Chapter Sixteen

T he first pink rays of dawn had just begun to penetrate the heavy darkness of the forest as Ariana was forcibly carried across the gushing river which denoted the boundary of Darkmoor lands. She half-hoped the horse beneath her would slip and fall, but he was sure-footed and confident, splashing through the shallows with barely a moment’s hesitation. Her heart sank as he scrambled up the opposite bank, taking her officially beyond the outer reaches of Otto’s domain.

The last time Ariana had ridden on horseback, she’d been journeying to a much smaller, prettier river, with Otto by her side. Such excitement had darted through her belly on that occasion. She’d sat tall in the saddle; thrilled to find her husband’s glittering dark eyes focused on her, daring to flick back her hair and hold his gaze. Back then, the future was painted bright with possibility. How could it be that mere days later, she was reduced to circumstances such as this?

Ariana was sitting astride a muddy cob, whose short stride jolted her at every step. Her hands were bound behind her, making balancing in the saddle almost impossible. Her thighs were chaffed and sore; the simple gown she’d been wearing in the tower proving thoroughly impractical as riding attire. At least her captors had provided her with a dark cloak; though Ariana suspected this was more for the purpose of concealment than comfort against the nighttime chill.

There were three of them ahead of her and at least twice as many behind. While they had been within striking distance of Darkmoor Castle, she’d entertained plans of slipping down her horse’s back and making a mad dash for it. But she’d known then that her chances of success were minimal, and now that they had left Otto’s lands, those chances had diminished further. She’d be caught within moments. And the Kenmar guard had shown no reluctance to handle her roughly even when she’d put up no resistance. She shivered to think what they might do to her if she attempted to flee their control.

It felt as if she had been captive for days, but in reality, it was just a few hours since she’d been bundled out of her tower-top chamber. What a fool she’d been to walk straight into the hands of her enemies, assuming so naively that the footsteps coming up the tower steps belonged to Otto. She’d turned to face him with a smile, relief spreading through her that the skirmish at the outer gates was over so quickly. But the man who appeared at her chamber door was a head shorter than her husband, with greasy hair and cold eyes which shone with momentary triumph as soon as he spied her.

Sir Althalos . All along, he’d been her adversary. But she had never anticipated him betraying Otto, his own flesh and blood.

“She’s here,” he’d called over his shoulder.

With shock coursing through her, Ariana had stayed still and unmoving as three burly soldiers came marching up the stairs and through the door, making the chamber seem small with their muscles and height. She didn’t need to look closely to know that these men did not answer to Otto. Their scuffed armor and ill-disciplined air gave them away as much as their shabby purple cloaks; they were her father’s men, soldiers from Kenmar.

Sir Althalos was working with them.

Otto’s own uncle was a traitor to Darkmoor. Ariana’s mouth had opened to scream, but before any sound could come out, an evil-smelling rag was stuffed inside it, making her gag and retch.

“Don’t give us any trouble, milady,” the largest of them advised. “We’re in short temper and who knows what dangers might befall a lady like you on the road?”

She wanted to spit out that she was her father’s daughter; once the first lady of Kenmar. How dare these soldiers treat her with such disrespect? But fear had already lodged deep inside her stomach. Fear laced with a bitter acknowledgement that her father had never exhibited concern for her welfare, even when she’d been a small child. She had always been little more than a bargaining chip for Sir Leon, her marriage to Otto was proof of that. Now, as Countess of Darkmoor, she would have slid even further down the ranks of priorities for a man consumed by avarice.

Her horse bounded down a muddy path towards a silted-up stream and Ariana bounced uncomfortably in the saddle. If only her hands could be released, then she could balance herself with the reins or a fistful of the cob’s coarse mane. But even if she could summon the courage to ask, it would be no good as her mouth was still bound up with the gag. Salty tears stung her eyes, making her vision blur. With every step they took, the prospects of rescue by Otto’s knights became smaller. Though even as that distant hope presented itself to her, she dismissed it.

