"You'll find better provisioning here today, my Lady," he said as he closed the curtains on her. "We won't be stopping till nightfall, so make yourself free of it when you've a mind to refresh yourself."
She was still clutching the bread and cold meat; he had not even given her the chance to take or refuse the crude breakfast. In the gloom of the horse-litter, in the farther corner she made out a pale bundle among the furs and traveling rugs. As the mules started forward with a jerk, she pulled it toward her.
She wrestled the knots holding it shut with chilled fingers while the litter swayed and jounced between the two mules. The white cloth finally parted beneath her numb hands and fell open, and by touch and scent she recognized the vague shapes as cheese, apples, more bread, and a leather bottle, carefully stoppered shut. She levered the stopper out and sniffed cautiously; it held wine, rather than the herb tea or water that she would have preferred. She didn't think her aching head would be well-served by drinking it.
For that matter, her stomach wasn't particularly enamored of the greasy, half-burnt meat, the strong cheese, or the stale bread. As her head continued to pound, she huddled miserably into the furs and wondered what would become of her.
Slow tears slipped down her cheeks and dropped onto the fur. She choked down a sob, which lodged in her throat and remained there, a cold ball of ice that resisted swallowing. Never had she felt so alone, so helpless, and so deserted. How could her Papa have left her to this?
She jumped, holding in a gasp, as the sound of voices just behind her startled her.
"Have you seen anything?" That was Lord Lyon's booming voice, and she shrank instinctively away from the sound.
"Wolf sign, nothing more. No sign of Faerie—"
"Quiet, you fool!" Lord Lyon snapped. "Don't you know better than to speak of them out loud?" His horse snorted and the harness jingled. "You're sure you haven't seen anything?"
"Absolutely sure." The man laughed. "Not that they would come anywhere near this much iron and steel. Why are you so concerned? You've never fretted about meeting them on the road before."
"There are rumors—" Lord Lyon growled. "Rumors my young bride has had doings with them, and she's got a fey look about her to back those rumors. She's comely enough for them to want her, and I've heard they don't look kindly on those who make a claim on maidens they've taken an interest in. I'm not minded to risk the loss of so fine a manor and lands when I'm so close to taking possession of them, and I've no intention of finding myself in some magical battle just because one of them wants her back."
The other man laughed again. "Well, you'll have plenty of iron, steel, and holy men between you and their wiles once we're back at Lyon Castle. And besides all that protection, you'll have all of your men alert and standing between as well. Nothing will get in— or out."
"Meaning?" Lord Lyon asked a trifle suspiciously.
"Meaning that if they try to call her outside your protection—or she takes a notion to try to run—we'll be there to make certain she won't get far." The man's matter- of-fact tone sent cold threads of fear down Ariella's back. "Then it'll be up to you to make her see reason—or get her with child so she'll have other things to think of, and they'll lose interest in her."
Lord Lyon snorted, and Ariella shook at the thought that he might decide to anticipate the marriage vows, given that bit of advice. "That'll happen as soon as the blessing's pronounced," he replied arrogantly. Then, before she could overhear anything else, someone shouted up ahead and their horses trotted off.
Her head spun with disconnected images and fears, making her feel sick with anxiety. All she could do was cling with both hands to the edge of her cloak and weep silently into the darkness.
But by the time they stopped for the night, she had found a touch of courage somewhere. Perhaps it had come from that overheard conversation—for if Lord Lyon was afraid that her Faerie friends were following, well, perhaps they were! She made up her mind that she would try to escape and take her chances in the forest.
After all, I've nothing to fear from the animals!she reminded herself.Only from humans.
So when Lord Lyon lifted her out of the litter into the night-shrouded camp, she clutched the bundle of uneaten provisions to her. Those, she would certainly need!
Silent, she walked obediently behind him. Silent, she entered the tent. Silent still, crouching on her bed of furs and blankets, she waited for the noise and voices outside the tent walls to die out.
