Chapter Thirteen

O tto sat astride his black horse and gazed with satisfaction at four long lines of mounted men before him. He held up his hand for silence and immediately his request was granted, as if the entire training ground had fallen under some magical spell. Not a horse snorted, not a man so much as breathed. All he could see was a gleaming mass of horse flesh and a formidable array of muscle, topped with polished plate armor and the fluttering red and gold colors of Darkmoor.

High above them, heavy clouds shifted to block the mid-morning sunshine and the field fell into shadow. A strong wind whipped through the surrounding trees, forcing the flags to stream and snap. Otto saw the ears of his horse flicker back and forth with unease and he held her steady with his long legs, demanding obedience.

Then he spoke. “At ease,” he commanded, his voice echoing through the ranks. And like a rippling wave, the soldiers of Darkmoor relaxed their stance. “Thank you, men.” He smiled, feeling rather than seeing their murmured relief. “That was a good training session. Each of you do Darkmoor proud. Pray, remain alert in the coming days. We look for peace, but we prepare, as ever, for battle.”

His words were met with a valiant chorus of ‘ayes.’ Otto pressed his spurs into his charger’s sides and turned away, trotting along the wide path which led back through the woods to the bailey. The air was cooler today, threatening rain, but his spirits were nonetheless high.

He had awoken by Ariana’s side. He had found all he hoped for and more in his intriguing bride. And now, after this morning’s display, he was confident that the army of Darkmoor was as formidable as ever. Stronger even, he countered, for the young squires were growing every day into brave and highly skilled warriors. Soon they would be ready to fight by his side, though he prayed that such a battle would not come for many a year.

Could Darkmoor be a land of peace? He had heard of estates where the men grew fat and jovial, with fires flickering in the hearth and children at their knees. Where the women embroidered and arranged grand balls, where food was plentiful, and laughter filled the echoing halls. The home of his distant kinsman, Angus de Neville, was a beautiful castle which had never known the threat of an advancing army. Over to the east, his cousin Guy, Earl of Rossfarne, had hung up his sword amidst the domestic tumble of a young family.

He reined in his horse as they came in view of the crenelated bailey wall. Could Darkmoor Castle ever become a home first and a fortress second?

His hopes sputtered like a candle in a draught. It was like wishing for a horse that could fly, or a tankard that was never empty. Darkmoor had always been a land of warriors. Otto knew no other way of living, neither did most of his men. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try.

Mayhap Ariana could show him the way? Though she had been raised surrounded by as much bloodshed and avarice as anyone here.

Together though, could they build a different kind of future? If they stood side by side, might they create something beautiful, much like they had last night in the rose gardens? He smiled at the memory of her soft flesh and gracious curves. He had buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair and forgotten, for a long, glorious moment, what it was to be the Earl of Darkmoor with the weight of duty on his back.

The first droplets of rain splashed against his shoulder plate, and he urged his horse on. As they clattered over the drawbridge, the rain began to fall steadily. Soon the reins were slick and wet. Otto shifted in the saddle as water ran down his neck and beneath his chainmail. The earthy scent of dampened grass followed him inside the castle gates, where two familiar figures stood waiting for him.

Otto’s heart sank as he recognized the cold eyes of Sir Althalos beside the anxious face of Gaius. Two men who were not natural allies.

“A welcoming committee,” he quipped, throwing one long leg over his horse’s back and springing down onto the squelching mud. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He looked around for the stable boy and handed over the sodden reins.

Gaius clasped his hands behind him and waited for Sir Althalos to speak. His silence struck another wrong note. Otto cursed the drip of rainwater down his neck, suspecting that Althalos, clad in his warm cloak, was enjoying his discomfort. The clatter of hoofbeats had long disappeared before his uncle spoke.

“I bring grievous news, nephew.”

Otto’s impatience surged. “And will you make me wait all day to hear it? Speak, uncle, please, before we are all drowned.”

“Shall we go under cover?” Gaius suggested, motioning towards the nearby stables, but Althalos shook his head.

“You would not wish us to be overheard,” he stated.

Rain was now falling in heavy sheets, splashing noisily into fast-forming puddles all around them. Gaius pulled his hood over his head, half covering his eyes. The loyal knight had not been present at training, though Otto was willing to allow such liberties in one so skilled and experienced. Still, his absence was unusual. No doubt Althalos had had a hand in it.

Otto had been hoping to escape into the morning room, where he fancied Ariana may be found, complete with a crackling fire and mayhap even a tray of pastries. He shifted with impatience.

“I believe every man but us has taken shelter,” he observed. “We can be sure of privacy out here in this deluge.”

Althalos cleared his throat self-importantly. “My news concerns Lady Ariana, the Countess of Darkmoor.”

That caught Otto’s attention. Suddenly he cared little for the rain or the discomfort it caused him. “What about her?” he asked sharply.

Gaius looked down, but the cold eyes of Sir Althalos remained fixed on Otto’s face. “We have reason to believe she is working in league with our enemies.”