Otto must believe she had allied with her father against him. When he had asked her for the truth, he hadn’t been referring to her rescue of Ysmay. He’d even told her directly that the druid’s escape was of little consequence to him. But she hadn’t listened.

With her back aching and her eyes blinded by tears, Ariana realized the full extent of her stupidity. All of those opportunities she’d had to speak up, confess her crime, and beg his forgiveness. Every one of them squandered. And now, she must face this ordeal alone, without her protector. Otto would not mount a rescue for a woman he considered a traitor.

One of the men upfront turned in his saddle and shouted to the rest.

“We’ll halt a while here.”

Ariana tried to blink away her tears as her cob was led from the path into a small copse of tall trees. Around her, the men dismounted heavily, talking in low voices and swigging from leather pouches of wine. She was ignored, but that was better than the alternative. Her horse lowered its head to crop at the fresh grass and she sat silently, a mere passenger, her senses growing dull from weariness and sorrow.

Minutes passed. The sun was rising in earnest now, casting a rosy glow over the forest of Kenmar. Ariana was not familiar with every acre of her father’s lands; but this part she recognized as a favorite haunt of the druids. Fluttering, faded ribbons around an overhead branch confirmed her suspicions. She had played here as a child, picking berries and climbing trees, happy to be away from the disapproving glare of the Kenmar court. The recent rain cast a shimmering hue of moisture over the canopy of leaves overhead. Before her tired eyes, the greenery seemed to dance in the morning light.

She risked a glance back to her tormentors, who had now formed a tight little group and were talking avidly, taking regular swigs of rich wine and wiping away the residue with calloused hands. The air smelled fresh and clean, suddenly full of tantalizing possibilities.

She could urge her horse onwards. They would be gone in minutes. Mayhap these rough, untrained soldiers would fail to find her amongst the maze of trees and thick gorse. She could make her way to the druid camp and seek shelter there. The possibility of escape seized her by the throat, she must take her chance.

Cautiously, she nudged the cobb with her stockinged heels, her lips pressed together as she silently cursed her impractical attire. Her pattens had long since slipped off her feet and the animal’s coarse hair made him less responsive to her cues, especially when he was grazing so determinedly. Greatly daring, she risked a sharp kick, gratified when the horse raised his head, pricked his ears, and launched forward into the undergrowth.

Her heart pounded so loudly she feared her captors would hear as they made lurching progress beneath the trees. She ducked forward over the horse’s neck, wincing as water droplets fell down her neck, yet rejoicing at the realistic possibility of freedom. No shouts of warning came from the slovenly soldiers; they had not yet noticed their prisoner’s absence. All she needed was a little more time.

A flock of crows took flight, squawking and flapping their wings. Her horse shied to the side, nearly throwing her from the saddle, but worst of all was the cry that went up from the copse.

“She’s gone.”

Frantically, she urged the horse forward with her legs, having no recourse to use her hands or her voice. The animal broke into a trot and she pressed herself against his hairy neck, fearful of the branches whipping past her head. Her cloak snagged on a bramble, and she heard a tear as the fabric ripped. But the cloak was thick and sturdy, it did not give easily enough, and the next moment Ariana found herself pulled backwards in the saddle. Had she been holding the reins, she could have righted herself easily enough, but with her hands tied behind her, the small pull of resistance was enough to unseat her. With a muffled shout of alarm, she tumbled from the horse’s back into the sharp prickles of a gorse bush.

Pain ripped through her cheek and wrists, and the sting of blood mixed with the salt of her tears as she struggled to her feet. She could still escape. It might even be easier on foot. She could run and hide, fling herself into a ditch and cover her cloak with dried leaves as she’d known the druids to do. She darted forward, unsteady with her hands still bound, and wincing at the sharp press of twigs beneath her feet. She spun around the trunk of a mighty tree and barreled straight into the unyielding chest of one of her captors.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled back her head, leering down at her. She smelled the sourness of his breath as her mind raced for a way to escape his clutches. But it was no good; he held her in a vice-like grip, she’d be a fool to struggle against him.

