Chapter Eight

“I give you my word, my lord, all was peaceful before Sir Althalos intervened.” Gaius swallowed the last mouthful of ale and carefully positioned his empty tanker on an upturned haybale.

The two men had retreated to the lofty haybarn to talk in private, Otto first making sure the stableboys would keep a distant look out. He didn’t fully trust anyone with this situation, and that included his father’s old friend. But he needed to hear both sides of the story, and the experienced knight had once been something of a mentor to him.

“Tell me what happened.” Otto sat back on a small wooden chair and folded his arms. The air was sweet with the smell of hay and a shaft of sunlight fell across his face. If he closed his eyes, he could remember simpler times, happier times. But the band of tension across his chest was too tight to be dispelled by nostalgia.

“We were training, as usual,” Gaius spoke quietly. “Nothing was amiss.” He shrugged. “Not that I could see anyway. My eyes though, are not as young as they used to be.”

“Your eyes are perfectly fine,” Otto said sharply. “It is your account of the morning that I want.”

Gaius inclined his graying head. He was a tall man, not yet shrunk with age, though his shoulders were not as broad as they had been in Otto’s youth. He could still wield a sword with venom, and Otto would not hesitate to ride out to battle alongside him.

“The young squires were jousting,” he continued. “Yesterday’s tournament was fresh in their minds. While two of them rode against each other, the rest stood near the tent to watch.”

“And?”

Gaius shrugged. “They must have grown rowdy. Said things they did not mean.” He avoided Otto’s gaze.

“Such as?” he prompted.

“When Sir Althalos arrived, he claimed that two of them were starting a rebellion against you.” Gaius delivered the news calmly. “He had his men strike them down and ordered them to leave the castle immediately. Said they were lucky not to be strung up as traitors.”

Otto’s fingers drummed against his thighs. “I oversaw their training personally,” he mused. “Until today.”

“They were loyal to Darkmoor,” Gaius spoke up. “At least, that is what we all thought.”

“Could Sir Althalos have been mistaken?” Otto asked the question which was at the forefront of his mind.

Gaius’s hesitation spoke volumes. “In truth, I was not standing close enough to hear what was said.”

“Was anyone?”

“None but the other young squires.”

Otto scuffed his boot against the wooden floor in frustration and dust motes flew around them. “Then it is their word against Sir Althalos’s. And none would dare speak against him.”

Gaius pursed his lips in agreement. “It is a sorry situation, my lord.”

The rhythmic sound of his horses chomping hay in the nearby stables helped to channel Otto’s thoughts.

“If there was a rebellion brewing, Sir Althalos did well to dispel it,” he said, watching Gaius closely for a reaction.

Gaius’s stillness proved he knew he was being observed. “Indeed, my lord.”

“But you do not believe it?”

The old knight looked at first surprised, then resigned. “All I know is that the men are unfailingly loyal to you.”

“All of them?” Otto demanded.

Gaius inclined his head.

“Come now, Gaius. You and I have marched alongside each other more times than I can count. No army is unfailingly loyal.” Otto fought an impulse to spring up from his chair.

The open window let in a stream of sunlight which fell on Gaius like a halo. He leaned towards Otto and spoke in a whisper.

“You are a great leader, and your army is well-fed.” He paused and fixed his eyes on the dusty floor. “There is but one thing that causes unrest amongst them.”

“And that is?”

Gaius took a deep breath. “The presence of Sir Althalos. His men take the best food, the comfiest beds, the choicest women. We all of us wonder, when will they be gone?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Otto felt a low rumble of laughter in his chest. “It is as easy as that? I ask Sir Althalos to leave, and harmony shall return to Darkmoor?”

Gaius looked hurt. “You asked for the situation as I see it.”

Otto raised his hand in apology. “Forgive me, my old friend. Since my father died, it seems there are twists and turns at every step of the road.”

“Lord Ulric was proud of the warrior you have become.” Gaius spoke with feeling.

Otto raised his eyebrows. “He made me the warrior I have become.”

“Darkmoor is safe in your hands,” Gaius continued. “I know this, and your men know this.”

Otto straightened his arm and clasped Gaius’s forearm. “Thank you for your honesty. And your loyalty.”

Gaius got to his feet and Otto followed suit. “You will have my loyalty until the day I die.” The knight made a smart bow and then turned to leave.

