Chapter Two

O tto’s head whirred with emotion as he left Ariana’s bedchamber and stumbled past the sleeping guard. He was so caught up in his own confusion that he didn’t even pause to rebuke the man who had put drink before duty. But out in the courtyard, the cool night air helped to calm his thoughts.

What had he done?

If his men discovered that he had walked away from his virgin bride on their wedding night, he would be a laughingstock. If his father were still alive, he’d be furious. Lord Ulric would have expected Otto to claim Ariana of Kenmar as his own—as Darkmoor’s own.

Show no weakness, show no mercy. The words reverberated inside his mind like the banging of a drum. They formed the knights’ code; a code by which he had been raised. Strength in battle, power, and potency in peacetime. And all for the continued glory of Darkmoor.

Potency, pah! Otto kicked a loose stone that bounced right across the courtyard to the gatehouse. The only thing to be penetrated this night was his own personal armor. He’d looked down at the quaking young woman he had clasped between his two hands, and the courage in her unfaltering gaze had pierced him more sharply than any blade.

She had felt fear, he’d seen enough of it to recognize it, but she had stood tall and willed him to do his worst.

As she walked towards him at the altar, Otto had formed little impression of his bride, save for her height and forbearance. A giant of a man himself, he’d been gratified to note that his new wife was just a head shorter than he. But just now, in her bedchamber, he’d seen a flash of spirit in her eyes. A glint of steel, which intrigued him.

His intrigue was unnecessary. Their marriage was nothing more than the final stage of a drawn-out peace treaty between the neighboring lands of Darkmoor and Kenmar. A treaty which was generations overdue. If only his father had seen fit to negotiate with words rather than muscle and blade… no, he stopped himself thinking down lines which led only to pounding headaches, clenched fists, and a suffocating feeling of impotence. Lord Ulric’s death had been violent and unnecessary. But nothing Otto could do now would change that.

In those dark days, it had seemed prudent to agree to Sir Leon’s terms—terms which took him very much by surprise—and accept Ariana’s hand in marriage. A small sacrifice to save further blood from being spilled; further lives from being needlessly lost. A political alliance, not a love match. But Otto had never expected anything more. Love had no place in his life; no place in the powerful lands of Darkmoor either.

The castle guard stood sharply to attention as Otto passed by the gatehouse.

“Stand easy, Tom,” he spoke into the night air. As the new earl, he supposed he should adopt his father’s air of indifference towards the guards and servants. But Otto still considered himself a warrior first and foremost. A man among men. The equal of those who willingly followed him rather than the master who ruled over them.

“Aye, milord.”

“Is all quiet beyond?”

“It is. Nothing has stirred.”

Otto’s wooden pattens sounded noisily across the drawbridge in the stillness of the evening. He could breathe more easily once he reached the outer courtyard. Somewhere an owl hooted, and he paused, large hands on narrow hips, to look up at the vast night sky. The darkness was infinite, studded with tiny twinkling stars. A soft breeze brushed his cheek, like a caress which was long overdue. He had not known true affection for many years.

From an early age, Otto had learned that conquering neighboring lands to expand the Darkmoor estate was his life’s highest purpose. It was all Lord Ulric lived for and dreamed of. He had seen height, strength, and natural fighting ability in his only son, and ensured that young Otto developed into the mighty warrior he was today. The Feared One . The leader of the legendary knights of Darkmoor.

But with every passing year, Otto silently questioned his father’s vision more and more. This latest squabble with Kenmar should have been just that. Not a bloodbath that saw the ageing Lord Ulric cut down from his charger to die in his son’s arms.

“Otto?” The voice came out of the darkness, making him startle.

“Who goes there?” he challenged, one hand instantly reaching for his sword.

“’Tis only I. Your cousin Guy.”

Otto’s stance relaxed as his eyes made out the looming figure of the Earl of Rossfarne coming from the stable block, his broad shoulders and curling dark hair illuminated by a flickering torch attached to the granite wall. “What in heaven’s name are you doing out here at such an hour?” he demanded. But before the man could answer, he extended his arm and the two clasped each other’s forearms in time honored tradition. In addition to being kinsmen, Guy and Otto had been fast friends and allies since childhood, and the battle-scarred knight was one of very few men in whom Otto would declare full and complete trust.

