Chapter Eighteen

A riana gazed out of her narrow window to confirm that nothing had changed, that no armored warriors were descending across the moors, then she resumed her frantic pacing of the chamber.

She had grown weary of sitting around and waiting to be rescued.

Somewhere between waking up and breaking her fast with the usual meager offering of small ale and stale bread, the unrelenting tedium of her incarceration had become too much to bear. She needed something to happen. Anything. If it meant putting herself in fresh danger…

So be it.

She dressed quickly in a plain tunic, belted at the waist and ornamented with Otto’s broach. Her hair, she plaited into a long braid over her shoulder, securing it with a faded ribbon plucked from a pile at the bottom of her closet. Rummaging further, she was pleased to find an old pair of goatskin shoes which she dimly remembered wearing several summers past. They were cracked at the soles, but far better than nothing.

She felt better for being up and properly attired. More herself. As if she’d shaken off her sluggish despair along with her bed linens.

When her father had given the order for Ariana to be locked in her chamber, he’d made provision for her temporary release each morning to take the air in the inner courtyard. Up until now, Ariana had ignored the guard when he came to escort her, turning her face to the bare wall and waiting for him to go away. But today, as soon as she heard the key turn in the lock, she rushed towards the door with the brightest smile she could muster.

“Good morn,” she greeted the dour-faced guard.

He pursed his lips. “I am come to take you for your walk, milady.”

She nodded graciously. “And I am pleased to accept.”

The guard stood aside to allow her to pass out into the narrow stone stairwell. “You can walk afore me, milady. But know that there are men stationed all over the keep. It would not be wise for you to try to run.”

“No indeed.” Ariana cast another smile over her shoulder. “I shall not run.”

Their progress was slow down the steep turns of the tower, and Ariana was glad of her shoes on the cold, worn steps. When they reached the antechamber at the bottom, she paused. “Where are we to walk?” She already knew the answer, but she was playing for time until she could formulate a plan.

“The inner courtyard.”

“How pleasant.” She offered the man her arm, and he was too surprised to do anything but accept it.

They progressed together out of the main doors and out into a brisk breeze which whipped up Ariana’s plait and made her eyes water. The inner courtyard was a grand term for a patch of rough grass, across which smoke from the bakehouse billowed. But Ariana’s gaze had shifted to another section of the castle. At last, she settled on her goal.

“Is my father in his solar?” she asked nonchalantly.

“I cannot say, milady.”

“I should like to go and see.” Bright with determination, she altered their path to the low-slung stone building which housed Sir Leon’s private quarters.

“Sir Leon should not be disturbed.” The guard’s voice was stern.

Ariana turned wide eyes towards him and bit down on her lip. “I must make an apology.”

The guard raised his eyebrows.

“I should not have tried to escape.” A plume of smoke caught in her throat and made her cough. “It was wrong of me.” The guard looked unsure. Ariana knew that he could easily refuse her request. Worse, the marshal could appear at any moment, and he was not a man to be easily fooled. “Allow me to at least knock upon his door?”

Without waiting for a response, she tripped across the patchy grass and rapped her knuckles upon the solidly built door.

A growl came from within. “Go away.”

She winced, recognizing both her father’s voice and the temper within it. She had long lived in fear of Sir Leon’s rages. But she would not give up now.

“It’s me, father.” She tried the handle and found, to her surprise, the door was unlocked. “I have come to apologize.”

At first, she could make out little in the gloomy chamber. A grimy sort of light filtered through one window, which was partially obscured by an oil cloth. The fug of the room was most unpleasant: stale rushes, woodsmoke and ale. Her father sat slumped at a desk, surrounded by scattered parchments and spilled ink. He did not even raise his head at her entry.

“Go away,” he repeated, loudly.

“What are you doing?” Ariana swallowed down her fears and inched further inside, pleased at least that the guard had not followed her beyond the door.

“Why are you out of your chamber?” He finally acknowledged her presence, dark eyebrows arching over his unshaven face.

Ariana couldn’t help blanching at her father’s unkempt appearance. Sir Leon had always been a vain man, but it looked as if he had not shaved for several days. His tunic was rumpled, and his sword belt lay abandoned on the floor.

