marry me, Marian, before God and your family?”

She stared at him and her eyes told him her answer before she spoke. “I will,” she answered in a trembling voice, and he slipped the ring on her finger. To his surprise, she began to cry, shaking with silent tears as she laid the hand that now wore his ring to his cheek.

“I feared I might never see you again—that you would be forced to marry another for wealth and position,” she explained in a quavering voice.

He clasped her hand and kissed her palm fervently. “I have learned that I can live without wealth, and I can live without position—but I cannot live without you. You are more than I ever dreamed I would have. I was a shell of a man before you returned to me—when you appeared in my bedroom that night, it was as if my spirit rose from the dead,” he said fervently. “I only wish that I had a name or holding of worth to offer you.”

She cut off his speech with a slash of her hand. “What will it take for you to believe that your love is all I desire—not riches, titles, or lands—only you?”

He stared at her, a strange calm coursing through him at her words. For the first time since he had been a child, he felt at peace.

“Marian,” he breathed and her name was a psalm of thanksgiving. Closing his eyes, he turned his face again into the palm of her hand and nuzzled it with his lips.

She slipped her palm from his grasp, and, pulling him to his feet, slid both hands behind his neck. He pulled her roughly against his chest and his hot mouth claimed the soft hollow at the base of her throat. He licked and nuzzled the sweet spot until she moaned.

Before they lost control, she broke away from him, her face a study in concern and frustration. “You realize that, until we marry, we must not be together—carnally,” she said in a strained voice, struggling for the words to explain. “We must abide by the rules of this village, which command that those not wed must not couple.” She could not meet his gaze, but he saw that her cheeks were flushed.

Guy felt deep disappointment, but rationalized that he could wait a few days more to claim his prize. Standing before her, he ran a knuckle gently down the edge of her cheek and tipped her chin up for a gentle kiss. “Come, let us go to Ashraf so that I might ask permission to wed you.”

She gazed at him, taut with a strange excitement. “Before speaking with my father, there is something I must do. It is only right that, having accepted your gift, I give you yours in return.”

At his blank expression, she continued, “I have a gift for you. But you must come with me to receive it.”

Taking him by the hand, she led him through several winding corridors until they reached an open room with a large patterned screen shielding its occupants from view. Guy realized that this must be the women’s rooms, forbidden to him as a strange man. He stood in the corridor, and listened as Marian spoke in soft Arabic to the women within.

Several moments later, Marian returned with a short, plump veiled woman who held a strapping child in her arms; the child dozed against her shoulder.

“Guy, this is Fatima, my adoptive mother. Mother, this is my husband to be,” she said simply, and Guy felt his heart swell with love and pride at her words.

Fatima nodded politely. “Welcome to our home, Gisbourne,” she said in a lilting voice. “I hope you will consider it your home as well.”

Guy thanked her, and watched as she turned her attention to the child she held. Murmuring a few words in his ear, she gently shook him awake. The young boy rubbed his face against her neck, as if to rub off the last vestiges of sleep. Turning his head, he espied Marian and let out a great crow of delight.

Clumsily waving his chubby arms, he hurled his firm little body toward her so that she was forced to catch him lest he dash himself upon the floor. Guy watched as Marian rubbed her nose against the babes’ in an obviously well known and loved game, and kissed him repeatedly as he reached up to tug at loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid.

Guy looked curiously at the child, so fair among these darker skinned people. The babe had masses of dark, silken hair, and flushed cheeks with marked dimples. When Marian turned to face Guy, both woman and child gazed at him with the same blue eyes. Guy’s jaw dropped. His searching eyes took in the babe’s nose, brows, and chin and he felt his heart stutter—this was his child.

His eyes flew to her face and he read the truth there at once. “Is he—” he started, but could not form the words through his dry, tight throat.

As he continued to stare at the pair, Fatima gazed with amused compassion at the two of them, and hurried back to the room to herd the other women out so that they might be private.

“He is your son,” Marian said steadily, with only a slight quaver in her voice. “His name is Ashraf Roger, but we call him Ash.”

Before he knew what she was about, she passed the child into his arms. Guy held the boy in awkward hands, his eyes running avidly over the child’s features.

Raising his eyes slowly to Marian’s waiting gaze, he said one word. “Mine.”

Marian could not speak; Guy’s expression pierced her heart. He looked so young and vulnerable as comprehension flooded through him, changing to awe as he gazed down at his son. She closed her eyes; it hurt to watch them together.

Uncertain who this strange, dark man was, Ash began to fuss. Before their son began to wail, Marian scooped him from his father’s arms. “It is time for him to nurse,” she explained, and moved into the now vacant room to sit upon the floor.