She was cold and stiff by the time the last voices died and the flickering firelight lending false warmth to the tent walls faded somewhat. Then, when everything was quiet and even the crackle of the fire had turned to the hiss of coals, she moved.
But she did not raise the flap in the front of the tent. Instead, working stealthily, she worked at the canvas at the back, until she pried up two of the stakes holding it to the cold ground, giving her enough of a gap to squeeze out.
She raised the canvas—pushed her bundle of provisions out and followed it on hands and knees—
And found herself nose-to-toe with a pair of large, black boots.
She looked up; looking down at her was one of the coldest pair of eyes in one of the stoniest faces she had ever seen.
The man said nothing; he only continued to stare down at her. Her mouth went dry as dust, and still he did not move. Finally, after a long, long time, she pulled her head back into the tent, leaving her bundle of food behind. After another minute or two, someone hammered the stakes she had pulled up back into the ground with heavy, angry blows.
She waited, sleepless, for the rest of the night, fearing punishment, anger, she knew not what. Dawn crawled into the camp, gray and dingy; the noise of men rousing began.
Then, finally, the tent-flap jerked open, seized by a rough hand, and Lord Lyon stood looking down at her. She started to shiver, teeth chattering in her fear.
He held out a leather tankard. She stared at it.
"I think," he said, in a false, warm voice, "That you are in need for your physik, my Lady." He thrust the tankard at her.
"Drink," he ordered in a suddenly changed voice, a voice that warned that if she did not drink, the brew would be poured down her unwilling throat.
With nerveless, shaking hands, half spilling the potion, she drank, and she recognized the bitter taste. Lord Lyon took back the empty tankard as she dropped it. A sudden dizziness overwhelmed her.
Then her eyes closed of themselves; she felt him lift her up and carry her, and she knew nothing more until nightfall.
She tried to refuse to drink again, but she was given no choice. After four dreadful days and nights, marked only by drugged haze, chill, sick fear, grief, and a growing desperation, she thought there would be no end to the horrible journey. Then on the fifth morning, she was not drugged—as the morning passed, then midday, the last of the drug wore off, and she regained her wits somewhat. Finally the mules stopped, and for the first time it was in the middle of the day. She remained huddled in the litter, afraid to look out, but gnawed with an anxious need to know what was happening.
The decision on what to do was taken out of her hands. That now-familiar leather gauntlet shoved the curtains aside, and Lord Lyon's voice rang out with hearty cheer that she knew now was all too false.
"Come out and look upon your new home, sweeting! We are here at last!"
He pulled her from the litter without giving her a chance to move her own stiff limbs, then set her down on the roadway with a smacking kiss on her forehead.
"There you are, my Lady!" he crowed, waving his hand with proprietary pride. "Lyon Castle! I'll wager you've never seen its like before!"
That much was certainly the truth. Her cozy and welcoming home was nothing like this.
Lyon Castle was as grim and imposing as the tall men that guarded it, a huge pile of stone and iron that loomed gray and cheerless against the overcast sky. Armed men patrolled the top of the crenellated wall surrounding it, and more armed men stood watch on t
op of towers at each corner of the walls. No welcoming lights gleamed at the windows, because there were no windows, only mere defensive slits in the thick rock walls. A formidable portcullis, just now drawn up, defended the entrance with fangs of blackened iron. It made the entrance look exactly like the open maw of a terrible monster. At her feet a moat full of dark, chill water encircled the castle and its grounds, with the drawbridge now down and extending from the road where she stood to the entrance. There was no crowd of welcomers standing on the other side of the bridge, only another pair of dour, armored guards in slate- gray surcoats, one on either side of the entranceway.
If her legs had been steadier, she would have turned and run at that moment. But her knees trembled and threatened to give way under her, and Lord Lyon's firm grip on her arm seemed impossible to dislodge. He marched cheerfully towards the fangs of his portcullis, drawing her with him, and his men marched behind, their spurs ringing with each step.