Otto watched his stately progress across the outer courtyard, then went in search of his young page.

“Robin,” he called when he spotted him sharpening swords in an adjacent barn. “Go and find Sir Althalos. Tell him to meet me in my solar.”

*

Otto did not plan what he would say to his uncle, confident that the necessary words would come to him. His intention, however, was clear.

First his impudence to Ariana. Now this.

Althalos would be gone from Darkmoor before nightfall.

Otto sat back in his ornately carved desk chair and let his head fall backwards. In truth, he was relieved to have been forced into action. His uncle had overplayed his hand, and now Otto had every reason to demand his departure.

As the day had progressed, the sunlight had moved over to a different side of the castle and now the solar was overshadowed and dull. The maids had already been in to light the candles and a fire crackled in the grate. Otto was impatient for the deed to be over with. Then he would be free to find his bride and finish what they had started down by the river.

Ariana, what a revelation she had been. In her embrace, he had been able to put aside his cares, losing himself in her sweet warmth.

The steady clip of approaching footsteps made Otto sit upright in his chair. This time Althalos knocked and waited for Otto’s response before walking into the room. His sharp face was expressionless, but he had changed into a smart dark tunic, laced with gold thread and overlaid with a plush, finely trimmed cloak. A statement of wealth, no doubt.

A statement which would soon make him uncomfortably warm, Otto reflected, deliberately motioning for Althalos to take a seat by the fire.

“You asked to see me, nephew?” Althalos inspected his clean, well-polished nails. His hands were small and pale. Those of a commander, not a warrior.

Otto saw little reason to prevaricate. “I take no pleasure in this. But I must ask you to leave Darkmoor, tonight.”

No surprise showed in the older man’s face. “May I enquire why?”

Otto took a steadying breath. It would not do to display his gathering temper. “It is simply time, Uncle. You first came here to honor your brother. And I was grateful for your assistance during those difficult weeks.”

Althalos opened his palms but said nothing.

Otto was forced to continue. “But I shall do well on my own now, thank you.”

He had said his piece. He was the Earl of Darkmoor. Althalos would have no choice but to acquiesce.

“I see.” His uncle plucked an invisible thread from the deep folds of his cloak. “So it is time for me and my men to return to my own estate.”

“That’s it.” Otto felt the beginnings of relief.

“Leaving you here, alone, with the army of Darkmoor.”

“An army which I have led for many a year.” Otto gripped the desk, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke from the fire and reminding himself to stay calm. “You know, Althalos, that my father handed that responsibility over to me long before he died.”

Althalos nodded slowly. “Ulric told me everything.” He lingered over the last word, but Otto would not give him the satisfaction of asking after his meaning.

“You are welcome to use the carriage,” he said instead.

“You are most kind.” Althalos did a poor job of hiding his smile. “But I shall not need it, not today.”

Damned impudence.

“Have I not made myself clear?” Otto’s voice came out with a growl.

“Perfectly, but you are not yet furnished with all the facts.” Althalos sighed. “Facts regarding loyalty.”

Otto recalled his conversation with Gaius. “I am the Earl of Darkmoor, and I command the loyalty of my people,”

Althalos inclined his head. “You are the Earl of Darkmoor, yes. And you command the loyalty of most of your people. But dissent is growing, Otto. And you have been distracted.” Althalos waved his hand in a contemptuous manner.

Otto felt his scar begin to itch. He clenched his fingers together and bade himself to show no signs of agitation. “At which point was I distracted, uncle? Was it when I won the joust? Or when we defeated the troops of Sir Leon in Kenmar?”

Something flickered behind Althalos’s eyes. “The outcome of the battle of Branfeld was not clear.”

“It was clear enough to me,” Otto replied shortly “My father died for it.” He wanted to bang his first down onto the desk, but contented himself with a hard, unwavering glare at the man he was beginning to think of as his enemy.

“Lord Ulric died before his time.” Althalos held Otto’s gaze. “His people were not ready for it.” His voice grew softer. “His son was not ready for it.”

A log flared and cracked in the fire. “I was born and raised to be earl,” Otto said, slowly and deliberately.

“And you will be a great one.” Althalos leaned forward, the heat from the flames seemingly not affecting him. “I will make sure of it.”

Otto ground his teeth together, resisting the urge to reach for the sword which hung at his hip. “Your assistance is no longer required in Darkmoor.”

