Chapter Nineteen

O tto was unaccustomed to feeling nervous when he faced his men, but on this warm mid-summer’s morn, he had to chase down his apprehension before standing up to speak.

The knights of Darkmoor were gathered in the stone-flagged armory; yawning still because of the early hour, scratching their bushy beards and jostling one another good naturedly. A flagon of cider was making its way around them. The men drank deeply, smacking their lips in appreciation. Otto took a deep breath and strode to the center of the vaulted chamber.

“Good men of Darkmoor,” he began, his voice rebounding around the whitewashed walls. “I have summoned you from your beds and gathered you here to ask a very important question.”

“’Twas not his own bed you summoned Sir Tristan from,” interjected Andreas de Montain, to a chorus of approving jeers.

Tristan, a young knight of just twenty summers, found the grace to laugh at their jesting. “Aye, well, the lady has promised me I’m welcome back any time,” he said, his brilliant blue eyes alight with youthful zest.

“Glad to hear it, Tristan,” Otto put in quickly. He looked around at the assembled men; every last face was tilted up towards him. They trusted him as their leader. But would they follow him so unthinkingly into battle when they heard what he had to say?

He cleared his throat. “You have served Darkmoor and done us proud, some of you for more years than I have been alive.” He nodded towards Gaius, who raised the flagon of cider towards him in a silent toast. “The knights of Darkmoor are known throughout the North for their fearlessness.” A small cheer erupted at that. “Their unfaltering courage.” Another cheer, accompanied by some table-banging. “And their strength, speed, and skills in battle.” This time his words were met with roars of approval, feet-stamping, and back-slapping. Otto waited until the chorus had died down. “I would have it no other way.” He raised his fist into the air, getting into his stride now. “But there is one change I would like to make.” Immediately the mood in the room shifted as the men waited for his explanation. Otto rubbed at his scar and summoned the conviction from deep within him. “My forefathers created the Knights’ Code for Darkmoor. We all of us know it. Show no weakness; show no mercy. It is a code that has served us well in battle.” Otto lowered his voice, knowing he had the attention of every man here. “Darkmoor has never once fallen.” Cheers erupted through the room and Otto held up his hand for silence. “Thanks to the fortitude of our ancestors, we find ourselves on the cusp of more peaceful times.” He ploughed ahead, seeing doubt flicker behind the eyes of the closest young knights. “And I for one, would like to ride out under a different code. One that values fortitude and valor over all else.” He paused for effect. “As knights, we show no weakness. But there are times, men, when it is a strength to show mercy. Or that, at least, is what I believe.” He plunged ahead, taking courage from the nods he saw greet his words. “From this day forward, we defend our borders. We protect what is ours. We fight for peace , for our families and for the people of Darkmoor.”

Gaius was the first to his feet. “Aye,” he cried, bringing his mighty hand down onto the table.

The knights around him rose as one, brandishing their fists in the air and banging their swords. “Aye,” they shouted.

Otto knew a moment of relief before he was swept up into the throng of back-slapping and good-natured thumping. The flagon of cider was pressed into his hands, and he drank deeply.

“And now to business,” he roared, jumping onto a low wooden table to be seen above the fracas. “We have reason to believe that Lady Ariana is being held in Kenmar Castle. This war with Sir Leon has already taken too many lives, but we must protect what is ours. As the Countess of Darkmoor, Lady Ariana belongs here, with me. We must bring her home.”

“Aye,” cheered the men.

“Are you with me?” he bellowed, brandishing his sword above his head.

“Until the last,” proclaimed Gaius, to a rousing chorus of approval.

“Then let us make ready,” Otto ordered. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

The sun was still rising over the Caldon Hills when the knights mounted their horses in the outer courtyard and trotted over the drawbridge in a tidy formation behind Otto. They were followed by an army of a hundred men, with another fifty staying behind to guard the castle. Otto kept the pace steady, knowing they had some distance to travel and mayhap many challenges to overcome even when they reached their destination. But despite his trepidation over what lay ahead that day, he knew great peace of mind that he had at last spoken openly to his men.

