Chapter Seventeen

A fine rain fell over Darkmoor, despite the approach of midsummer. It seemed it was always raining, ever since Ariana’s betrayal and the painful loss of three good men, including young Benedict. Otto strode through the outer courtyard, accustomed to his hard leather boots splashing through puddles and the fine layer of drizzle which clung to his hair. Chickens clucked in his path, and he spun on his heel to avoid them. Nothing must slow him down. If he didn’t make it over the drawbridge before the cock crow, the demands of the day would claim him. Today the castle court was sitting, and Otto, as earl, must preside over proceedings. He would be detained in the great hall for many hours, dispensing justice in a matter of a stolen foal, some purloined coin, and a cheating wife. The latter case, he could well do without.

But he would fulfil his role to the best of his ability. He only needed an hour or two first, to walk and to breathe and to forget. This regular morning exercise was a recent habit, discovered through a combination of insomnia and bottled-up grief. A brisk walk up a steep path helped lend an air of calmness and grace to the rest of his day.

On this gray, unprepossessing morning, he was headed to the Caldon Hills which lay behind the castle. It would be faster on horseback, but then he would have to trouble the stableboys and wait for his horse to be made ready. On foot, Otto only had to rely on himself.

As he walked, he looked from left to right, assessing the condition of his lands and property. All looked well in Darkmoor. Walls stood strong and upright and plenty of lush grass grew in the pastures to feed the livestock. If this godawful rain didn’t stop soon, this year’s harvest would be threatened, but there was still time for nature to smile upon them.

His pulse quickened as he began to climb up the rough earthen path, his boots slipping occasionally on the loose ground. Otto let his arms swing by his sides and increased his pace, his long strides swallowing up the ground beneath him and his focus narrowing to the path ahead. As his muscles flexed and his body grew warm, he allowed himself, briefly, to acknowledge the sense of loss and regret which hadn’t diminished any since Ariana fled his castle. Each morning, alone and unobserved, he would screw his eyes tightly shut and let out a roar of pure anguish, projecting all the pain and sorrow in his heart out into the heavy morning air.

When he opened his eyes again, the top of the hill was in sight. Otto slackened his pace and tugged off his cloak, allowing the brisk breeze to ripple through his tunic and cool his limbs. He felt momentarily better and lighter, freed of the constant weight of his bride’s betrayal. It wouldn’t last, he knew that, but it would enable him to battle through the day.

Otto stood until his heartrate returned to normal, his hands on his narrow hips, surveying his kingdom. From here he could see the towering walls of Darkmoor Castle, the Sarragnac coat of arms fluttering from the highest tower. He could see the swaying trees of the forest and the neatly laid out pastures, dotted with grazing cattle. If he lifted his chin, he could even make out the swirling sea beyond the cliffs. All of this he was sworn to protect.

That was the nugget of certainty he clung to, despite the incessant grieving of his heart for an untrue wife. He was the Earl of Darkmoor. Duty first. Show no weakness .

He would take his revenge on Sir Leon of Kenmar. His men were ready for the order. But first, he must decide what he would do with Ariana when he found her.

*

The court proceedings were long and boring. Otto sat on his carved wooden chair atop the dais, listening to the proclamations of the accusers and the lengthy arguments of the defendants. Their concerns seemed trivial to him; but he knew that for his people, a single horse could mean feeding their family versus watching them go hungry.

The great hall was emptier than usual, with just a single row of trestle tables positioned opposite the dais. A member of the castle guard stood at the door and two others escorted in the petitioners and defendants, ensuring no one left until justice had been served. Otto did his best to focus on proceedings, not allowing his mind to wander back to days past, when Ariana had worn a beautiful gown of ruby red and danced on the polished floor directly below him.

At last, they reached the final case of the day. Otto was in no mood to hear from a cheating wife and despite his determination to be fair-minded, had already decided in favor of her husband long before the couple were brought before him. But the modesty of the short-haired, slender woman, who stood by the table with her head bowed and her hands meekly folded, brought him up short.

This was not the bold hussy he’d been anticipating.

His gaze flickered to the husband; a great brawny brute of a man with a florid complexion and vivid blue tattoos snaking down his muscular forearms. He sat with his legs apart and his arms crossed over a stained tunic, the unmistakable scent of ale wafting from his unwashed body.

Otto cleared his throat. “Who brings this case?”

The man turned beady black eyes in his direction. “I do.”

Otto drummed his fingers against the arms of his ornate chair. “On your feet when you address me,” he said, with misleading calmness. Immediately the complainant scraped back his chair and pushed himself upright, breathing hard with the exertion of this simple movement. Otto saw his wife take a subtle step to the side, putting a greater distance between them. “What is your name?” he demanded.