Once inside the entrance, she heard the portcullis groan as it was lowered into place behind her, chains clanking and clattering until it dropped into position with a final, echoing thud.
The entrance was a long, dark tunnel beneath the walls, lit by a pair of smoking torches. It ended in a bare little courtyard open to the ashen sky, at a huge wooden double door with massive iron hinges, half of which swung open as they approached. More guards waited inside, and Lord Lyon urged her onwards as she felt the walls closing in around her like a trap.
The entryway, dark and ill-lit by more torches, was nearly as cold as the road outside. Huge chairs of dark wood, elaborately carved and uncompromisingly uncomfortable, stood against the wall, which was not even softened by so much as a single tapestry. A staircase descended to this stone-walled entryway, and three women, the first Ariella had seen in four days, moved quietly down it towards them.
The woman in the lead was older than Ariella, though not as old as Lady Magda; sleek and sensual, black of hair and gray of eye, with a perfectly sculpted face that showed not a trace of emotion. Gowned in a velvet of deep blue, bound around with a silver-chain chatelaine belt, with a silver crucifix at her neck and a thin silver band binding her hair, Ariella knew she must be a woman of rank—or at least, importance. The two younger girls behind her, fresh-faced, brown-cheeked maids with brown hair, wearing simple chemises and woolen smocks, were clearly servants.
"Lady Katherine! I put my bride gratefully into your hands!" Lord Lyon called out without bothering to hide his relief. "Lady Katherine, this is the Lady Ariella, my distant cousin. Ariella, this is Lady Katherine, my chatelaine, and stepdaughter to my father's oldest and nearest ally, Count Andrew of Loderdale."
Neither of the names meant anything to Ariella. As Lord Lyon stalked off down a hallway, leaving Ariella standing there alone, Lady Katherine looked her up and down without losing a whit of her cool composure.
"Well," Lady Katherine said, her voice just as unemotional as her expression, "you must be chilled and weary, Ariella. Let me show you to your chamber."
That was the last thing that Ariella wanted, but it would do her no good to protest at this point. She simply let Lady Katherine lead the way back up the stairs, trailed by the two maids, who whispered to each other behind her back.
Drafts gusted up the staircase behind them, making the torches flare and smoke in their sconces, as they wound their way up and up the spiral stone stair until Ariella was afraid she would not be able to go another step. Then, just when she was ready to drop, Lady Katherine paused at a landing before a small wooden door and opened it without a word, leaving Ariella to follow her inside. A guard stood at that landing, a guard with the same cold, dead eyes as the one that had caught her trying to escape.
Ariella was afraid at this point that "her chamber" was going to be as cold and cheerless as every other place in this castle. But although the rooms beyond were stonewalled and stone-floored like the rest, here at least there was light and warmth, and some effort had been made to cut off the drafts and create some comfort.
Panels of thin-sliced horn covered the slit-windows, allowing some light to come in from outside. Instead of smoking torches, fine wax candles as thick as her wrist provided plenty of clear illumination. Tapestries covered the walls, and furs and rugs placed over a layer of rushes strewn with lavender softened and warmed the floors. A fine fire burned on the hearths in both the outer and inner rooms, and charcoal braziers added their warmth from each corner. The outer room was furnished with a desk, several chairs, and an embroidery frame; the inner held a canopied and curtained bed. Several chests waited in the inner room as well, one of them open, and Ariella caught a glimpse of a familiar dress trailing over the side.
"This will be your set of chambers, Ariella," the chatelaine said. "You won't be expected to share Lord Lyon's rooms, of course; he has men coming and going at all hours of the day and night, and you would be constantly disturbed. He will join you here, at the proper times." Lady Katherine kept her eyes hooded, but Ariella caught a flash of satisfaction when Ariella winced at the mention of Lord Lyon "joining" her. "The maids and I will finish unpacking your possessions and I have sent for some dinner for you. Why don't you warm yourself at the fire while you wait for it?"