As they progressed towards the river, a great heron flew overhead, flapping lazy wings and making stately progress through the clear blue sky. After so many days of rain, the change in weather was a good omen, boding well for their quest. The Sarragnac standard cracked in the brisk breeze and the horses stepped out smartly along the ploughed tracks. To their left, down in the valley, Otto could spy the rippling treetops of the ancient forests bordering Kenmar and Darkmoor. It was through those mighty oaks, he reasoned, that Ariana’s captors had smuggled their prisoner. Keeping her hidden, for the most part, until reaching Sir Leon’s cheerless fortress. He steered his men well clear of the woodland; they had no reason to hide and the winding paths within would only slow their journey.

At midday, they halted, dismounting from their horses and sating their hunger with bread and cheese. Otto saw that the horses were watered and allowed to crop at the lush green grass. The mood amongst the knights had grown more somber now they were so close to Sir Leon’s stronghold. A strong wind whistled around them, making conversation difficult. The men ate steadily, with quiet purpose, filling their bellies so they could reap the strength in the upcoming battle. Otto had posted lookouts ahead, but he still felt a sharp sense of unease and was unable to keep his gaze from the distant trees, fearful of archers’ arrows reaching them unawares. As soon as the horses were rested, he ordered his men back into the saddle and they resumed their march east.

Marching towards Ariana.

He remembered her cloud of hair; the way her lips would curl into an understanding smile. The softness of her curves and that instant spark of a connection between them. Why, he demanded of himself, had he left her at the mercy of their enemies for so long?

And not just at the mercy of Sir Leon, but mayhap Althalos, too.

It took all his inner steel not to urge his horse into a gallop.

After an hour of steady riding in strong sunlight, he beckoned Gaius forward and their two horses fell into step across the unprepossessing moors. The wind had died down, and flies buzzed around them from a stagnant, stinking pond somewhere nearby.

“What is your plan, my lord?” enquired the old knight.

“In truth, Gaius, my sole plan is to rescue the Lady Ariana and be gone from this grim place. I have oft wondered what beset Sir Leon’s ancestors to situate their stronghold in such inhospitable surroundings.” He nodded towards the bleak expanse of sparse moorland all around them. “Much as the desire for revenge boils in my veins, I have no great wish to spill more blood in battle with Kenmar. We have already lost too many men to this senseless fight.” Otto held his reins in one hand so he could swat away an insect, closing his mind to thoughts of young Benedict. “But nor can Sir Leon’s actions go unpunished. And I know not what will greet us over the next hill. We must be prepared.”

“Sir Leon’s ranks must be depleted after the battle at the gates,” Gaius observed, spurring on his horse who was spooking at an oddly shaped gorse bush.

“Aye,” Otto agreed. “And what caliber of man serves a master who kidnaps his own daughter?” He frowned as a hot rush of anger passed through him.

Gaius pursed his lips together, but wisely allowed a few beats to pass. “We await your orders, my lord. Mayhap one contingent should keep Sir Leon’s men busy while you search the keep for the countess?”

“’Tis not a bad idea,” admitted Otto, his mind racing. He opened his mouth to add more detail to the plan, but his attention was caught by the unmistakable thunder of approaching hooves. Glancing quickly over his shoulder to see that his men were attentive, he held up a hand to halt their progress. As one, the knights of Darkmoor reached for their swords, bodies tensed, eyes fixed on the track ahead. A growing cloud of dust announced approaching horses, but how many? “Stand ready,” commanded Otto, hearing rather than seeing his men shift into formation behind him.

Before them, the barren moors rose to a brief incline which impaired their vision. Otto could do nothing but wait with growing impatience to see what manner of threat was about to descend upon them. His horse snorted and shied to one side when over the hill came a powerful warhorse in full charge. The horse’s head was low, its eyes wide and distressed, its stirrups flapping freely. Behind it, galloped another two such riderless horses.

“Stand aside,” shouted Otto, hauling at his horse’s reins. With seconds to spare, the knights of Darkmoor cleared the path, and the three out-of-control battle chargers careered through their midst.

“Whoa,” breathed Gaius, reaching down to soothe his horse’s neck as she half-reared in protest.

“What are we to make of this?” Andreas de Montain twisted in his saddle to look after the departed horses.

Otto took a deep breath. The horses bore no colors or standards, but they were streaked with sweat as if they had been ridden hard all day. “I do not believe they are horses from Kenmar,” he said, putting voice to his fears.

“Some other army has arrived ahead of us then?” Gaius cocked an eyebrow at Otto, leaving his unvoiced question hanging in the air between them.

The army of Sir Althalos.