“Jeremiah. This is my wife.” He flung his arm out to the side, without looking in her direction. “And she’s been on her back with Benjamin the blacksmith.”

One of the guards broke the silence with a poorly muffled bark of laughter. Otto glanced upwards, noting who it was and determining he would be rightly disciplined as soon as the court was out of session.

The wife seemed to cower further into herself at the allegation. Her head was still bowed, which displeased Otto who was intent upon seeing her face.

“May I ask your name?” he addressed her.

Jeremiah stiffened. It seemed he had not anticipated the Earl of Darkmoor seeking his wife’s view on anything; it was not customary for a woman to speak up on such occasions.

The woman raised bewildered brown eyes to Otto’s. “My name is Sarah,” she said, so quietly that Otto had to lean forward to hear her.

“Sarah,” he repeated. “And what say you to this charge?”

Jeremiah’s face was slowly turning the color of an over-ripe plum. Otto ignored him.

Sarah’s gaze shifted to her husband and then back to Otto. Her whole body was trembling. “I deny it, milord,” she eventually whispered.

Jeremiah banged his first on the table. “You laid down on your back and he ploughed you, not once but many times.” His angry voice carried through the near-empty hall.

Otto fixed him with a glare. “Sit down,” he ordered. “No one speaks in this court without my permission.” He returned his attention to the wife. “Is that true?”

Her eyes widened as her cheeks drained of color. “I would never do such a thing. Never.”

“What cause have you given your husband to think it?”

Her voice shook. “I took Benjamin a cup of ale when he came to fix our horse’s harness.” She looked down. “We got to talking, that’s all. I was never in his house. Not once. Nor he in ours.” For the first time, her words were firm.

Otto looked back at the puce-colored husband. “What say you to that?”

Jeremiah pointed an angry finger at his wife. “She’s a nag and a scold with me, always complaining about how much time I spend at the alehouse.” For the first time, he noticed the large stain on the front of his tunic and his hand brushed at it ineffectually. “But with him, she’s all smiles.”

Otto had heard enough. “A wife should never be a nag or a scold,” he observed. “But a husband should provide for his family, not spend all his time at the ale house. Treat your wife with more kindness, Jeremiah. And Sarah, save your smiles for your husband.”

He waved a hand to confirm the case was dismissed and rubbed his temples, doing his best to ignore the dull itch of his scar. The guards ushered away the couple and closed the double doors behind them. Otto was alone, at last.

His gaze travelled around the great hall, seeing not a bare and empty room but one full of ghosts. His father’s figure lingered here, striding through the doors and demanding attention. So too did Ariana, as she’d been for the Beltane Ball; smiling brightly, glittering with jewels. If Otto closed his eyes, he could still hear the minstrels’ band and the heavy stamp of booted feet on the dance floor. Such thoughts led him somewhere darker. To the melancholy banging of a single drum and the unstoppable wailing of a grief-stricken mother. Young Benedict’s funeral procession had started from here just days earlier.

He was so deep inside his memories, he hardly heard the double doors squeaking open and the patter of footsteps towards him. He jolted to his senses when a deep voice spoke up.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, my lord.”

“The court is no longer in session,” Otto replied automatically, rubbing at his tired eyes. He opened them and started in surprise. “Gaius, my friend. What can I do for you?”

The old knight hesitated before shuffling to the side. Behind him, Otto beheld a young boy of about fourteen years, white-faced and trembling. Otto raised an eyebrow and turned his questioning gaze back to Gaius, who was clad in a rich tunic of pale gold.

“This is Matthew, my lord, one of the stableboys.”

Otto’s mind was racing. Something about the boy looked very familiar. He snapped his fingers. “You look after my horse, don’t you?”

Matthew’s face grew red. “That’s right, milord.” He gave a clumsy half bow.

“Come closer,” Otto ordered. “And stand easy. I don’t bite.”

“Go on,” Gaius prompted.

The stableboy shuffled slightly closer to the dais. His cheeks had recently been scrubbed clean, but there was still a tidemark of dirt around his neck. He flung a terrified look back at Gaius. “I can’t do it,” he whispered.

Gaius held up a reassuring hand. “Allow me to tell the story for you, Matthew. You can step in whenever you want.”

The boy nodded, evidently relieved.

Otto waited expectantly, but it was the turn of Gaius to grow uncomfortable. The loyal knight dragged his hand through his tufted gray hair and sighed deeply. “May I speak freely, my lord?”