Guy followed slowly behind, watching in rapt wonder as she loosened the front of her robe and set the child across her lap. She was so beautiful, he thought, feeding his child at her breast. His heart lurched with a queer sensation—he loved her so completely, how was it possible to love her more?

“When was he born?” he asked softly, sitting carefully behind her and pulling her toward him so that she rested between his legs. Reaching out a cautious hand, he caressed his son’s head.

“He is eight months old—I found out that I was with child not long after I returned from England.” She turned her head and her eyes met his. “How I longed for you, Guy,” she said simply; she did not reproach him, but stated a simple fact.

He dropped his head to her shoulder and kissed it. “I am sorry, my love. Had I known you carried my child within you, nothing would have stopped me from coming to you—neither king nor queen.”

“I know,” she whispered. “You are here now. That is all I need.” Their eyes met and held.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the courtyard of the village, a large, colorful tent had been erected. It was evening, and the heat of the day had given way to the cool of evening. A small cluster of people dressed in their best clothes gathered beneath the tent to witness the marriage of Marian, daughter of the house of Ashraf, and the strange Englishman, Sir Guy of Gisbourne.

There had been some talk in the village when the bride had given birth months before with no husband in evidence, but Fatima had explained that Gisbourne was unavoidably detained by his liege lord. The villagers understood the pressures of serving sheiks and elders, so there was no scandal or outrage, but placid acceptance.

Ashraf stood in brilliant white robes, as did Gisbourne whose dark visage glowed with the incandescence of his happiness. Marian had decided to lay aside her robes for this momentous day, and was dressed in the clothing of her homeland. She wore the dress that she had worn on Meg’s wedding day, her mother’s veil obscuring her features from view. Meg had insisted Marian take the veil with her to the Holy Land. “When Guy comes to claim you,” she had exclaimed, “and you are married, you must wear this.” How wise Meg was, Marian marveled yet again as she stood before her bridegroom. She sent up a swift prayer for the continued happiness of her friend.

Guy and Marian recited their vows in clarion tones that carried throughout the courtyard. When the vows were over, Ashraf looked at them expectantly, knowing that both had chosen to quote poetry to seal their love before Allah and extended family. He himself had helped them to choose these pieces, though neither knew what the other would recite.

Marian raised her eyes to Guy’s and, taking his hands in her own, exclaimed in her clear, sweet voice,  ~ “You are the road and the knower of roads, more than maps, more than love.” ~

Guy gazed down at her tenderly before lifting her hands to his lips and kissing one, then the other.

Keeping her hands within his own, he recited in a husky tone, ~ “If you are joyful, I am. If you grieve, or if you’re bitter, or graceful, I take on those qualities. Like the shadow of a cypress tree in the meadow, like the shadow of a rose, I love close to the rose. If I separated myself from you, I would turn entirely to thorn.” ~

He finished and smiled to see a shimmer of tears in her eyes. Leaning forward, he kissed her tenderly on the cheek, catching her tears upon his lips. “Do not cry,” he whispered.

“I must. I am so happy,” she whispered back, moving into his arms with a lithe grace.

Ashraf looked from one to the other and smiled indulgently. He knew Fatima would be glaring beneath her veil, disapproving of these liberties. But he recognized their love and longing, and how desperately they wanted to be joined. Clearing his throat, he, too, recited from the poet:

May these vows and this marriage be blessed.
May it be sweet milk,
this marriage, like wine and halvah.
May this marriage offer fruit and shade
like the date palm.
May this marriage be full of laughter,
our every day a day in paradise.
May this marriage be a sign of compassion,
a seal of happiness here and hereafter.
May this marriage have a fair face and a good name,
an omen as welcomes the moon in a clear blue sky.
I am out of words to describe
how spirit mingles in this marriage.

Glancing from one to the other, he solemnly declared, “You are married.”

A wide smile transformed Guy’s austere face. Ashraf stared—he could not recall Gisbourne smiling before, but the man did now as he pulled his bride to him and kissed her passionately.

The women tittered behind their veils and the men smirked, but neither Guy nor Marian cared. They were united at last, and the others could wait until they sealed their union before man, woman, and God.

As they drew apart, Fatima rushed forward to place Ash in his mother’s arms. Holding his wife and child in his arms, Guy smiled into the happy, flushed faces of those most precious to him and thought that now, at last, he knew what paradise was like. He held it in his arms.

We are as pieces of chess engaged in victory and defeat:
our victory and defeat is from thee, O thou whose qualities are comely
—Rumi

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