“Have no fear, Father, I am being carefully guarded,” she trilled, with a smile towards the man waiting outside.

He grunted in response. “I’m busy, Ariana. Leave me in peace.”

She regarded him for a moment, her mind whirring. She had thought she might plead for her freedom, but he showed less interest in his daughter’s presence than in the tankard of ale he was now draining. Her gaze jumped to the parchments on his desk. They were letters, all written in the same elegant hand.

“Who has been writing to you?” She moved closer, but he covered the parchments with his large hands before she could see anything of note.

“That is no concern of yours.” He made to rise from his chair as if to swat her away, but then he sank back into it with a low groan.

Ariana observed his red-rimmed, unfocused eyes and shaking fingers. The now empty tankard of ale, together with the fumes emanating from his half-open mouth, all confirmed her suspicions. Her father was drunk.

Her surprise quickly morphed into resolve to turn this to her advantage. Sir Leon may not be moved to sympathy for her plight, but mayhap he could be convinced to tell her of his intentions? Intentions which she could then somehow reveal to Otto.

Somehow.

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best she had.

“It was a clever idea, to wed me to the Earl of Darkmoor,” she improvised.

Her father picked up the beer tankard and looked inside. “You think so?”

“It’s true, I didn’t think so at first.” She picked her way over the littered floor to a hard wooden chair pulled near an empty fireplace. She lowered herself down and folded her hands on her knees. “But that was because I didn’t understand.”

Sir Leon regarded her with glazed eyes. “And now you do?”

“Yes.” She put her head to one side and pretended to think. “Perchance not all of it.”

Her father’s response was a deep guffaw of laughter, which scared her more than his earlier shouting.

“You and me both, Ariana.”

She took a deep breath, intent on persevering. “You mean, you don’t understand either?”

He banged the tankard down onto his desk, unsettling more of the parchments. “I understand well enough when a man breaks his word.”

“Sir Althalos,” she guessed.

“That double-crossing snake,” he hissed, looking suddenly like the fearful baron he was.

Ariana leaned forward. “You were in league with him against Otto? When you stormed the fortress at Darkmoor, he was meant to come to your aid?”

“Fifty men, he promised me.” Sir Leon pointed a wavering finger in her direction. “Fifty men and fifty swords. Half my men were killed at the battle of Branfeld. I didn’t tell him that, why would I?” He shook his head in answer to his own question. “But his fifty men could have made all the difference at Darkmoor.”

Ariana felt a wave of nausea, unsure whether it was from her growing babe or the disgust she felt at her father’s tale. But there was nothing to be gained by asking him why. The only information that could be of any use to Otto was what Sir Leon planned to do next.

“Instead, Sir Althalos watched your men be cut down, while his remained safe and well,” she said softly, her eyes fixed upon his face. Despite her calm demeanor, inside she was braced to flee if her father lost his temper. In less than ten strides she could be out of the door. “Surely you must want to take your revenge, Father?”

“Revenge, aye, if only.” His gaze became unfocused. “I have not the army for revenge.”

“Then what?”

He sat back in his chair. “Then what?” he repeated. “’Tis a question I have asked myself over and over.”

Ariana’s fears gave way to impatience. “You had your men kidnap me…” she began.

“Aye. That was a mistake,” he interjected. “I was watching the fighting at the castle walls. Althalos was meant to open the gates for me. Once the earl’s men had submitted, I would ride through in victory.” His full lips creased into an unpleasant smile. “You were taken to ensure the young earl didn’t try anything once we’d taken him prisoner.”

Ariana’s head was pounding, though this confession was no less than she had expected. “My imprisonment here is a mistake?” she articulated slowly.

“Aye. It’s become so, certainly.”

Belatedly, Ariana realized that her father’s cheeks had grown mottled with anger—a look she was all too familiar with from childhood. She rose quickly from her chair. “I will leave you, Father.”

But Sir Leon was already shouting over his shoulder for the guard. “Take her back to her chamber,” he ordered, as soon as the man barreled through the door. “And don’t allow her to bother me again.”