“I would be grateful for it,” Otto replied drily. “It seems many hours since I took my seat up here. Speak freely and speak quickly, pray, for my sake.”

Gaius shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “This was not a matter fit to be heard in the court,” he said eventually, weighing his words. “It is for your ears only.”

Otto gestured around the empty hall, then folded his arms and assumed an expression of strained patience. In truth, he knew Gaius would not trouble him with trivial matters; the stableboy must have committed, or witnessed, some very grave crime indeed.

“It concerns Sir Althalos,” Gaius added.

That got Otto’s attention. He sat up straighter in his chair and beckoned them closer still. “I’m listening,” he said.

Gaius cast a glance down at Matthew, but the stableboy’s gaze was firmly fixed on his shabby boots. “Our young friend here overheard something some weeks since. He thought nothing of it at the time. But today, matters escalated.”

Otto saw a variety of emotions cross over Matthew’s face, the last one being puzzlement. “He means things became worse,” he explained, and with an inward sigh of resignation he rose from his chair, feeling his cramped muscles first complain, then stretch with relief. “I shall come down to you. Let us all speak eye to eye.” He jogged down the stairs and joined them by the trestle tables, pleased to be upright once again. “Tell me what you overheard,” he said to Matthew.

The stableboy swallowed and Otto thought for a moment he might refuse. But then he spoke up in a high, clear voice. “’Twas Sir Althalos’s men. None of us like them. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true.” His eyes flickered nervously between the two great warriors on either side of him. Otto waved a hand for him to continue. “Anyway, they were saying how the earl can’t command an army, not properly, not like the old earl.” Matthew stammered out the last few words and Otto clamped down on his instinctive anger for fear it would throw the boy entirely off course. “And that our knights would do better fighting for Sir Althalos.”

Otto looked at Gaius, but he wouldn’t meet his eye, silently confirming the boy’s story. Otto cleared his throat. “And what of our men? What did they make of this?”

Matthew shook his head. “I never heard anything disrespectful against you, milord, not once.”

“Your knights are unswervingly loyal,” Gaius said levelly.

Otto knew a swell of impatience. “Does this tale continue?”

“Aye, milord.” Matthew lifted his chin. “Last night, when I went to check on the horses after dark, Sir Althalos was in the barn talking to three of his men. They were huddled up beneath the hayloft, but I listened hard, and I heard what they said.” The boy swallowed. “One of them was well into his cups. He was laughing. He said that killing the guard was a masterstroke.”

Otto’s mind raced. “The guard outside Traitor’s Gate?”

“I dunno, milord. But he said that Sir Althalos was pulling your strings like a puppet.” Matthew’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “I dunno what that means either, milord.”

Otto smiled reassuringly, even as bile rose in his throat. “What happened next?”

“They said how you locking Lady Ariana in the tower played right into their hands for when the Kenmar army arrived. But then Althalos spoke up and said how that were true, but none of it mattered now. That Sir Leon was weak, and he didn’t need him no more. He would go it alone and get twice the prize.”

“Go it alone?” Otto flicked his eyes towards Gaius. “What is he about?”

“Tell him, Matthew,” Gaius nodded encouragingly.

Matthew fixed his gaze on the floor. “Sir Althalos said that soon all of this would belong to him.”

“Holy Hell,” Otto exploded, a pulse pounding at his temples. “Arrest him, now.”

“It is too late for that.” Gaius stepped forward. “Sir Althalos has gone.”

Several beats passed. “Gone?” Otto repeated.

Matthew nodded. “He’s taken his horses and all his men. They’ve cleared out. Gone.”

Otto spun around to face Gaius. “Did he say anything to you of these intentions?”

“Not a word,” Gaius declared, folding his arms over his heavily embroidered tunic. “I saw him this morn and did not think anything amiss. That was before Matthew came to find me.”

Otto scratched at his scar, thinking hard. “He told me he would be gone by midsummer, but that is still several weeks away. It’s strange that he has fled without word to anyone.”

“Most odd.” Gaius nodded emphatically. “It looks as if he is planning something.”

Otto met his eye and nodded once, sharply. “You’re right, Gaius. I want extra guards stationed at all look out points, day and night. Can you carry that order back to the gatehouse?”

“Straight away.”

Otto clapped him on the arm and nodded his thanks to Matthew. “If Sir Althalos means to attack, then we shall be ready for him, have no fear. And that’s thanks to you. I won’t forget this, Matthew.”

The stableboy reddened, but with pleasure not embarrassment.

“What will you do now?” Gaius asked.