Instead, she forced herself to be still, raising her head and meeting his eyes. She mumbled through the dirty rag, knowing he wouldn’t understand her.

“I’ve got her,” he shouted back towards the copse. “What will we do with her?” he enquired, as one-by-one his fellow soldiers trooped towards them.

“Put her back on the horse,” said the man she’d identified as their ringleader.

“The horse has gone,” replied her captor.

Ariana held onto hope that they may yet remove the filthy rag from her mouth, to hear her side of the story, but they had little interest in conversing with her. All they cared about was transporting her back to Kenmar like a haul of timber. She’d already decided to blame her horse. She would claim it had carried her off into the trees, with her unable to either change its path or sound an alert. But her excuse was unnecessary. She had no more autonomy than a dull, senseless animal.

The ringleader swore, then spit on the damp ground. “She’ll have to come up with me then.” He took a step closer, and she couldn’t help flinching away from the strong, unwashed aroma wafting from him. “I’ll keep a tight hold of you, milady.”

Guffaws of laughter greeted his words. Ariana found herself with a strong man at either side of her, gripped by the arms and all but carried back through the forest to the waiting horses. They made short work of throwing her up onto the ringleader’s saddle. Her skirts rose up around her thighs, scarcely covered by the torn cloak, but there was nothing she could do about it. The soldier hauled himself up behind her, clamping an iron arm around her waist and breathing hard onto her neck.

“Don’t try anything else, Lady Ariana,” he whispered menacingly. “I’ve never yet had a countess.” His other hand danced a deliberate path upwards from her knee and Ariana knew a further clutch of fear as his dirty fingers wandered beneath the hem of her gown. “We’ve had orders to deliver you unharmed, as far as possible. But who’s to say what’s possible all the way out here?” More tears seeped from the corner of her eyes, but thankfully the man removed his hand to snatch at the reins. “Let’s go,” he called to his men, and they set off at a canter towards the sloping path leading out of the forest towards the castle of Kenmar.

*

Ten days later…

“My lady, you must eat something.”

Ariana forced open her eyes, dimly recognizing the small, stout figure of Chiara, the castle cook, at the foot of her bed.

“I’m not hungry,” she croaked through dry lips. It was true, the very idea of food made her stomach churn and she’d had nothing to break her fast even though the sun was high in the sky, casting determined pools of light into her narrow, cheerless childhood bedchamber.

Chiara wrung her hands in her stained apron, tutting loudly. “But you’ve hardly eaten a thing since coming here. And you always had such a healthy appetite as a child.”

Ariana forced herself onto her elbows, blinking in the dappled sunlight filtering through the shutters. The chamber was bare save her narrow bed, a singular wooden closet, a rickety nightstand and a footstool pulled up near the window. “You speak as if I am a guest,” she grumbled, shielding her eyes as she accidentally moved into a burst of light. “Close the shutters more firmly, please Chiara.” She couldn’t bear to glimpse the outside world and know that life was carrying on beyond these cold walls.

“I will not.” Chiara stood up tall, letting her apron fall to her sides. “It’s not right, you up here all alone in the darkness, sending back every plate of food barely touched. You’ll fall ill.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ariana sank back onto the thin mattress; the small effort of conversation having exhausted her strength. “It is probably what my father wishes, truth be told.”

She closed her eyes, opening them again when a sudden dip in the mattress indicated Chiara had perched next to her. She smelled of sweet pastry and flour and warmth, and Ariana had to fight down a new surge of sorrow at such homely comforts.

“I’d say it’s not clear to anyone what Sir Leon wishes right now,” she said in a confidential tone. “Not even to Sir Leon himself. All his plans have come to naught.”

Ariana shook her head, conscious of the wild tangle of her unbrushed hair on the hard pillows. How could she explain that she wasn’t interested in her father’s plans? When she first arrived back in Kenmar, she had brimmed with defiance, determined to find a way back to Otto. But after just one failed attempt to escape, her energies had dissipated. For three days now, she had not even risen from her bed; a prisoner of twisting nausea and bleak regret.