“I could ask the same of you!” Guy declared, clapping him on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Is this not your wedding night?”

“Pray, do not go there,” Otto growled. “We do not all enjoy the same wedded bliss as you and your good wife.”

Guy held up a palm in a show of understanding. “I know that yours is not a love match. But I hope in time you may find some degree of happiness with Ariana of Kenmar.”

“I am not so ambitious as to seek happiness,” Otto declared, slapping at an insect which buzzed near his unshaven cheek.

“Come now. It is not so much to ask.” Guy folded his arms across his muscular chest, his eyes dancing in the torchlight.

Otto couldn’t help his heart softening at the sight. Not so long ago, the Earl of Rossfarne had been a broken man, both physically and emotionally. Now, he was not only back at full health, but he also boasted that rare thing, a happy hearth and home. A beautiful wife and a baby on the way.

“Aye, well,” he muttered cryptically. Though Guy had found love and contentment, Otto was not so na?ve as to believe these things were there for the taking. Not for men such as himself.

“I am glad to have seen you. I will make my way home at first light. That’s why I’m out here—checking my horse is fit and well, ready for the long journey east.” Guy inclined his head towards a half-open stable door, where a glossy chestnut mare pawed impatiently at the ground.

Otto nodded in understanding. Guy had served King Edward for many years and no matter how many servants he had in the stables, he could not rid himself of the habit of taking full responsibility for the horse that carried him into battle.

“You are not staying for tomorrow’s joust?”

Guy’s mouth twitched up at the corners. “Do you wish to see me clapping your victory from the stands?”

“My victory is not guaranteed,” Otto countered.

“I beg to differ.” Guy leaned back against the bailey wall and gazed up at the starry sky, his expression growing dreamy with nostalgia. “I like to remember our jousts when we were boys, and I had some chance of beating you.”

“That’s not how I remember it.” Otto schooled his face into a serious expression, but he could not hold it for long. Both men smiled at one another, lost for a moment in the safe memories of a childhood summer. “I trust your horses and your men have been treated well during your stay?” Otto knew a brief stab of remorse that he had not paid more attention to the wellbeing of his cousin, who had answered his plea for assistance within days of Lord Ulric’s death. The arrival of Guy, complete with a small guard of well-trained soldiers, had helped smooth the choppy waters between his father’s funeral and today’s hastily arranged marriage.

Guy inclined his head. “Well indeed. I fear I have grown too used to the luxuries of Darkmoor. My castle at Rossfarne will seem bleak and empty after these weeks of company. You keep a fine army, cousin. I have learned a lot from training with the knights of Darkmoor.”

“You are too kind.” Otto clapped him on the shoulder, conscious of how evenly matched they were in height and strength. “But do not pretend you haven’t been counting the days until you can return to your lovely wife.”

Guy laughed. “That I will not do. I have missed Kitty, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Otto stated, with genuine feeling. “Do not let me keep you out of doors on this night, especially with such a long ride ahead of you.”

“I’ll take my leave.” Guy paused for a moment. “But should you ever need my assistance, my friend, please send word right away.” His sharp gaze flickered over Otto’s face. “I see no need to fret over the fortunes of Darkmoor,” he added softly. “England’s greatest fortress is safely in the hands of our greatest warrior.”

“Get out of here, man, before you have me blushing like a maid,” Otto retorted, raising a hand in farewell as Guy picked his way back through the courtyard towards the keep.

A faint wicker from the stables told him that he had been spotted.

Otto felt a smile crack the rugged lines of his face as he smelled the sweet scent of hay and raised his palms to greet another old friend.

“Hello, girl,” he whispered, running a hand along the smooth, muscular neck of his favorite black mare.

His horse whickered again, nudging at his tunic and looking for treats.

“Here,” he opened the stable door and walked quickly inside, holding out a small apple on the palm of his hand.

She crunched up the apple, then dropped her head, allowing him to place one hand on either side of her face and look deeply into her wise brown eyes.