Otto came to a quick decision. “Later tonight, I will join the look out,” he promised. “But first, there’s someone I need to speak to.”

Someone he mayhap should have spoken to days earlier, if only his pride hadn’t gotten in the way.

He left them both in the great hall, determined to fulfil his goal before anything further happened. Servants were preparing for the evening meal, carrying platters of food on heavy trays which they lifted swiftly out of the way when Otto appeared before them. His cloak billowed out behind him as he strode through the keep. He had never had cause to enter Merek’s chamber before, but he knew where it was situated. A gust of balmy air caressed his cheeks as he entered the inner courtyard and he noted with faint relief that the rain had finally stopped.

He raised a fist and hammered on a bolted door, uncaring of the curious eyes upon him. Now that he had realized the extent of his uncle’s treachery, his thoughts turned to questioning Ariana’s role in recent events. He had presumed her guilty, but had she been a victim of Althalos’s game-playing?

It was a dizzying possibility.

The physician shot back the bolts and opened his door quickly, bowing down low when he identified his visitor.

“Good evening, my lord. Are you taken ill?” He was clad in a stained apron and his untidy gray hair reached his shoulders.

Otto strode past him into the cramped room, unable to help a curious glance around. Dozens of bottles glistened on narrow shelves covering every wall, and earthenware bowls of colorful herbs were scattered here and there. Merek appeared to be midway through mixing up a potion using a pestle and mortar on his scrubbed wooden table.

“I need to speak to you,” he said, by way of greeting. “And I need you to tell me the truth, Merek.” Otto put a hand to the hilt of his sword and then thought better of it. He fixed the ageing physician with a meaningful glare instead. “On pain of being branded a traitor to Darkmoor.”

Merek’s pale eyes had followed the path of Otto’s hand. He met his gaze without a tremor. “What is it you wish to know?”

Otto knew a flicker of guilt for showing such aggression towards the man who had once saved his life. “It concerns the Lady Ariana.”

Merek blanched at that. He tugged at his beard thoughtfully and sighed with resignation. “May I sit?”

“Of course. ’Tis your own chamber, Merek.” For now, Otto added silently.

The physician sank into a hard wooden chair by the table. “I knew Lady Ariana’s mother, many years ago.”

His words piqued Otto’s interest and he too sat down in the opposite chair. Immediately the sweet smell of lavender assaulted his senses from a nearby bowl.

“Before you came to serve us in Darkmoor?”

“That is correct.”

“What about Lady Ariana?”

Merek nodded slowly. “I knew her as a child, yes.” His tone was guarded.

Otto folded his hands on the table and decided to be frank. “For many days now, I have believed Lady Ariana guilty of conspiring against me.” Otto paused to gauge Merek’s reaction, but the old man didn’t move. “With her father, Sir Leon,” he added.

Merek pursed his lips. “There was no love lost between Lady Ariana and her father. It was always said Sir Leon regretted his match with her mother.” Merek looked down at his herb-stained hands. “She was a druid, you know?”

“Ariana’s mother?” Otto’s tone revealed his surprise.

Merek nodded slowly. “She taught me much.” He indicated the tools of his trade. “I owe her a debt of gratitude.”

“So Ariana had sympathy with the druids?” Otto’s mind was racing. He drummed his fingers on the table, coming dangerously close to unsettling the bowl of dried lavender.

“That’s true.” Merek paused, indecision flickering across anxious eyes which eventually landed on Otto. He took a breath. “Ariana did conspire against you, my lord, but only to rescue the druid prisoner.”

Otto’s heart pounded against his ribs, but he didn’t know if his primary emotion was rage or relief at hearing Merek’s confession. “Why would she do that?” he asked, finally, his hands clenching into fists.

“The prisoner was her aunt,” Merek stated calmly. “Ysmay was sister to Ariana’s mother. She was also a healer of some renown.” He paused. “The druids know her as the Rose of Kenmar.”

The Rose of Kenmar.

Otto sat still for a moment, piecing it all together. Ariana had written to her father of her intention to free her aunt, not steal a jewel from their vaults. Any duplicity had been rooted in love. “Why did no one tell me?” His fist slammed down on the table. “Why did you not tell me?”

Merek reached out for the earthenware bowl of dried herbs and nudged it to safety, his eyes cast down. “If I may say, we feared your anger, my lord.”

His words pierced the fog of emotion swirling in Otto’s mind. He gripped the edge of the table and breathed deeply to calm himself down. The scent of lavender was a balm, even in the midst of his confusion. “I can’t blame you for that,” he said eventually. “I had more than a hand in creating my own reputation. The irony is, after much deliberation, I had decided to release the druid prisoner. She was an old woman and once my senses cleared, I could see that she bore no blame for my father’s death.” He raised his hands. “If only Ariana had come to me with this.” His sorrow was imbued with bitter regret.