Chiara cleared her throat, obviously intent on saying her piece, despite Ariana’s silence. “It was a bold move, storming Darkmoor Castle.”

“Bold or stupid,” Ariana interjected, unable to help herself.

“That’s exactly it. Sir Leon was expecting more in the way of assistance, which could have made all the difference.” Chiara shifted on the bed and Ariana wriggled in protest. “Will you let me brush your hair, my lady? Seeing as I’m here.”

“You’re a cook, not a lady’s maid,” Ariana stated. “Chiara, I’m grateful for your concern, but I’d like to be left alone.”

Chiara continued as if she hadn’t spoken, forcibly rearranging Ariana’s pillows with surprisingly strong arms.

“That’s better,” she observed, helping her to a more comfortable position. “Well now, where was I?”

“I don’t know.” The sudden movement had made Ariana dizzy, and she lurched forward, fearful she might vomit. Thankfully she had nothing in her stomach, but she retched anyway, the dim walls of her bedchamber circling around as she gripped onto her thin blanket and waited for the pain to stop.

She heard rather than saw Chiara cross the floor and pour some water from her pitcher. Moments later, a cold compress was applied to her forehead, bringing slight relief.

“Sit back,” the cook urged, steadying Ariana’s shoulders with her small, calloused hands.

“I feel terrible,” Ariana murmured. Her body was hot one minute and cold the next. It had been that way since the marshal thwarted her attempts to steal out of the keep by hiding amongst the weekly wash. A fine plan, she had thought, until she found herself being bodily lifted from the stained linens to meet her father’s unflinching gaze. Since then, Sir Leon had ordered her to be locked in her room.

Chiara pressed her lips together and made a noncommittal noise. “You don’t look none too clever either, if I may say so.”

Her honesty made Ariana smile. That failed bid for freedom had been the last time she had left her chamber, even though Sir Leon had grudgingly given word that she should be allowed outside once a day. Racked with nausea, she had taken little interest in anything. But part of her now railed against this inertia. She had learned long ago that there was nothing to be gained by moping.

“You may brush out my hair, as long as you take it slowly.”

“Very good. It’s about time someone saw to you.” Chiara took up the hairbrush and carefully began to draw out the tangles. “Sir Leon’s at a loss, you see?” She abruptly returned to her earlier conversation.

Ariana closed her eyes, half enjoying the soothing rhythm of the hairbrush. “Honestly, Chiara, my father kidnapped me and locked me up, for reasons I don’t yet understand. It’s hard for me to care if he’s at a loss.”

“I’m not saying you should care. I’m saying you shouldn’t give up hope.” She paused, gazing down at Ariana with meaning stamped across her blue eyes. “Especially now.”

Ariana fumbled for the tankard of small ale kept on her nightstand and drank deeply, partially to avoid the question she sensed would come next.

“How long have you known?” Chiara asked.

Ariana straightened her blanket, desperate for distraction, but the two women were at the top of the keep and unlikely to be disturbed. “I don’t know anything, not for sure. Not really.” She closed her eyes against another swell of nausea. “It’s too early.”

“Well, I’ve seen this before.” The cook smoothed a hand across her forehead. “I’d wager you’re with child, my lady. That’s why you can’t bring yourself to eat even a morsel. The early days can be the worst for sickness. But you must keep your strength up. You’ll need it in the months ahead.”

“I don’t want it to be true.” She leaned back against the wooden headrest, uncaring of the hard ridges which dug into her scalp.

Chiara looked shocked. “Why ever not? A babe is a blessing.”

“I know. I’ve always wanted children of my own. But not like this. Not far from my husband. A good man who thinks I betrayed him.” At this, the tears came again, and Ariana hung her head. Her eyes were sore from constant crying.

Chiara knitted her brows. “Does anyone else know?”

“No.” Ariana shook her head violently. “I’ve barely even admitted it to myself.”

The cook folded her arms nervously, her foot tapping against the bare floor. “But time is passing. The maids will find out soon enough. And they’ll report it to Sir Leon. You must keep it from them for as long as possible.”