“Then there is no time to lose,” Otto declared, concern for Ariana twisting like a dagger in his gut. He swiveled in his saddle to rouse his men. “We ride into battle, as we have so many times before. You know your positions, gentlemen. On me.” Plunging his heels into his horse’s sides, Otto urged him into a gallop, crouching low over his neck as behind him, the Darkmoor battle horn sounded.

In a tight V-shape, with Otto at the head, the knights crested the hill and poured down upon the open plain leading to the craggy gray fortress of Kenmar.

The massive outer gates stood open. But Otto had no sooner acknowledged this, than his senses were assaulted by the sights and sounds of a battle recently ended. The stench of blood and death and the sounds of groaning men. He made out the purple colors of the house of Kenmar as his eyes swooped over the broken bodies scattered over the muddy ground. But among them he spied a couple of scarlet red outer tunics. His heart pounded hollowly in his chest as he recognized the yellow cross as the standard of his uncle.

“These men are sworn to Sir Althalos,” he warned in a harsh voice, pulling back on the reins to slow his horse as they passed, unchallenged, through the barbican and into the inner bailey. “Be on your guard.”

Castle Kenmar was apparently deserted, bar the injured and dying, but Otto held his sword aloft, ready for any surprises. Their horses picked their way through the detritus of battle and into the cobbled courtyard, where the granite keep rose from the weeds. He cast his eye up and down the squat tower, making out a series of shuttered windows in the bare stone. Could Ariana be within? A dreadful fear that he was already too late had clamped around him like a vice, but he would search every inch of this cursed place for the woman he loved.

Althalos had come here. Otto’s fist tightened on his sword. He would never forgive himself for allowing Althalos’s poison to infect his thoughts and actions against Ariana. But worse, he would never forgive his uncle for his treachery. Resolve tightened in his belly. The man would pay for what he had done.

A sudden movement to his left had him reining in his horse further. Young Tristan had dismounted at speed and now held the tip of his sword to the chest of a torn and bloodied figure who he had pulled from behind an abandoned barrel.

Otto shifted his position in the saddle as Tristan marched the trembling man out towards them. He staggered slightly and held tightly to his left arm, which was bleeding profusely. The man had a gray beard and wore the ragged clothes of a villager.

“Who are you?” Otto demanded, straightening up to his full height.

The man’s watery eyes flickered over the assembled knights, taking in their shining plate armor and powerful horses. “My name is Arthur,” he said weakly, his voice thick with pain and exhaustion. “I am but a farm worker, milord.”

“What has happened here?”

The man swallowed. “Soldiers came from the woods.” He gestured behind him. “Sir Leon said we all must fight. All who were able, save the women and children.”

“And where are the women and children now?” Otto demanded. Surely Ariana would be with them?

“Gone into hiding, down by the river.” The man staggered to one side and Tristan quickly removed his blade.

“Stand easy,” the young knight said, steadying the farm worker against him. “We will not harm an unarmed man.”

“Is everyone gone?” Otto asked. He spun around his horse so he could take in a full view of the bailey, where not so much as a chicken scratched among the weeds. The fortress was deserted.

Arthur nodded, slumped now against Tristan. His face had turned an unhealthy gray color.

Despair clutched icy tendrils around Otto’s heart. He was too late. Ariana would have already fled. Or worse. But he wouldn’t allow himself to go there.

“Secure the fortress,” he commanded Gaius. “I will take twenty men into the keep. We must search every room for the countess. But first, someone bind up this man’s arm.”

A knight hurried forward with a pot of salve and a roll of bandage pulled from a saddlebag well equipped with medical supplies. Otto sprung from his horse and unsheathed his sword, motioning to a group of nearby knights to follow him and putting one hand to his lips to show they must be quiet. Their enemies appeared to have already fled, but who knew what they would find within the fortified walls?

As one, they crept up the cracked front steps and through the wide oak doors which stood open as if waiting for them.

Was this a trap?

Otto paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior of the entrance hall, which was less than half the size of Darkmoor’s. Narrow stairs ran up to his left, beside an unlit fireplace and a wooden door shut fast. Otto motioned for one of his knights to try the door, braced all the time for attack. But the man returned within moments to whisper that the chamber was empty, and not a sound came from elsewhere. Still the hairs on the back of Otto’s neck raised high. A sour, cheerless air pervaded the keep, which stemmed not from the ravages of battle, more from years of quiet despair. He had always thought of Darkmoor being more a fortress than a home, but compared to this, he had grown up amidst cheer and light abounding.

