It was not preciselycomfortable sitting directly on the back of a horse, particularly with a sidesaddle that had a small boy on it.Still, Sunny was just so relieved that they had found Andrew—whole and mostly undamaged from his adventures.Perhaps one day, the young man would realize how dangerous and precarious his choices had been.Or the great price his mother had almost paid.But it would not be today.Andrew did not know the world well enough to be afraid of it yet.
They rode as a group through the village of Chewton Mendip and did not stop even for a drink.Someday, Sunny swore that he would bring Mantheria back there, just so they could say they had once eaten luncheon in Chewton Mendip.
After a couple of miles, Andrew began to sag a little in the saddle.His eyes flickered as if he were tired.The last thing they needed was for the boy to fall off the horse.Sunny needed to keep him awake.“Do you know the story of Telemachus?”
The boy shook his head, but he perked up a little in the saddle.“Who is he?”
“I know that you have heard some of the stories about Odysseus—or his Roman name, Ulysses from Matthew.When Odysseus finally reached his home of Ithaca, his clothes were in tatters, and he looked like a beggar.Still, his old servant recognized him and eventually his son, Telemachus.Together, they devised a plan to save Queen Penelope from her pushy suitors, who ate their food and were trying to force her to marry again rather than wait longer for her missing husband.”
“Like all of the gentlemen that sent Mama flowers after Papa died.”
“The very same.”Perhaps this was a bit of a stretch on the classical story, but Sunny didn’t want any of those suitors to come near Mantheria.“Together, they came up with a plan, and Odysseus stayed disguised as a beggar.They returned to his house in Ithaca, where Queen Penelope had given her suitors an impossible task: to shoot an arrow through the loops of twelve axes.Odysseus does it, and then the other suitors attack him.The great hero, with the help of Telemachus and his old servant, stabbed all of the troublesome suitors.”
Andrew sighed.“I don’t think Mama would be happy if I stabbed her suitors with my wooden sword.”
“I think you’re right,” Sunny said.“But do you not want your mother to marry again someday?”
He shrugged his narrow shoulders.“I suppose a gentleman could marry her—but only after he shot an arrow through the loopholes of twelve axes.”
Sunny laughed.“An impossible task.”
“No, a difficult one.If one of the suitors had really cared for Queen Penelope, they would have practiced archery until they could have made that shot.”
His reply was unique and unexpected enough to make Sunny think.
After a few minutes in silence, Andrew’s eyelids started to flutter again.Sunny needed to keep the boy awake until they arrived at his home.“I don’t claim to be as skilled as the great Odysseus, but I am rather good at archery.Would you like me to teach you to shoot with a bow and arrow?”
Andrew’s eyes widened, and the boy sat up in the saddle.“Yes, please.”
It was a small promise, but Sunny felt himself sitting a little taller as well.He looked forward to spending time with Andrew, to teach him all the things that a father should.
17
Sunny felt like a new man after a bath and a pair of fresh clothes at Avalon Palace.He couldn’t help but compare the bright marble splendor of the building to his own dark and run-down Sunderland House, which was covered in black crepe.Opening the curtains and scrubbing the entire place down would not make it into a palace like this one, but it would at least improve it.At the moment, he could not imagine Mantheria in such a dingy place.She was all that was pristine and perfect.As were all the Glastonbury estates; he knew that she oversaw their maintenance, and she would not accept anything less.
Even though Sunny had been bone-tired riding his horse to Avalon Palace, he had still noticed that every cottage was in excellent condition, and there wasn’t a fence or roof that needed mending.Mantheria got her managing abilities from her mother, and Sunny couldn’t help but think that she might be disappointed in his own performance as a landlord.He preferred to be as far away from the estate and his mother as possible.He’d mostly left the day-to-day running of his property to the steward, something a Stringham would never do.
This was another area he could improve upon in his life before he asked Mantheria to marry him.Reaching his hand into his pocket, he felt the gold circlet with his fingers.He didn’t know why he carried it around with him like some sort of talisman.
Or rather, he did.Sunny held on to the ring like it was hope itself.
Hope that Mantheria could love him.
Hope that he could be the sort of husband that she deserved.
And hope that he could become a good stepfather to her son, although he had no example to model himself on.
Leaving his room, he walked down the grand staircase and through the gallery hall.At the end, his eyes were arrested by a painting.It was the current Duchess of Glastonbury, Mantheria, as large as life and just as brilliantly beautiful.The piece of art must have been commissioned soon after her marriage, for she looked young and happy.Her smile was carefree, and her eyes positively danced.This version of his beloved he had not seen in much too long.
“Glastonbury had it painted while we were engaged,” Mantheria said from behind him.Her lovely yellow hair was down, and her white dress was unadorned except for a shawl around her shoulders.She looked impossibly youthful and very much like the woman in the painting.“It was thought to be a good likeness at the time, but not anymore, I’m afraid.Time catches up with all of us.”
His eyebrows drew together, and Sunny shook his head.“I will have to disagree with you, Duchess.You are more beautiful now than you’ve ever been.”
Mantheria bumped her shoulder against his.“Flatterer.Perhaps you would like to write a poem to me about it.Or a sonnet.”
He remembered the poetic offerings of her other suitors—not that they’d been too impressive.Sunny did not create ideas.He merely translated the stories that others had written.“I would compare you to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, or her Roman name, Venus.”
She snickered, and the sound shot straight to his heart.“The only word that I can think of off the top of my head to rhyme with Venus is not at all appropriate for a poem.”