The Vampire & Her Witch-Chapter 1509: The Bride’s Procession Begins (Part Two)
"There’s still time to join Anne and Mary in the kitchens..."
Albyn’s whisper slid through the gaps in Jocelynn’s emotional armor, falling on the brittle blade in her heart with the force of a hammer, and for a moment, she wavered.
She thought about Eleanor. She thought of the golden light that had filled her cousin’s body in her final moments, and the warmth that still lingered beneath Jocelynn’s skin as a fading reminder of the price Eleanor had paid to give her the strength to stand here now.
She thought about Ashlynn. Not the ghost in the looking glass, but the real Ashlynn. The one she’d betrayed. The one who might still be with her if she hadn’t told Owain about the mark on her hip before she had a chance to...
Chance to what? Jocelynn shook her head slightly as her thoughts led down the same inescapable path that Eleanor had helped her to see whenever she struggled. What she’d done was terrible, and there was no doubt that it played a role in her sister’s death. Jocelynn would carry that guilt to the grave.
But Owain had been the one to deliver the killing blow. It was possible that Ashlynn wouldn’t have been able to conceal her mark long enough to reach a point where Owain could accept its presence. It was possible that nothing Ashlynn did could save her life in Lothian March, and knowing Owain as well as Jocelynn did now, that was very likely.
There might have been other chances to escape, and Jocelynn had robbed Ashlynn of those. She couldn’t hide from that truth. At the same time, Owain was a monster who murdered her sister on the night of her wedding, and for that... for that, Owain needed to die. Jocelynn had accepted that, and she was willing to spend her own life to see that it happened.
She couldn’t stop now, no matter how much she wanted to run and escape it all... She owed Ashlynn that much and more for what she’d done, and she refused to fail her sister again.
"I’m fine," Jocelynn said lightly, pretending that it was true as she took another step forward. "Just... just butterflies in my stomach and the corset is a bit tight," she lied. "We can keep going now."
"Of course, my Lady," Albyn said gently, continuing to walk beside her as he firmly suppressed every instinct in his body to take her and run... She’d made her decision, for better or for worse, and he would help her see it through, all the way to the end.
The corridor opened into a wide vestibule before the great hall’s entrance, and the man waiting there drew Jocelynn’s attention like a blade catching sunlight.
Sir Franc Kermeen stood in full ceremonial plate armor, polished to such a brilliant sheen that the lamplight seemed to slide off him like water off glass. His tabard bore the fox and hammer of Kermeen village in crisp, vivid dyes, and his sword hung at his hip in an ornate scabbard with tooling that matched the elaborate buckles of his belt.
His face was a carefully composed mask of stoicism, as if even now, he was still fighting off the aftereffects of excessive drink at last night’s Stag Feast, though the mask slipped as he laid eyes on the soon-to-be Sir Albyn.
This morning, during the funeral at the Great Temple, Sir Franc had appeared at Lord Owain’s ceremony looking visibly hungover and instantly earned Lord Owain’s ire. Franc had spent several days since Lord Bors’ death carefully cultivating Owain’s favor and, positioning himself as a rising star, like a loyal dog eager to prove himself.
One morning of looking green-faced and sluggish had apparently been enough to undo the goodwill he’d earned by steering the imperial bull elk into Owain’s path during the recent hunt and even his efforts to strip the Coward Baron of any recognition he might have received for his own contributions during the hunt had been insufficient to spare him from the ’punishment’ that awaited him for embarassing Owain this morning.
Now, instead of sitting at the high table where he’d been promised a seat of honor, he was standing guard outside the doors in full plate armor, commanding the soldiers who lined the vestibule. It was the kind of punishment that Owain excelled at. It was technically an honor, but practically speaking, it was a humiliation, and clearly designed to remind him that favor in the Lothian Court was a thing that could be given and taken away on a whim.
His men were arranged behind him in two precise lines flanking the great doors, each one armored and armed and standing with the rigid posture of soldiers who understood that their commander’s mood was foul and their own performance would be judged accordingly.
Franc’s eyes swept over Jocelynn with practiced disinterest before settling on Albyn, and the corners of his lips curled with a contempt he didn’t bother to conceal.
"Captain Albyn," Franc said, leaning into the old title the way a man might press a thumb into a bruise. "I see you’ve dressed for the occasion. How generous of Lord Owain to provide you with something more suitable than a sailor’s coat. Or do you have your Lady to thank for your ability to dress yourself for the evening?"
"Sir Franc," Albyn replied in an easy, unhurried tone that refused to take the bait. "I see Lord Owain has found a use for you after all. Standing guard at a doorway. Very distinguished."
Franc’s jaw tightened, and a flush crept up above the gorget of his polished armor, spreading across his freshly shaved cheeks like a stain he couldn’t wipe away.
"Some of us earned our places through years of service to the Lothian Court," Franc said, and the edge in his voice was sharp enough to cut sail canvas. "Others had it handed to them by a lord too generous for his own good." His gaze dropped deliberately to Albyn’s tabard, the silver-threaded sword-and-oar on its field of black and white, as though the sight of it on a common sailor offended him on behalf of every knight who’d ever bled for a title.
"You’re right," Albyn said, and his crooked smile didn’t waver. "I didn’t earn mine at court. I earned mine by slipping past the Inquisition’s men, riding without sleep, and bringing Lord Owain back to rescue Lady Jocelynn from a dungeon where she was being starved and tortured."
He paused, and the easy manner fell away from him like a cloak dropped to the deck, leaving behind something harder and colder and entirely unimpressed by polished steel.
"I don’t recall seeing you risk your life for her, Sir Franc," Albyn said coldly. "But maybe you’ll get your chance one day to prove you’re more than a polished decoration in a cage of steel."
The silence that followed was brief but absolute. Even the soldiers flanking the doors seemed to hold their breath, their eyes fixed straight ahead with the desperate stillness of men who very much did not want to be noticed.
Franc’s hand moved to the pommel of his sword. For a heartbeat, Jocelynn thought the knight might actually draw on Albyn in front of a dozen witnesses and the bride herself, but the moment quickly passed.
Drawing on a man who was about to be knighted by Owain himself, in the vestibule of the great hall, with the entire court listening on the other side of the doors... Even Sir Franc’s ambition wasn’t reckless enough to survive that kind of spectacle.
His fingers uncurled, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and flat and very controlled.
"Enjoy your evening, Captain," Franc said, biting off each word like he was chewing the leather of his scabbard. "I trust you know where to stand once you’ve delivered the lady. The front of the hall is reserved for men of rank."
"I know exactly where I belong," Albyn said, and steered Jocelynn past the knight without looking back.
Once they were through the vestibule and standing before the closed doors of the great hall, the sounds from within swelled to fill the space around them. The murmur of hundreds of voices pressed against the heavy timber like water against a dam. The entire Lothian Court was on the other side, dressed in their finery, arranged according to their station, waiting to witness the moment when Owain Lothian claimed a new wife and completed his ascent to the throne of the Marquis.
Jocelynn felt the knife shift against her thigh as she adjusted her stance, a small, familiar weight that grounded her the way an anchor grounded a ship.
Albyn’s hand covered hers for just a moment, where it rested on his arm. A sailor’s grip, brief and firm, telling her without words that the mooring line was about to be cast off, and whatever happened next, she wouldn’t drift alone.
"I’m ready," she said.
Behind her, Anne and Mary gathered the long train of her cerulean gown, lifting it clear of the stone floor.
The doors opened, and the light of the great hall’s gilded chandeliers washed over her, and the murmur of the court fell to a hush as every face in the room turned toward the bride...