How had Ariana’s courage and resolve sprung from such a bleak place?

Andreas de Montain lit one of the bracketed wall torches over their heads and crackling orange light flooded the stone-flagged hallway. Otto nodded his thanks and led his men further into the keep. But no sooner had he turned the next corner than he came to an abrupt halt, young Tristan walking straight into his back.

Otto held up a warning hand for silence as he struggled to process the scene before him. Here, the narrow corridor widened into a windowless antechamber, into which what looked like the main staircase led. But the design of the fortress held little interest for him; what had seized his attention was the fallen, bloodied figure sprawled across the smooth stones. The face was turned away, but the man was instantly recognizable thanks to the color of his hair and the richness of his clothing. Otto took a deep breath.

“Althalos is dead,” he announced to the men behind him, his voice reverberating off the rough walls.

He waited for a pall of grief, for despite everything, this man was his uncle, the last of his kin, but none came. He felt nothing. Not even relief. A small voice at the back of his mind bemoaned that he would never now take revenge on the man who had betrayed his trust and put his bride’s very life at risk, but Otto quietened it down. His was not the hand that had plunged the jeweled dagger into Althalos’s ribs, but someone had. That was enough.

Silently, his men fanned out around him, all quietly considering the dead man.

“He was a traitor to his family,” hissed young Tristan, earning himself a warning look from his brothers in arms. But Otto nodded his agreement.

“That he was.”

“Shall we move the body?” asked another.

Otto thought for a moment. “Aye. Do that. Take him out into the light where any of his remaining army may see him and know their battle is well and truly over.” Immediately his men shifted to do his bidding, one gripping Althalos by the ankles and another hauling up his shoulders.

“Shall we search down here?” Andreas nodded towards the darkening corridor.

“Aye,” Otto agreed again. “I shall go on up.” His eye followed the line of the staircase. “Listen for my shout.”

Before anyone could express their doubt in his solo quest, Otto strode forward, his heavy boots pounding against the stone beneath them. He made short work of the shadowy staircase, checking every chamber he came to with his sword held aloft, but finding no one within. Eventually, with a roar of frustration, he concluded he had searched to the very top of the keep. Ariana was not here. Nor was there anything to tell him where she might have spent the last weeks, or whether she even still lived.

No . He put a hand to his heart, silencing the thought. His wife still lived. He knew it deep inside.

Weary now, he allowed himself to sink down onto the low bed inside the final chamber. The bed creaked beneath his weight, but Otto hardly noticed. His eyes scanned the room, taking in a solitary wooden closet and a narrow window looking out onto the recent battleground. A footstool had been pulled beneath the window, as if someone had been on the look-out for approaching riders.

Otto’s mind leaped. Could Ariana have perched there? Mayhap looking out for his approach? Immediately he cursed himself for the idea, which only brought him pain. Why had he not ridden out to rescue her days earlier?

It was too late now. Perchance the approaching riders Ariana had seen were the knights of Sir Althalos, coming to attack her father’s depleted army. If so, she might have had time to escape.

Let it be so, he prayed, his hands fanning out over the rough woolen blankets. His fingers snagged on something sharp, and he looked closer, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw the familiar curves of his mother’s broach. The token he had presented to Ariana on that long-ago day in the morning room.

He picked it up, his thumb smoothing over the crisscrossed lines and the shining stone at the center. There was no doubting this was the same piece of jewelry. Had Ariana despaired of waiting for him and abandoned his token? His heart constricted at the thought, even as part of him understood the impulse. He had believed his uncle’s lies and forsaken her, after all.

“Ariana,” he whispered. The broach had been warm to his touch, as if she had just recently positioned it on the bed. Mayhap he had missed her by no more than minutes. If so, there was still time to find her. If she wanted to be found.

His fingers pulled at a piece of ribbon pinned to the broach, and he idly wondered what it was. Holding it up to the dim light of the window, he saw that it was purple, the color of Kenmar. The satin glowed in the faint sunlight and Otto’s lips twitched upwards. Had his clever wife left this as a sign for him? The houses of Kenmar and Darkmoor, forever entwined?

Was this but foolish fancy on his part? He pulled the ribbon out straight, noting how the broach had been deliberately pinned to the very center.

Nay, this was Ariana’s way of telling him she still believed in their union. There was still hope.

Otto leaped to his feet, conviction burning within him.

He would find his wife.