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“Surely,” she said, recovering, “I misheard you.”
Alden and Darien averted their gazes.
“I’d ask for more privacy, but we need witnesses. And have two willing ones”—Roland waved his hand—“here. If we marry before I can speak to my father, he will surely disinherit me. And may do so anyway. But I am not willing to be parted from you Amalia and wish for you to know my intentions are honorable.”
“Handfasting,” she repeated. “It is not done where I am from.”
“In my village,” Alden said, “it is common. Shirsten St. Mary was founded by an Irishman, and many of his family’s traditions have woven their way into our practices.”
Amalia looked at Darien. “I’ve known it to be done,” he said, “but neither is it common in Crimson Hollow or its village.”
Heart pounding, she asked, “Tell me of it.”
Alden spoke. “It is derived from the Old Norse ‘handfesta,’ which is to strike a bargain by joining hands. It is a commitment to marry. Though there are legal implications, it is not always recognized by the church.”
“For a year and a day, unless we marry sooner, we are bound by the promise to become husband and wife.”
“Can it be broken?” Amalia asked.
Roland looked at Alden, who said, “Aye. As a betrothal can be broken. ’Tis not taken lightly, such a matter. But,” he added, “no knight on his honor would break such a vow.”
Amalia did not wish to slander him, but this was a serious matter. “You broke your betrothal,” she whispered to Roland.
“One my father made that I never agreed to. We will be as good as married, Amalia, allowing my mother and sister the opportunity to plan a wedding. Allowing my father to believe he has some impetus in the matter.”
“Does he?” she asked.
“Nay. It will be done.”
A handfasting. Amalia took a bite of meat pie, considering everything. She loved him. Their future would be as uncertain as Evelina and Gareth’s. But in those moments when he engaged with the enemy, Amalia had known true terror for the first time in her life. Not for herself, but for Roland. She understood well what he was feeling about his brother, Roland expressing to her that he’d never been more afraid on a battlefield than in that moment.
“I may not,” Roland said suddenly, “inherit the earldom.”
“I am a farmer’s daughter and care little about such things.”
Both Alden and Darien smiled.
Amalia reached across the wooden table, the hall now filled to capacity, and took Roland’s hand.
“What are the words?”
His eyes widened. Roland took Amalia’s other hand and looked at Alden.
“You promise to love and honor each other, binding your lives together,” he said.
Darien stopped eating and leaned forward.
“Amalia, I give thee my most sacred vow to love and honor, and protect you, for all my days. With these words, I bind my life to yours.”
Endearingly, Roland peered at Alden, as if for approval. In response, Alden shrugged. It was as strange a “ceremony” as any.
“Roland,” Amalia said, “I give thee my most sacred vow to love and honor, and protect you, for all my days. With these words, I bind my life to yours.”
Roland smiled. “Will you protect me?”
“Aye.”
He seemed amused. “How will you do so?”
“I will protect your heart by being true, always. And would ask the same of you.”
“Ahh, she has you there, Roland,” Darien said, chuckling.
Roland smiled. “I will remain true and faithful to you, Amalia.”
They both turned to Alden.
“I’ve witnessed many handfastings, but have not officiated one before. I believe, however, ’tis done. You’ve pledged yourselves to each other with witnesses.”
’Tis done.
Roland let go of her hands and stood abruptly, coming around to Amalia’s side. Pulling her up to him, Roland kissed her so thoroughly that the entire hall of the Griffin Inn erupted into cheers.
They had lost the day in London. England’s future was uncertain.
But Roland and Amalia had won each other. A celebration was in order.