“Only this morning I caught your own men plotting against you.” Sir Althalos raised his voice, his composure finally ruffled. “What would your father say?”

The question brought Otto up short. He knew what his father would say. Show no weakness; show no mercy.

If Althalos had caught the men plotting, as he claimed, then he had reacted the way Ulric would have wanted. Even a potential traitor must be banished from Darkmoor. Else their poison would spread like wildlife.

Unwittingly, Otto’s gaze flickered upwards to the frieze of Lord Ulric. What would his father have him do now?

Althalos shifted on the chair, seeming to come to a decision. “I understand you wish to be left alone, to rule Darkmoor as you see fit.” His voice had become accommodating, benevolent even. “You are newly married, Otto. And I remember what it is to be a young man. I have no wish to stay beyond my welcome. But long ago I made a promise to my brother. And it is one I intend to keep.”

The itch of his scar had settled into a burning ache. Otto rubbed at it absently, knowing he had to ask even though he didn’t want to. “What was this promise?”

“That if he died young, I would stay in Darkmoor until you had full command of your new position.”

Otto pushed himself forward over the polished desk. “What will convince you, uncle? Should I have my men swear an oath of allegiance?”

He had meant it as a dig, but Althalos seemed to consider his proposal. “That is most likely not necessary,” he eventually concluded.

Otto raised an eyebrow and stayed quiet, anger slowly giving way to weary irritation.

“Let us stay, just a few weeks more,” Althalos continued. “Allow me to satisfy myself that those two foolish squires did you no lasting harm, that no further rumors of rebellion are circulating. That way I will rest easy in my bed, knowing that you can rest easy in yours.”

Otto placed the palms of his hands together. This was not what he had wanted, but somehow Althalos had backed him into a corner.

“A few more weeks?” he clarified.

“Beltane is almost upon us. By midsummer’s eve, I shall be gone.” Althalos smiled. “And that, nephew, is a promise.”

When Sir Althalos had finally taken his leave, Otto poured himself a generous goblet of wine and downed it in one long gulp. As the last of the day’s light slipped from the sky, Otto sat and gazed at the portrait of his father, noting how the tempera colors seemed to glow even more luminous in the shadows.

His father’s rule had brought glory and prosperity to Darkmoor, that fact was indisputable. Thanks to Lord Ulric, their people had coin in their pockets and roofs over their heads. Their lands were fertile and well-farmed, their harvests bountiful. They lived in difficult times, but despite their proximity to the wild borderlands of Scotland, no raiding parties had successfully breached their defenses since Ulric was made earl. His policy of warfare worked, both as a deterrent to would-be attackers, and a means of accruing riches.

But this was just one part of the story. Otto twisted the silver goblet and squeezed his eyes shut to rid himself of the unwanted images playing on a reel inside his mind. Violence, shouting, the clash of steel on steel, injured men staggering towards their enemies, panting horses rearing in fear. He had seen it all a thousand times.

Must he endure it a thousand times more?

What about any sons he may have? Even grandsons?

Would Otto himself sacrifice his life in vain pursuit of land and coin? There was already wealth enough in the castle coffers to pay the wages upon which his people depended.

These were questions he had asked himself many times, and he doubted he would find the answer tonight. The conflict tearing through his soul had begun long before the ill-fated battle of Branfeld. His father’s counsel sat on one shoulder, like a wise owl, parroting the words of advice Otto had grown up hearing.

Suffer no fools.

Rule through fear.

Show no weakness; show no mercy.

Dictates that Sir Althalos would have him adhere to still.

But on his other shoulder sat a more peaceable mage. One who suggested a different path forward, a path paved with the flags of peace.

Peace.

The idea tugged at him, harder and harder to ignore.

Days earlier, on his way about the castle, Otto had passed by Traitor’s Gate and heard a faint singing coming from its forbidding walls. The haunting melody seemed to speak of forgiveness and healing, unlocking some bittersweet melancholy deep inside him. He had halted his horse and listened, as if under a spell.

Memories had assaulted him from the terrible moments immediately after the battle of Branfeld. Moments when, gripped by despair, he had ordered the capture and imprisonment of the druid healer who had kneeled by Ulric’s side as he passed. Caught up in his grief, he had considered her complicit in his death, as culpable as the man who swung the sword into his father’s ribs.