Ariana scuttled forward, not wanting to give the guard the satisfaction of dragging her from the solar. But once outside, he clamped iron fingers around her arm.

“Don’t try anything else, Lady Ariana,” he said with satisfaction. “Next time, I’ll shout for the marshal.”

But all the fight had gone out of Ariana, and she submitted to the walk back to her chamber without prevarication. What could she do now but wait?

*

Some hours later, Ariana pulled a stool over to the window and knelt upon it, fixing her gaze on the dirt path through the distant trees. A strong wind whipped around the keep, howling between the stunted towers and causing the horses grazing in the paddocks to toss their manes and prance. Ariana bit her lip and leaned closer to the window, her hands joined together beneath her chin as if in supplication. Ever since Maria, the kitchen maid, had brought her a heel of bread in lieu of luncheon, Ariana’s pulse had been racing. There was something about the frenzied wind, so unusual for the season, and the frantic pacing of the guards in the outer courtyard, that hinted change was coming.

And not a moment too soon.

Something certainly was afoot. She’d even spied her father talking to the guards, gesticulating vehemently towards the forest as the wind played havoc with his long cloak. He must have sobered up since this morn.

Could it be that the lookouts had brought word back to the castle of an advancing army?

She didn’t allow herself to hope, but her insides crawled with nervous anticipation that even now, Otto was on his way to rescue her.

Her father’s soldiers were assembling beneath the keep, fueling her suspicions further. The soldiers of Kenmar had never been a formidable force, but they had dwindled even further since the battle of Branfeld and the ill-fated skirmish at the gates of Darkmoor. Just a handful remained.

Ariana recalled her father’s slurred words earlier in the day. “I have not the army for revenge.”

He had not the army to mount a successful defense of the castle either.

The horses were led out by a gaggle of dirty stableboys and, one by one, the remaining soldiers mounted. Sir Leon watched them silently from the steps. He offered no words of praise or encouragement, no example either of fortitude or resilience. Ariana closed her fingers around Otto’s broach, feeling her stomach clench and roll. Since leaving Darkmoor, nausea had been her constant companion.

Then she heard it; the thunder of approaching hoofbeats. It was unmistakable. The soldiers below heard it at the same time; their heads turning simultaneously towards the forest. The ears of their horses flickered forward and backwards, anxiety shining in their wide eyes. Several of them started in fright as the resonant clanging of the warning bell rang through the courtyard. Ariana’s breathing became jagged as she gazed at the distant path and hoped with every fiber of her being that the standard of Darkmoor would soon appear.

The thunderous beat grew louder, sending vibrations through the ground and making the castle dogs howl. It was like the beating of a drum; a rhythmic sound which must surely herald the knights of Darkmoor. No other army could be so tightly disciplined, moving at such speed through the forest.

Her father’s men cantered out to meet them. From Ariana’s room at the top of the keep, she had a full view of the open plain to the front of the castle, where she had no doubt the fighting would shortly commence. She gripped Otto’s broach so tightly her tunic snagged beneath it. All this could only mean one thing. Otto was coming.

Whether he was coming to rescue her, or punish her further, in that moment she hardly cared. At last, she would see him again.

Just as she was growing faint with wanting, the first riders came into view. Ariana’s heart leaped for joy when she glimpsed the fluttering red standard, and her eyes strained further to make out the heroic figure of Otto, the Feared One , riding at the head of his army. Never had she placed so much value on his reputation. As they poured out of the trees, the approaching knights fanned out behind their leader into two equal lines.

That was her first clue that something was wrong.

She placed her forehead against the window, so anxious she’d have almost clambered through it if it were possible. Had Otto brought but half his men to mount his rescue?

Had something further happened in Darkmoor to diminish the forces it had to offer?

Her gaze focused on the leader and her pulse thrummed in her ears as she noted his slight stance. This man was small and wiry. Even as she watched, he reined in his horse and allowed his men to filter past him to start the fighting without him. Otto would never do such a thing. Her eyes jumped to the colorful emblem of the men’s shields. Red for Darkmoor, just as she’d hoped. But instead of a rampant lion, these shields bore a blazing yellow cross.