Ariella mutely did as she was told, allowing one maid to take her cloak before dropping down into the chair nearest the fire. She knew that she looked much the worse for wear, rumpled and tired, pale and travel- stained, but she didn't care; she was just too exhausted. At least she was somewhere warm and no longer in that cursed horse-litter.
Food came and was presented to her; she ate part of it without tasting it. Lady Katherine sailed out with a tiny smile on her lips; one maid followed the chatelaine with the tray of half-eaten food, the other remained behind. She took Ariella into the inner room, and helped her out of her crumpled, dirty gown and into a night-dress warmed before the fire. The maid sat her down on a stool in front of the hearth, combed out and braided her hair and put her to bed, closing the curtains around her. Ariella heard her footsteps retreating, heard the door open and close, and she was finally alone.
But as tired as she was, she was not at all sleepy; she was too tense and unhappy for that. The warmth and food finally eased the ache in her head and the knot in her stomach, but nothing could help the pain in her heart or the feeling of helpless entrapment.
She clenched her hands together and tried to think of something she could do—there must be some way that she could escape from here!
The only way in or out of these two rooms was the stair—guarded at her door, with probably another guard at the bottom of the staircase. Then there were more guards at the front door, and at the portcullis. How could she ever get past them? Could I disguise myself somehow? Where would she get a disguise, though? This wasn't Swan Manor, where she knew every storage-place and every closet and had the keys to all of them. Lady Katherine was the one in charge here, and Ariella didn't think that Lady Katherine was going to prove to be any kind of an ally.
Could I make a disguise? That seemed a little more likely—she shouldn't have too much difficulty getting Lady Katherine to give her lengths of the common fabrics that the serving-maids wore. I could say I wanted to sew for the poor. I don't think that would make anyone suspicious. But making a disguise would take time and would have to be done in secret—it might be months before she had anything usable.
But it's going to take me months to find out where I am, and figure out where I can go if I do get away. . . . Taking sanctuary at a convent was possible, but risky; if the Sisters found out who and what she was, they'd probably turn her back over to her husband. She wanted to go home, but Lady Magda would be of no help. Dare she seek help from the serfs? Could she ask help of the Faerie? After all, she had been helping them—but would they dare the threat of Lord Lyon's iron swords?
Unprovisioned, she couldn't leave until spring or she'd die in the wilderness or along the road.
By then, what would have happened? She shuddered as she recal
led Lord Lyon's crude boast that he would have her with child as soon as the blessing had been pronounced. If she could get her hands on her simples, there were ways to prevent conception—she wasn't supposed to know them, but she did. But would Lord Lyon—or Lady Katherine—know those ways, too, and be guarding against them?
Women died in childbirth all the time. Her own mother had died in childbirth. Lord Lyon didn't need her, once he'd wed her and had a son . . . and Lady Katherine did not look like the kind of woman who was inclined to take second place to anyone.
I have to get away! If she'd been a bird, she'd have beaten her wings bloody against the bars of this, her cage. Her hands pulled at the neck of her bedgown as her throat tightened and it seemed harder to breathe.
It felt as if she had been lying in the stuffy darkness for hours, as if she would lie here forever. Then somehow she crossed from waking into sleep, into restless nightmares in which she tried endlessly to escape from a forest of trees that turned into iron-clad guards who shouted and grabbed at her as she passed them.
Then it was morning and one of the maidservants pulled the bed-curtains wide, startling her into wakefulness.
"You'll be wanting a bath, my Lady, after you break your fast," the maid said cheerfully. "My Lord Lyon will be entertaining his guests without you, so we'll have all day to ready you before your wedding tomorrow. We'll fit your gown to you and make sure you go to the altar shining like a star." She beamed at Ariella. "Lord Lyon is a fine figure of a man, and you will want to look your loveliest for him."
The River's Gift Page 5