Ariana sniffed and dried her eyes with the back of her hand. She hadn’t had such a long conversation in weeks and the constant flow of information was tiring her out. “Why?” she asked, shrugging expansively. “Why should my father care if I am pregnant with Otto’s child?” But even as she said the words, the answer loomed large in her mind. “God’s Bones.” She reached out to grasp Chiara’s hand. “If my father plans to take over Darkmoor and I, his prisoner, am carrying the rightful heir to Darkmoor…”

“That’s a mighty prize for Sir Leon,” Chiara finished for her.

“It will strengthen his position and make matters worse, won’t it?”

The cook nodded reluctantly. “That’s what I fear.”

Ariana’s apathy and exhaustion disappeared in a heartbeat. She fought an urge to leap out of bed and stride up and down the narrow room, so great was her agitation. But she couldn’t face another bout of nausea, so she stayed still on the uncomfortable bed she’d known since childhood. “Tell me what you know,” she urged.

Chiara settled herself once more on the side of the mattress. “In truth I know little,” she admitted, “only what rumors go round the servant’s quarters. But I know that Sir Leon had an ally on the inside of Darkmoor Castle.”

“An ally which my husband believes to be me,” Ariana interrupted hotly.

Chiara grimaced. “This ally was meant to have troops ready and waiting to join Sir Leon’s assault. Only when he stormed the castle, there were no extra troops. Only those men that Sir Leon had taken with him. And they weren’t strong enough to withstand the knights of Darkmoor.”

Ariana knew a rush of pride in Otto and his highly trained knights, but her mind was already racing ahead of her. “It was Sir Althalos. The brother of the old earl,” she added, seeing Chiara’s blank face. “He must have double-crossed Father at the last minute.”

Chiara picked up the hairbrush and resumed her ministrations to Ariana’s hair. “Be that as it may, it’s left Sir Leon in a quandary. For what can he do? He were expecting to be overlord of both Kenmar and Darkmoor by now, but instead he’s holed up here, on high alert for retaliation.”

“Otto may not retaliate for some time,” Ariana ruminated. She knew him to be clever in all aspects of warfare. He’d attack when his enemy least expected it.

Although why had he not sought revenge already, she pondered?

Mayhap because revenge, on this occasion, would be closely entwined with rescue.

And mayhap he did not wish to stage a rescue.

Ariana told herself the tears pricking at her eyes were a result of Chiara’s comb encountering a particularly stubborn tangle. “I fancy your father was wanting to use you as bait, to lure the earl here, if he didn’t manage to finish him off in the battle.” Chiara spoke conversationally, as if what they were discussing had no more importance than the pie she was cooking for luncheon. “What gives me hope is that he’s keeping you here, in your own chamber. Not the dungeons. He’s a hard man, Sir Leon, but deep down, he’s still your father.”

“You mean he may let me go free?” Ariana raised her eyebrows.

“Who knows what that man may do, besides drink himself into a stupor? I’m praying for him to do right by you. But there’s no denying that the babe complicates things. Mayhap your best chance is for the Earl of Darkmoor to come here and retrieve his bride.”

“Otto will never come to rescue me, not while he believes me a traitor.” She swallowed down her pain.

Chiara’s face creased with compassion. “I’ll not say as I was pleased to hear of your marriage to the Feared One . But I can see you’ve grown attached to him. I’d hope you’ve also grown accustomed to better than this.” She looked pointedly around the sparsely furnished room.

“I have. I had. He was never anything but kind to me. But what good will it do?” Ariana felt flattened by her lack of hope.

“It never does any harm to have a fierce warrior on your side. An earl no less.” Chiara nudged her shoulder. “We know not what the future holds, milady.” Her face fell. “Only that, once your father learns you’re carrying the heir to Darkmoor, there’s no chance he’ll let you go free.” She placed the hairbrush down on the nightstand with trembling fingers and pressed her hands together as if in prayer. “You must hope and pray Otto Sarragnac finds it in his heart to forgive you for whatever he thinks you’ve done, and soon as well. Else you may never escape Sir Leon.”