“Never,” Otto retorted, quelling a flare of protective anger. “What reason have you for making such an allegation?”

Gaius leaned towards him. “It is not conclusive, my lord.”

“You can read her words for yourself.” Althalos flung out a piece of parchment. “Here.”

Within seconds the parchment would be drenched, rendering any words of Ariana’s illegible, for better or worse. Otto snatched the parchment from Althalos, clumsy in his gauntlets. He sheltered the message as best he could with one hand, while straining to read it through the rivulets of falling rain. The message was short and made little sense to him.

He fixed Althalos with a stare. “What is this she refers to? The Rose of Kenmar?”

“’Tis a jewel of high value,” Gaius spoke up. “A ruby, I believe.”

“Taken from Kenmar?” Otto clenched his jaw, frustrated with the narrative.

“From the druids, after the battle of Branfeld,” Althalos told him smoothly.

“And where is this jewel now?” Otto didn’t know whether to rip the parchment to shreds or shield it from the rain. Part of him railed in anguish at the possibility that his bride had betrayed him, while another cautioned that a missive to her father was hardly a crime.

“It is safe in our vaults,” Gaius said. “I had the guards make certain this morning.” He ducked his head. “That is why I was absent from training.”

Otto acknowledged his explanation with a brief nod. “If the jewel is safe, what case do you make against Lady Ariana?” He brandished the increasingly sodden parchment at Althalos.

His reedy uncle did not so much as flinch under Otto’s steely gaze. “I intercepted this letter some days ago. At the time, like yourself, I thought little of it. But now, with the druid witch escaped and one of our own men killed, it is time to act.”

Otto’s scar began to ache. He fought against an urge to stride away across the courtyard, forcing his legs to remain still. “And what action do you suggest?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Althalos smiled slightly. “That is for you to say, my lord.”

Otto would have liked nothing better than to strike the impertinent smirk from his face.

“It is no crime to write to her father,” he voiced his thoughts out loud. “I have not forbidden it.” He shrugged, eager to bring the conversation to a close.

“It is a crime to express intent to steal from our vaults,” Althalos corrected him, his voice as smooth as honey.

“But she has not stolen anything,” Gaius interjected, saving Otto the trouble.

Otto cast a quick glance at the older knight. He looked thoroughly uncomfortable, though whether that was due to the inclement weather or the difficult subject, or both, Otto could not tell.

“Not yet,” Althalos said.

Otto could not contain a grimace of impatience. “I shall question her.” He turned to leave, his chainmail suddenly grown heavy against him.

“She deserves more than mere questioning,” Althalos spoke up, his voice dangerously loud. “It is not wise to leave a would-be traitor unpunished.”

Otto restrained himself from grasping the man by his scrawny neck. “I shall be the one to decide if my wife deserves to be punished.”

“It is widely known that one of our guards was killed when the druid witch was set free,” Althalos pointed out with infuriating calmness. “Rumor is already rife among the knights. We must expect word to spread about the jewel soon enough. After all, Gaius here does not usually enquire as to the security of the vaults.” He treated them to a thin-lipped smile which Otto was in no mood to return. “Mark my words.” He dared to point a thin finger in his nephew’s direction. “Your people will turn against you if they have the slightest reason to suspect you favor the girl from Kenmar over the safety of their own families.”

Otto took a deep breath, damping down the tiny flame of self-doubt that Althalos had so cunningly ignited. “You are being ridiculous, uncle. The people of Darkmoor surely expect me to protect the interests of my own bride.”

He saw immediately that he had played into Althalos’s hands. His uncle’s dark eyes glinted with triumph. “The people of Darkmoor expect you to uphold the knights’ code, as instilled by your father. Show no weakness. Show no mercy . You know this better than anyone, Otto. Has some frenzied desire for this dark-haired wench overcome your sense and learning?”

Gaius reached out a restraining hand and Otto forced himself to stay rooted to the spot, though every inch of him burned with the wish to pummel his uncle to the ground.

“What would you suggest I do?” he asked for the second time.

Althalos took a moment to pretend to consider. “Traitor’s Gate would be a step too far,” he mused. “Mayhap the woman should be flogged?”

Otto shook off Gaius’s hand. “The Countess will most certainly not be flogged,” he said icily. “Anyone who lays a hand on her will have me to answer to. Is that clear?”

Gaius nodded quickly, but Althalos did not move. “What is your solution then, nephew? And I pray, do not let your youth and naivete blind you to what must be done. Peace in Darkmoor must be protected, at all costs.” His eyes narrowed. “At the very least, the Countess should be locked up.”

“Do not lecture me, Althalos,” Otto replied, knowing that every word his uncle spoke was chipping away at his hard-won self-control. “I am the Earl of Darkmoor, and I will act in the best interests of my people.” He gnashed his teeth together, the heat of his anger dispelling the chill of the rain. “Including my wife.”