This was the horse who carried him unflinchingly in battle, who galloped straight as an arrow in jousting tournaments, who had been his companion since youth. She was the fastest horse in Darkmoor, probably the fastest in the North. But more importantly, she trusted him, had faith in him, even amidst the chaos of battle.

If only Otto could summon the same instinctive faith in himself.

Show no weakness, show no mercy.

“I begin to tire of this old dictate,” he admitted, in the privacy of the stable.

He was jolted from his thoughts by a discreet cough from beyond the wooden door.

Otto looked up sharply, one hand going again to his sword belt. “Who’s there?” he demanded for the second time.

A young stable boy stepped forward. “It is I, Matthew, milord. I heard a noise, so I came to check on your horse.”

Had he been eavesdropping? A spy of Otto’s enemies? For he had many, he was sure, both inside and outside the castle walls. A flash of anger flared in Otto’s chest and his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.

“How long have you stood there?”

“No time at all, milord.”

Otto breathed deeply, unable to quell his unease. His father’s brother, Althalos, was a powerful man with many loyal followers. He had come to Darkmoor upon Lord Ulric’s death and remained here still. Was Althalos plotting against him?

“I’m sorry, milord,” the boy continued, a tremble in his voice betraying his unease. He was barely more than a child.

Otto felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He had been named earl, heir to Lord Ulric, with Althalos putting up no objection. Would he allow such fear and suspicion to plague him forever? If so, then self-doubt would be his undoing, and faster than an enemy’s sword.

And his father’s tyrannical reputation with the servants would soon extend to him as well.

“Have no fear, Matthew,” Otto said, unclenching his hand. “Your keen ears do you credit.”

“Thank you,” Matthew breathed, his relief evident in the slope of his slender shoulders.

The stable boy disappeared into the shadows and Otto felt the lateness of the hour catch up with him. He’d been up since dawn, training with the knights, and the enforced ritual of his wedding to Ariana had been a further ordeal. The afternoon of drinking and feasting in celebration of a loveless marriage had not passed easily for him.

He could go to the village and seek comfort in the arms of willing women; forget his cares in the warmth of their tender flesh. He knew of many a door that would open to him. But since the battle of Branfeld, when Lord Ulric had lost his life—and later, when Otto had watched his own men take their revenge upon peaceful people—he had lost all appetite for such earthly pleasures.

Blood. Vengeance. Retribution. When would it end?

How many more unnecessary deaths must he witness?

So where could he take his ease? As a boy, Otto had spent many a night sleeping under the stars, enjoying the vast emptiness of the outside world after the close restrictions of stone walls and duty, but the Earl of Darkmoor could do no such thing.

With a reluctant sigh, he swiveled around and returned to the keep. To his own cold bedchamber, where the fire had been left unlit in the expectation of his absence. This was his wedding night, after all.

Otto felt the familiar weight of obligation settle on his shoulders. Tonight, he had shirked from his duty; tomorrow would have to be different.

*

“Victory shall be yours.” Sir Althalos clapped Otto on his armor-clad shoulder. “Be sure to make it so,” he added before turning away, his gray eyes cold and distant as they raked over the jousting arena in the shadow of Darkmoor Castle.

Otto bowed his head in deference to his uncle, even as his jaw tightened at this unwelcome reminder of his father’s unquenchable thirst for success. The desire to win, at any cost, ran thickly through the veins of the Sarragnac men. But despite his instinctive recoil, he knew that Althalos was correct. Defeat today was not an option.

If yesterday’s wedding had been a brief and hurried affair, this was a time for glory and feasting in Darkmoor. Red and gold crests fluttered gaily above hundreds of townsfolk who had crowded into the wooden stands, laughing and jeering before the jousting tournament had even begun. A smell of dust, ale and hot bodies hung in the air.

The yearly Joust of Darkmoor didn’t just draw an eager crowd of onlookers, it also attracted the finest knights in the North to try their luck against the undefeated champion, Otto Sarragnac. All around him, horses pawed at the hardened ground and servants ran back and forth as their masters prepared to prove themselves in the infamous arena, where men sought glory but all too often encountered injury and defeat. The fact that entrants would now be pitting themselves against the newly ordained Earl of Darkmoor added an extra frisson to this year’s event.