Not Otto.

Not the knights of Darkmoor.

Disappointment made her limbs turn to cold stone and she sank against the window, exhaling all her hopes and dreams in a trembling breath which fogged the glass.

But who else would launch an attack against Kenmar?

Below her, swords clashed and horses whinnied in distress. She clasped a hand to her mouth, hardly knowing what outcome she sought. Were these unknown knights fighting in Otto’s stead? Immediately she straightened up, scrutinizing the men for some clue as to their identity. Their tunics glowed red beneath polished armor. Their horses were gleaming and well-conditioned. Who else in these parts kept such a fine force of fighting men?

Her gaze alighted on their leader, sitting lightly astride a fine dapple-gray horse which she couldn’t help but recognize. The horse had distinctive coloring; she had seen him in the stables of Darkmoor. A burst of fresh excitement was quickly followed by dreadful recognition.

This army was led by Sir Althalos.

Her heart beat hollowly inside her chest as she withdrew from the window and sank down on the corner of her mattress. Sir Althalos was her enemy. She could not look to these men for assistance, though they must know she was here. Her scrambled mind raced back to Chiara’s observation that Sir Leon didn’t know which way to turn. Perchance that was because he’d suspected he was to be double-crossed by his former ally.

Either way, it mattered not. Ariana was locked inside her room. She had no hope of escape. Whether it was Sir Leon’s guards or Sir Althalos’s knights who came for her; neither wished her well. A sob escaped her. She’d been so close to believing her troubles were over.

The distant sounds of the battle were growing louder: the animalistic roar of war cries, the harrowing groans of the injured and the relentless clash of sword on sword. But in amongst that constant hum, she became aware of closer activity. Doors banging shut, children crying, and frantic shouting.

Unable to help herself, Ariana resumed her post at the window, craning her head to the side to see a flood of servants and villagers pour from the western gates of the castle towards the river and possible freedom. They must believe that defeat was imminent; otherwise, they would be too much in fear of Sir Leon’s punishments to think of saving their own skins. Ariana’s shoulders sagged. Better than anyone, she knew of all the secret ways in and out of Kenmar Castle. There was an underground tunnel accessed through the vaults which led right to the other side of the river. She’d used it often to meet up with the druids against Sir Leon’s wishes. But she was locked up and forgotten at the top of the keep, where her knowledge could benefit no one.

She looked back at the battle, wincing at the bodies of the fallen and the streams of red blood running through the grassy plain. Heavy casualties had befallen both sides and it was impossible to see who had the advantage. A loose horse, reins flapping, made a bid for freedom by bolting towards the forest. Ariana felt nausea swirling in her gut. It was all such a senseless waste. So much death and bloodshed and fear, children taken from their homes, husbands from their wives. And for what?

It was a rhetorical question; she knew the answer well enough. The pursuit of land, riches and power was behind such thirst for blood. She’d been raised upon it but had naively hoped that her forced marriage to Otto would signify unity between Kenmar and Darkmoor. She’d believed Sir Leon when he said that was all he wished for. Peace with his neighbors. Plus, the priceless ruby: the Rose of Kenmar.

Now she knew better. All this time, her father and Sir Althalos had been working together in a bid to overthrow Otto.

As she watched the scene of the battle, Sir Althalos himself came back into view, his finely bred horse picking his path through the carnage towards the castle gates. His way into the heart of Kenmar had been cleared of all obstacles; no guard, knight, or villager brandishing a pitchfork came out to stand in his way. He had won, here in Kenmar at least.

Ariana pulled away from the window, she didn’t want to see any more. It was only a matter of time before Althalos’s men came to find her. She trembled to think what they might do to her, one hand going unthinkingly to her flat belly. At least they did not yet know that she was carrying Otto’s child.

Althalos could well recognize Otto’s broach though, and the sight of it could inflame him further. Fingers shaking, Ariana unpinned it from her tunic. She’d wanted to wear it always but couldn’t bear the thought of it being thrown away or deliberately trampled underfoot by Otto’s vindictive uncle. On a sudden whim, she crossed to her closet and picked through the crumpled ribbons until she found one of a dark purple hue. Purple; the color of Kenmar. Quickly, she pinned the broach to the ribbon in a defiant symbol of unity between the first lady of Kenmar and the rightful Earl of Darkmoor and placed the scrap of material atop her pillow. It would be found, someday, by someone.

Breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through her veins, she pondered her next move. There was nothing to be gained by hiding. She’d seen enough ransacking soldiers in her time to know that squeezing herself under the bed or inside the closet would yield little in her favor. They would drag her out with ill-concealed glee; any reprimand grown far greater for her attempts to outwit them.

But she couldn’t sit here and wait, like some sort of sacrificial lamb.

Ariana bit down on her lip as an idea formed in her mind. Not an idea; a memory. Before her marriage to Otto, one of her ladies had whispered to her that dark plans were afoot. The lady had pressed a small, bejeweled dagger into her hands and urged her to keep it always to hand. Ariana had secreted it under her mattress. Could it be there still?

Grunting with the effort, she hauled the straw mattress onto its side, thrilled to see the familiar leather pouch laying innocently beneath it. She snatched it up and placed it inside her belt, feeling oddly comforted by the weight of it. She was ready now. Resigned to the worst; but determined to go down fighting, if only for the sake of her unborn child.

A hammering at her door made her jump with fright. Had they found her so soon? Despite her brave intentions, terror wrapped cold tentacles around her limbs. Ariana opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Then came the unmistakable sound of the iron key turning in the lock. The door swung open with a familiar creaking, and she forced herself to stand tall and steady, to meet whoever had come for her with at least the appearance of decorum. But it was Chiara’s anxious face which peered into the narrow room.

“Lady Ariana,” she whispered, “you’re still here.”

“You came for me.” Relief and gratitude made her weak. “I thought everyone had left.”

“Come quickly,” Chiara urged. “The enemy are on their way to the keep. We have but seconds to spare.”

Ariana rushed forward and grasped the cook’s reddened hand. Together they ran wordlessly down the stone stairs; a seemingly endless journey which by necessity took them closer to the advancing army. The tight turns of the staircase made Ariana’s head spin and twice she nearly stumbled. At last, they emerged onto the stone-flagged ground floor. The great hall was to their left, the main doors to their right. No one else was around.

“We must follow the others to the western gates,” Chiara huffed, her dark eyes flitting nervously around.

“I know a better way,” Ariana urged, her heart pounding from the speed of their descent. “Through the vaults.”

“The vaults.” Chiara reared back in alarm. “I’ve no wish to go down there, milady.”

Ariana was about to point out that this was no time to be afraid of the dark when the sound of marching footsteps up the front steps drowned out all thought and reason. She grasped Chiara’s hand as three knights came into view; swords in hand, faces set and determined. A knot of dread unfurled in her belly as she recognized the middle knight.

“Lady Ariana,” Sir Althalos purred, a callous smile playing around his thin lips. “We meet again.”

Ariana staggered backwards, barreling into the stout figure of Chiara whose kind face was screwed up in fear. These men were armed warriors, already smeared with the blood of their victims; what hope did two women have against them?

“Let us go,” Ariana tried. “We mean you no harm.”

He laughed at that, and the two knights at either side of him joined in. Their laughter echoed around the empty hallway.

“I would like to see you try,” one of them said, wiping a hand over his mouth. His sleeve was speckled with gray matter. Ariana didn’t like to think what it might be.

Her mind went instinctively to the dagger at her belt; but she didn’t need a lesson in warcraft to know that one dagger would not better three swords.

“My husband is the Earl of Darkmoor,” she tried again, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. “If you touch me, the repercussions will be severe.”

The knights regarded her with faint disinterest. Too late, Ariana remembered that these men had most likely been stationed at Darkmoor since the old earl’s funeral. They would already have known who she was.

“Your belief in my nephew is touching,” Sir Althalos said coolly. “But where is he now, when you need him?”

Ariana could feel Chiara shaking with fear beside her. How she longed to offer comfort with a declaration of faith that Otto’s army would arrive at any moment. But for all she knew, he had no intention of coming to Kenmar.