“The guards are already gathering,” Gaius flung out, preventing Otto’s departure.

Otto clenched his fist, frustration churning in his belly. He was seconds away from losing his composure. “Who gave the order?”

He didn’t need to see the quick flicker of Gaius’s eyes towards Althalos to know the answer.

“I thought it was wise.” Althalos straightened his cloak. “My actions are only ever intended to assist you, Otto.”

Otto bit down on his lower lip until he tasted the metallic tang of blood. “From now on, please assume that I have no further need of your assistance.”

He delivered his words slowly and emphatically, before swiveling on his heel and finally taking his leave, his leather boots splashing through the puddled courtyard as he strode towards the keep. He needed to put as much distance between himself and Althalos as possible, else there was a real risk he might strike the man down. He allowed himself to imagine the moment, picturing the impact of his fist against his uncle’s weak chin, seeing him fall to the ground. But then he shook his head to dispel the fancy. Otto was the one to favor peace over violence; it would be an ill start to his time as earl if he felled his father’s only brother.

Gaius had been right to warn him. The castle guards were already gathering inside the hall, their heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. Several of them carried spears, with sharpened tips pointing up at the vaulted ceiling.

Spears, against a woman?

Otto broke into a jog which took him halfway up the staircase and clapped his hands together.

“Silence,” he roared.

The assembled guard amounted to at least twenty men, all clad in the red tabard of Darkmoor bearing the rearing lion of the Sarragnacs. They stood sharply to attention at the sound of his voice.

“Well done for gathering with such speed,” he called out, improvising quickly. “Your services are not required this day, but we all sleep more easily in our beds knowing we have the best guards in the North here in Darkmoor. You are dismissed.”

A murmur of confusion rippled through the hall and Otto thought for a chilling moment that his words might be disobeyed, but then a tall man near the front held his spear aloft and dipped down onto one knee.

“Thank you, my lord.”

He raised himself up and the guards filtered out of the hall behind him, moving as one. Otto exhaled with relief as the last of them marched out into the courtyard. But the trials of the morning were not yet over. He had bought but temporary reprieve for Ariana, and for himself. He did not pretend that Althalos was not capable of fanning the flames of rumor and discontent amongst his men. For some reason, his uncle had taken against his bride. And Ariana would not be safe inside the fortified walls of Darkmoor Castle until Otto had unpicked that reason.

In the quiet of the empty hall, Otto took a deep, calming breath and gazed up at the Sarragnac coat of arms, blazoned above the vast stone fireplace. A golden lion standing out on a background of rippling red. The lion represented strength, courage, and resilience.

Show no weakness; show no mercy.

Otto’s scar began to itch as his mind raced from one conclusion to the next. His new bride was an honest young woman who deserved his protection.

His new bride had plotted against him and could yet undermine the tentative peace he’d won for Darkmoor.

He was the earl; he had no choice but to act against a potential thief and traitor. Althalos was right about that. Mayhap he was right about the rest. The people would turn against Otto if they saw him taking the coward’s way out.

Otto knew a surge of anger at the thought. He could never countenance being seen as a coward. On a broiling tide of conviction, he stalked through the shadowed halls to the back of the keep, barely hesitating on the threshold of the morning room.

He flung open the door and strode inside, immediately conscious of his chainmail and muddy boots amongst the delicate furnishings.

Ariana was sitting in an upholstered chair by the window. She was dressed in a simple pale gown with her hair loose around her shoulders and as soon as he saw her, the fight drained away from him.

“Otto,” she exclaimed, rising to her feet and smoothing her gown. “What a surprise.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. How he longed to walk over and take his bride in his arms. But could he trust her?

He folded his arms across his chest, coming to a halt in the center of the room. For a short while, all he could hear was the lashing of rain against the castle walls.

“It has been a morning full of surprises,” he said, eventually.

He watched her expression change from pleasure to concern, spying another emotion at work behind her wide green eyes.

Guilt.

He knew it clear as day. And the knowledge sickened him, like a dog.

She broke her gaze, looking away from him out of the windows. He saw a new tension in her shoulders and his resolve hardened into ice.

“I am sorry to hear it,” she faltered.

Her words were almost the undoing of his certitude, for he believed she spoke the truth. She was sorry. Her sorrow was evident in the downward cast of her eyes and the tremble in her voice.

“Aye,” he said, briefly.

Was that a tear he saw shimmering in her eye?

In that moment, he could have stridden forward and taken her in his arms, kissing away her tears and asking for an explanation, husband to wife.

He could have asked her for the truth, and she might have told him.

But Otto didn’t know how to show weakness. There was only one way to handle betrayal in Darkmoor, and that way didn’t involve kisses and kind words. He was the earl. She had done him wrong. And he had already saved her from guards. He had no intention of compromising his position further.

“You must come with me,” he stated firmly, lifting his chin and avoiding her anxious gaze.

“Where?” she asked tremulously.

He pointed to the door, insistent that she walk out ahead of him. “You shall see.”