Merek nodded slowly. “It would have been a wise choice.” He risked a glance towards Otto. “That was my advice to her, my lord. To bide her time. But Ariana has always been a spirited young woman.”

“Aye,” Otto sighed. It was Ariana’s spirit that had first attracted him to her; he could hardly berate her for it now. “To be clear, Ariana had no part in the battle Sir Leon brought to our gates?”

“None that I know of, my lord.”

Otto pursed his lips. “I came here only to see if Ariana had mentioned something to you during a consultation. But you have given me much more than I hoped for.”

Merek bowed his head, his long gray hair falling forward and obscuring his face. “I am glad to have been of service.”

He took his leave of the physician and walked through the gathering dusk to his private tower at the back of the castle. The events of the day; the cases at court, his morning walk, even his conversation with Gaius, all seemed to have taken place in the distant past. His mind was full of this latest revelation; Ariana had not been in league with her father after all. She was no traitor to Darkmoor. She had told him no lies.

He stopped short, felled by this mighty realization. Ariana had kept her word and not told him anything that wasn’t true. Was it her fault that Otto had failed to ask the right questions?

With leaden feet, he climbed the spiral staircase to the tower top chamber where they had had their final conversation. For all these weeks, he had imagined Ariana leaving here gladly. The thought had pained him but the alternative, he realized, was much worse. She must have been taken against her will. And he had done nothing about it.

“Damnation.” He slammed his fist into the solid wall then shook his grazed knuckles to rid himself of the pain.

He had done nothing.

He had been too quick to let the poison of Sir Althalos seep under his skin. His uncle was the only traitor to have been given hospitality in Darkmoor. Ariana was guilty of loving her aunt, no more, no less.

The connection he’d felt to his bride had been real.

The natural ease of their conversations, the instinctive trust that had sprung up between them, the sense of a shared past and a future where they would be stronger together, all of that was real. Beneath his burden of worry and regret, Otto began to feel the first glimmers of hope and joy. He hadn’t imagined the sincerity shining in Ariana’s eyes. Hadn’t been intoxicated by fine wine or base lust when he felt that she was the only person he could be his true self with. Their relationship had been burgeoning into something beautiful, before Sir Althalos had laid his cunning plan.

He walked quickly to the tapestried chair and picked up the blanket he’d draped over Ariana’s legs, wanting to warm her chilled limbs even while he doubted her intentions. He pressed it to his nose and inhaled deeply, but no scent of her remained and he flung it away in frustration.

Still, she had been here. She had been his . And she could be again. It was not too late, he felt it in his bones. He had vowed just this morning to defend Darkmoor with his last breath. Now he berated himself for not retaliating sooner against Sir Leon of Kenmar. Ariana deserved his protection. He need not fret about how to punish an untrue wife; he needed only to rescue her and bring her home.

It seemed so long ago that he’d come here with his sack of modest offerings, hoping to help her pass the night more easily. Even then he had instinctively doubted Althalos’s words. He should have listened to his gut.

Otto wandered over to the table, which had yet to be cleared. No servants came in here; it was his own private domain. He wrinkled his nose at the stale bread and wizened, moldy berries. Clearly Ariana had been stolen away before she could satisfy her hunger. He hoped she was well-fed, wherever Sir Leon had hidden her.

A roll of parchment was at his feet. He bent to pick it up, starting in recognition at the vivid image etched onto it with charcoal. It was smudged, the lines drawn hurriedly, but its meaning was clear. Otto’s hands trembled as he gazed down at Ariana’s depiction of him: a man, not a warrior.

A man at peace.

A man drawn with love.

Any remaining doubts as to whether Ariana wanted a future here in Darkmoor evaporated like morning mist.

Otto placed the drawing reverently on the table and stood back, drinking it in.

His resolution was clear-cut and shining, like the brightest jewel in the vaults. He would rescue Ariana and bring her back to Darkmoor. And he would rule his estate in his own way, no longer suffering misplaced doubts about his own moral code.

Otto fished in his pocket for the token Ariana had given him at the long-ago joust. He clenched it inside his fist, drawing strength from the memory.

A man could be both a warrior and a husband. Could live a peaceable life but stand up against his enemies.

He pressed his lips to the token, then returned it to his pocket and drew his palm over the familiar hilt of his sword. He had done enough thinking on this matter. It was time to act.