Robin handed Otto his highly polished helm. “Good luck, milord,” muttered the young page.

Otto gave a small nod of thanks, though he had no need of luck. Speed, strength, and skill were the required components for success in the jousting arena. He had an abundance of all three, and everyone here knew it. With his reputation whispered far and wide, Otto’s victory was all but sealed before his horse even set foot in the ring.

His eyes scanned the crowd, resting finally on the gracious figure of Ariana as she made her way to her seat of honor next to Althalos in the royal enclosure. He had not had the opportunity to speak to her this morn and was surprised by a brief stab of remorse. Had she known any kind words of welcome since waking in what must feel like a strange and unfamiliar place?

He shook the concern from his mind. Ariana would have to grow used to their ways. Neither warmth nor welcome were bywords in Darkmoor. Still, Otto’s brow darkened as he saw his uncle rake her over with his critical gaze. His bride was clad in a cloak of deep blue which clung to her generous curves. As she pulled back her hood to reveal her shining mane of glossy black hair, the crowd let out an appreciative murmur, but Althalos grimaced with disapproval. Clearly the new countess was attracting more attention than his father’s brother deemed appropriate.

Like his brother before him, Althalos only had time for war and warriors. Women were of little value to him, necessary only for childbearing and the relief of certain urges. Otto hoped that Ariana would find herself equal to the disdain radiating from her new kinsman. But as she straightened her back and folded her hands, her green eyes resting steadily on the empty arena, he once again glimpsed the steely resilience which had so intrigued him the night before.

Soft curves, glinting eyes, and a backbone of steel. Ariana of Kenmar was proving to be a more enticing bride than he had imagined.

Shaking off the brief distraction of an unanticipated tremble of desire, Otto gathered up his reins and sprang lightly into the saddle. His charger snorted and shifted beneath him, plate armor gleaming in the morning sunshine. Otto tightened his grip around the lance and urged the horse forward into the arena, into a wave of deafening cheers from the expectant crowd and the certain victory that was his to claim.

But Otto’s mind was not on his opponents, or the physical challenges he had yet to face. His head was full of Ariana, of her shimmering cloud of hair and her untouched skin which had shown through her cotton smock last night.

Ariana, whose own father had so carelessly handed her over to a sworn enemy. Who had arrived in Darkmoor alone and undefended. Who displayed equal might and bravery to any contender now circling the jousting arena.

He knew a jolt of electricity as his eyes met hers across the ring. Suddenly, the roaring of the crowd dimmed in his ears, and he grew oblivious to the side-stepping of his horse. All he could see was Ariana, with her steady gaze and unflinching demeanor.

His horse reared, and Otto came to his senses just in time. The starting flag went up and his charger surged forward, like the well-trained fighting machine she was. Otto balanced himself in the stirrups and thrust his lance into his opponent’s armor, splintering the wood and unhorsing Sir Ralph of Crawshaw with one powerful blow.

He removed his helm and held it high for his victory lap around the ring. The crowd went wild with approval, the familiar chant already echoing around the castle walls.

Otto, Otto, Otto.

But one glance towards the royal enclosure told Otto he had yet to impress the one person who suddenly mattered. Ariana’s face was as calm and watchful as his uncle’s.

She’ll make a daughter of Darkmoor yet , thought Otto, as he trotted out of the arena and back to the knights’ tents.

He accepted a small cup of ale and congratulations from the waiting physician.

“Thankfully I have no need of your skills or potions, Merek,” Otto said.

Merek inclined his head. “Not so your opponent. I’m afraid Sir Ralph has broken two ribs.”

Otto shrugged, not allowing any concern to show. “Every knight knows what he risks when he rides against me.”

Merek bowed low. “Indeed, my lord.”

Otto turned to Robin. “Who do I face next?”

“It is Lord Gawain’s youngest son. His name is Benedict.”

Otto spat out a mouthful of ale. “Isn’t he just a boy?”

Merek agreed. “He is nearing sixteen summers.”

