She was trembling. He looked at his bride helplessly, unsure of how she was feeling. He tried to smile and found he couldn’t. She forced up a small smile, though her eyes betrayed her anxiety. The priest made the sign of the cross with his hand and declared them as man and his wife. He leaned forward and swiftly pecked her on the lips, drawing away instantly. The assembly cheered. He raised their joined hands, his smile growing. He glanced over at her.

“Are you ready?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.

She genuinely smiled now. “I am, my lord.”

Marke strode forward, embracing the groom. “This is a happy day indeed, nephew!”

“Now Serafine,” Edyth began as she came to the newlyweds, “mind you take care of my Melot!”

Serafine flushed, glancing at Melot for a moment. “I will, my lady.”

 ~~~

“It is said that if the tribes unite, Marke will be made king,” one man said to another. They were sitting in an empty banquet hall, sharing a meal of bread and ale. A few servants occasionally entered, but they kept silent and did not disturb their master and his guest.

“Aye. I have no doubt of that. He is the strongest man I know, and he could lead us well,” the second man replied, tearing off a chunk of bread.

The guest looked contemplative for a moment. “He has not yet taken a wife, has he?”

The host shook his head. “No. But it should not be long; he is the talk of many halls.”

The guest paused before he spoke again. “Then he is left without an heir?”

The host put down his bread and looked at his guest cautiously. “Yes.”

“So if, as I suspect, Marke becomes king and dies without a child, your son will inherit the throne?”

A flicker of a smile came across the host’s face. “Aye. A fine lad, he is.”

The guest took a gulp of ale. “He’s still very young…how old is your boy? Melot, isn’t it?”

“Aye, Melot. He’s five winters.”

The guest nodded. “I will not keep you in suspense any longer, Lord Meliodas. I came to make an agreement. A betrothal between my child and yours.”

“Oh?” Meliodas urged eagerly.

“Aye. My daughter is four harvests and as pretty as can be. She’s my pride and joy, and I’ll not hand her off to just any man. I think it would be a most advantageous match between my daughter and your son.”

Meliodas sipped from his ale, thinking. “And what, Leofric, if my son is not made king of Cornwall?”

Leofric shrugged. “He will still be governor of Cornwall after your passing, will he not? You know I am a man of little titles. The baronetcy means little when the Irish are commanding us like slaves. Melot is ensured a fine life. And you cannot tell me you want your son to marry just any maiden?”

Meliodas grinned. “You have yourself a betrothal, Lord Leofric. Let it be agreed that when your daughter is of age and the time is ripe, our children shall be joined in marriage!”