Althalos must have sensed her doubt, for the corners of his mouth twitched in triumph.

“Seize her,” he ordered his men, nodding at Chiara. “Leave the Countess of Darkmoor to me.”

“No,” Ariana cried, grasping ineffectually at Chiara’s apron as the cook was forcibly led away. The last Ariana saw of her one remaining ally was her plump arms flailing against her attackers, then they turned the corner and were gone from her sight. She heard their boots clumping down the front steps and the crunch of gravel as they stepped onto the courtyard, then all was quiet.

“What will they do to her?” she demanded of Althalos.

He smiled humorlessly. “What do you think?”

“She’s only a cook.”

Althalos shrugged. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand how this works. It doesn’t matter if you’re a princess or a scullery maid. The enemy is the enemy.” His dark eyes flickered with hatred. “Even if your husband is the Earl of Darkmoor.” He raised his sword, his voice a mocking parody of Ariana’s just moments earlier.

“And what of my husband?” Ariana demanded. If she could keep Althalos talking for long enough, mayhap she could figure out a plan. “Has he become your enemy now? You double-crossed him; just as you have double-crossed my father.”

He inclined his head. “Events have moved swiftly, it’s true. But that was always my intention. Sir Leon and I reached an understanding some years since about how best to take down Darkmoor once my dear brother passed.”

“And then what?” She inched sideways…but to no avail as the tip of his sword followed her progress. “Your understanding came to naught once my father showed his hand.”

Althalos smiled slightly. “Leon promised me the might of the Kenmar army. But he launched an attack on one of England’s greatest fortresses with too few men and not even the courage to lead them himself.” He raised the sword so that it was level with her nose. “Such a weak ally might better be described as a hindrance.”

“And such a devious ally might best be described as an enemy,” Ariana declared. Inside, she quailed at the wisdom of angering the man further. But she couldn’t escape to the vaults without somehow getting past him. Distraction was the only way.

His mocking gaze never left her. “Why should I share the spoils of victory when I can take both Darkmoor and Kenmar for myself?”

Ariana forced herself to stand tall. “What part do I play in the spoils of victory? Do you intend to take me prisoner, Sir Althalos? Or do you intend to kill me?”

She was gratified to see a look of faint surprise cross his face. “I’d say that all depends on you, Lady Ariana.” He smirked, lowering his sword to the ground and resting both hands upon the hilt. “My men would prefer we take you prisoner. They’d certainly enjoy spending time with Otto Sarragnac’s young bride.”

Her stomach rolled with nausea. “I would prefer to die.”

“That can be arranged.” He stepped towards her, and the metallic stink of fresh blood, not his own, filled her nostrils.

Ariana leaned backwards, conscious of the stone wall looming behind her. She had no intention of being taken prisoner to be raped by the villainous warriors reporting to Althalos. But she had no one to rely on but herself. “You threaten me, Sir Althalos,” she said calmly. “You should know, I’m a desperate woman. And desperate women should not be toyed with.”

“Oh?” He raised a mocking eyebrow and came closer, so close she could see where his chainmail gapped over his blood-smeared tunic. “Do you threaten me now, Lady Ariana? That’s good. I like to see some defiance in my women, before I thrash it out of them.”

Her moment had come, and Ariana didn’t waste it. She kept her eyes focused on Sir Althalos’s mean black ones while her hand reached for the dagger, unsheathed it, and plunged into the gap beneath his chest plate, wincing with horror as her blade sliced upwards through flesh and scraped against his ribs.

For a second, it seemed as if her aim had missed. Sir Althalos blanched, but stayed standing, his glazed eyes fixed on hers. He opened his mouth and a reddish foam bubbled from the corners. Ariana scuttled sideways, numb with shock, knowing she must get herself out of reach of his sword. But she needn’t have worried. In another moment, Althalos’s legs buckled beneath him, and he sank to the ground, a deep-red pool of sticky blood gathering beneath his fallen body.

Ariana clamped her hands to her mouth, silencing her scream. She couldn’t waste any more time. Enemy soldiers could be preparing to storm the keep, even now.

Without another look at her adversary, Ariana ran towards the vaults and the possibility of freedom.