Otto looked around the bustling field in search of Gawain’s yellow crest. He soon spotted the flag proudly hoisted above a small crowd nearby. Benedict was a head shorter than his attendant page. As Otto watched, the boy removed his helm and dropped to one knee for his father’s blessing.

Benedict had brown curls, which lifted in the wind.

He was too young for this, just as Lord Ulric had been too old.

Otto leaned an arm across his horse’s steaming flank and breathed deeply as the pain of loss and guilt crashed over him.

“Are you quite well, my lord?” Merek’s voice came as if from a great distance away.

A vision of his father’s face swam into view and Otto straightened up.

Get a hold of yourself, boy.

Althalos was watching. Nay, most of the North was watching. He knew he must fight. He must win. He must remain undefeated. For the glory of Darkmoor.

“It’s time, milord,” Robin said, nervously.

Without a word to his companions, Otto mounted his horse and re-entered the arena where the noise from the crowd had swelled to a constant undulating wave. Half a smile cracked his uncle’s frozen expression as he witnessed the victories of Darkmoor’s finest warriors. All of whom had been trained by Otto.

His horse wheeled around, and Otto reined her in.

“Easy girl,” he murmured.

She tossed her mane and snorted, ready to charge. Otto raised his lance.

Show no weakness. Show no mercy.

The man before him was a trained warrior, a challenger like any other. He must be overpowered.

Benedict, the boy who just two years ago had run races in the castle fields, flipped down his visor.

The flag went up. Otto urged his horse forward and focused on his target, but Benedict’s charger was fast and came upon them at surprising speed. Otto’s thrusting blow was sound, but not powerful enough for the clean, decisive victory he sought. Benedict was injured, bent low over his horse’s neck, but he was not unseated. They must ride again.

Perspiration beaded beneath Otto’s heavy helm and ran into his eyes as he cursed his own stupidity. He yanked at the reins, furious with the horse that had let him down. He could hear his uncle’s mocking voice in his head.

“So, not the fastest horse in Darkmoor today.”

Benedict steadied his lance. They were ready.

Otto rammed his spurs into the horse’s sides, making her rear with alarm, then bolt forward with a surge of energy, like lightning striking a tree. Otto readied himself for the blow, closing his ears to the roar of the crowd, seeing only his opponent and the point at which he must strike.

Benedict slumped to one side; his feet still tangled in the stirrups. His horse bolted and the boy was all but unseated, but at the last moment he regained his balance. The crowd gasped, and Otto cursed savagely under his breath, reining in his horse beside the royal enclosure.

“Let him retire,” came the call from the stands. A woman, most probably a mother herself, wrung her hands in alarm.

Otto flipped up his visor to see a blood-soaked Benedict struggling to remain in the saddle.

“Send for the stretcher bearers,” he ordered. His voice carried easily through the arena.

Althalos stood slowly, shaking his head. His natural air of authority made all around him fall silent. “The competitor is still mounted,” he declared. “The joust must continue.”

Otto’s chest tightened in anger. He was the earl. How dare Althalos question his judgement? But at the back of his mind, he knew the rules of the joust were clear. His uncle was correct.

For the second time, his head whirred with confusion. Under his father’s rule, Otto knew there would be no doubt. He would ride out once more against Benedict, even if the boy was killed in the process.

The crowd was growing restless. Some shouted out their agreement with Sir Althalos, others their disapproval. Otto’s heart pounded beneath his chain mail. This was his chance to assert his rule.

“The competitor is but a boy. One who may yet rise to become a knight of Darkmoor,” he stated firmly, raising his voice to be heard above the clamor from the stands. “But not if his back is broken here today.”

This time the chorus of approval was deafeningly loud. Otto beckoned for the stretcher-bearers to enter the arena and cantered out, dismounting as soon as they were safely out of sight. He removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow.

The horse’s flanks were flecked with blood from his spurs. Her mouth foamed and her eyes bulged with fear.

Behind him, Otto heard weeping as Benedict’s mother ran towards her fallen son.

Otto looked over to the ancient trees of Darkmoor Forest. They waved slightly in the breeze, peaceful and calm.

He laid a hand on his quivering horse.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed, silently.