Sitting quietly, astride his horse, he had begun to question those convictions. The druids were a peaceful people. Was he guilty of meeting their compassion with battle-honed aggression?

Should I release the druid and redress this wrong? Inside the solar, his father’s portrait seemed to gimmer in a silent rebuke, telling him what he already knew. His men expected vengeance. Althalos would countenance nothing less. If Otto wished to tread a different path, he would find no support within Darkmoor.

And where else mattered?

He had two powerful allies in Guy, Earl of Rossfarne and Angus de Neville. These were boyhood friendships, lasting ever since they had trained together at the Lindum Academy. In more recent years, Otto had travelled solely at his father’s command. His life had been one of obedience to Lord Ulric; even quashing his youthful ambitions to serve under the King.

Instead, he had remained here, leading his father’s army. Gaining a reputation as the Feared One .

How could he make further allies and forge a path towards peace when his instincts were to trust no one?

Otto set the goblet spinning on the polished surface of the desk, hardly caring when the sticky residue spilled out.

There was one area in his life in which he enjoyed absolute clarity: Ariana.

He would leave these ruminations for another day and seek out the manifold pleasures of his bride’s company. Desire flickered through him at the memory of how her curvaceous body had responded to his touch. Ariana of Kenmar was proving to be a woman full of surprises.

He was beginning to feel fortunate to be her husband.

“Tonight,” he had suggested, down at the river. And she had readily agreed.

Seized with new energy, he walked hurriedly from the solar and strode through the corridors of the castle, acknowledging the servants and knights who paused in their tasks to stand aside for him. He bounded up the staircase with the enthusiasm of a boy, feeling the tensions of the afternoon fall from his shoulders as he reached her chamber door.

But before he could raise his hand to knock, the door swung open and Merek came out. The older man was startled by his presence and made a hurried bow.

“Forgive me, my lord, I did not see you there.”

“Forsooth, Merek, can those potions of yours not help you see through walls?” Otto spoke with irony and saw with satisfaction the glimmer of an answering smile on the physician’s face.

“Not quite.” Merek was holding a large bag which he twisted anxiously in his capable hands.

Otto was gripped by sudden alarm. “You have been summoned to see Ariana? Is she well?”

Merek nodded and held up a hand to allay his concerns. “She is quite well, I assure you. Merely tired and a little,” he hesitated, “overwrought.”

“Overwrought?” Otto raised an eyebrow.

Merek nodded slowly, closing the door fully behind him and stepping to the side. “It is only to be expected, my lord. A young woman. A new bride.” He inclined his head delicately. “Lady Ariana requested a sleeping draught.”

His words felled all Otto’s aspirations and he put a hand to the cool castle wall to steady himself. “So the lady wishes to sleep?”

Merek was wise to avoid the question. “Once she is well-rested, she will be better able to fulfil her duties to Darkmoor.”

“I certainly hope so,” Otto declared bluntly.

Merek made another bow. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I have another patient to attend to.”

“Yes, of course.” Otto cleared his path. “I thank you for your ministrations.”

Merek hurried away, his cloak swinging beside him, leaving Otto to gaze at the closed door like a lovesick squire.

He had been spurned by his bride.

The sting of rejection quickened his temper and Otto half raised his hand to knock and demand entry. But sense prevailed. He had been the one to tell Ariana to take all the time she needed. And that had been just yesterday.

His shoulders drooped and he rested his forehead on the unyielding oak of the door, weariness claiming his limbs. Were he not primed to always stay on high alert, he would have been inclined to call Merek back to administer a second sleeping draught.

He must stay true to his promise. They would move at a pace dictated by Ariana. Only when she was ready, would he bed his bride.

But she was ready , his mind raged. Down at the riverbank, she had wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Hadn’t she?

Distant footsteps jolted him from his reverie. The Earl of Darkmoor must not be caught sulking out here. Quickly, he covered the distance to his own bedchamber where he flung the door closed in frustration.

He had obviously misread Ariana’s signals. Inadvertently, had he pushed her too far that morning? Maybe even frightened her? Overwrought , Merek had said.

Otto had never pushed his advantage with a woman, and he didn’t intend to start with his innocent bride. He would keep his distance from Ariana. That was the only way.

And so the die was cast. He would stay away and let her come to him.

Otto pursed his lips as he surveyed his empty room. He may be sleeping alone for some time yet.