by Jane Feather
Ivor looked at Ariadne, who steadfastly stared at the wall ahead, and then he took up the quill and signed. He held it out to Ari, who ignored it, still staring at the wall.
“Sign,” her grandfather rasped.
And to Ivor’s relieved astonishment, she took the quill and carefully wrote her name in the assigned place.
“Good. That is done.” Lord Daunt took the parchment, wrote his own name below theirs, sanded the sheet, and folded it carefully, sealing it with candle wax and imprinting his own seal from his signet ring in the wax. He reached into his pocket and took out a silver box, which he slid across the table to Ivor. “Put this on her finger.”
Ivor opened the box. The ring was one single emerald, large and square, in a diamond setting. It seemed far too large for Ari’s small, delicate hand, but when he held out his hand for hers, half expecting her to refuse him, she put her hand in his without a tremor. Her face was expressionless, but there was something in her eyes that filled him with deep unease. He knew from experience that Ariadne picked the time of her fights and had on many occasions caught him off guard. He slipped the ring on her finger. It had been sized to fit, but the stone was far too large and extravagant a decoration for her delicacy.
“It doesn’t suit you,” Lord Daunt declared, “but it is the family betrothal ring, and therefore it is yours to wear.”
“Just as it doesn’t suit me to marry Ivor, but he is the family choice, therefore he is mine to wed,” she stated almost distantly.
Her grandfather’s eyes were lit with a momentary flash of anger, and then he said quite mildly, “I am glad you see the situation as it is, Ariadne. Your life will soon move outside this valley, yours and Ivor’s. It is time for our families to resume their rightful places at court. The times are changing. King Charles maintains that he follows the Protestant religion, but it is said in secret that he practices Catholicism. Be that as it may, he is old and failing, a life of debauchery finally taking its toll.” Contempt laced the old man’s words, and he moved a hand in a dismissive gesture of disgust, as if consigning his King to oblivion.
He continued briskly, “His brother, the Duke of York, who will inherit the crown, makes no secret of his Catholic faith. His wife is openly of our faith, and the time is now right for us to return to the world. You, Ivor, have been trained as a courtier. I have done what I can to educate you in the ways of the court. You will stand accused of no crime, no treason. You have led an unblemished life. This I have ensured. After your marriage, you will go to London with all pomp and ceremony, a wealthy young couple of noble estate, and you will take your place at court.”
He passed a hand across his eyes with sudden weariness. A gesture Ivor had never seen before, and he thought the old man looked worn out as his face was illuminated by a ray of sun through the open window. His skin seemed paper-thin, and the shadows beneath his eyes were black, the lines around his mouth deeply etched. Was he dying? Had he had a premonition? The thought for an instant terrified Ivor. It was impossible to imagine the valley without the old man.
And then Lord Daunt waved a hand towards the door. “That is all I have to say to you both. Prepare for your wedding, Ariadne. The women know what to do, and I’m sure by now your bridal gown and trousseau are already well on their way to completion.”
Ariadne said nothing. She curtsied stiffly and walked out of the house, ignoring Ivor hurrying behind her. Outside in the bright morning sunlight, she said only, “Go away, Ivor. I cannot bear to see you at the moment.” And she walked away to her own house, where she lived with her own female attendant.
And the next morning, the old man had been found dead in his bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if something had startled him.
Ivor became aware of ten pairs of eyes looking at him with puzzled curiosity, and he pushed the memories of that day aside. Someone had been speaking to him, and he had failed to respond. He coughed. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Obviously,” Rolf Daunt said drily. “And since the matter at hand concerns you most nearly, I would be grateful if we could have your undivided attention. I will ask again, is there any reason that you know of for Ariadne to be refusing this marriage?”
Ivor came fully to his senses, his mind snapping into focus. He shook his head. As far as he knew, only he, Ari, and her poet were aware of their attachment, so he could safely deny all knowledge of it. Since her grandfather’s death, Ariadne had kept to herself, saying little to anyone, and he assumed her withdrawal had been considered a natural manifestation of her grief. No one had remarked upon it, at least . . . not until her bombshell that morning, when she had announced to her uncle that she refused to marry Ivor.
“Grief for her grandfather might account for it,” Ivor suggested. “It’s possible she finds something distasteful about the idea of dancing at her wedding when her grandfather’s body is barely in the grave.” He looked around the table, feeling for the first time that he was taking his place in Council, that his opinion would now carry weight.
“That’s nonsense . . . it was Lord Daunt’s wish that in the event of his death, the wedding would take place seven days later. He made that clear in his final will. Honoring his wishes will be honoring him.”
“Maybe so, sir, but I think Ariadne is so grief-stricken that she cannot accept that.” Ivor wondered if he could use this newfound power to push for a postponement of the wedding and, if so, whether a delay would benefit Ari or himself. Would it give her time to accept the inevitable, or would it simply give her more time to agonize, to try to find a way out of it?
Short of turning her dagger upon herself, and that was not Ari’s way, she would not succeed in avoiding this marriage, so better to get on with it, he decided. He continued with a confidence he was far from feeling, “However, I am sure, sir, that when the time comes, Ariadne will honor her grandfather’s wishes.”
“She will have no choice in the matter,” Rolf declared. “And it is not right that she should be roaming the countryside at will and alone. You should have prevented her, Chalfont.” He gestured to a young man standing guard at the door. “You, Wilfred, take three men and go above, find Lady Ariadne, and bring her back immediately.”
Ivor said swiftly as the door closed behind Wilfred, “I will go myself, sir. There’s no need for a search party.”
“They will find her soon enough,” Rolf stated with a dismissive gesture. “And we have not finished our discussion. Once the wedding is over, we will begin preparations for your journey to London. There, as my predecessor intended, you will advance the family’s fortunes. With the right contacts, the right dispensations, we will leave this valley, and with the Daunt lands returned to us as the rightful owners, we will resume our place in the world.”
It was spoken with firm confidence, but Ivor couldn’t help wondering how easy it would be to get the world to forgive and forget the twenty-year reign of pillage and terror across the countryside. The Daunt lands had been broken up when the family had been driven into exile, and it was to be assumed their present owners would be reluctant to yield them up without a fight. But he merely murmured an assent, anxious to get out of the Council chamber and go in search of Ariadne. He could only pray that she was not with her poet if Wilfred and his friends found her before he did.
At last, Rolf signaled that the meeting was over, and Ivor hurried out into the afternoon. The steep cliff of the gorge threw the valley into shadow as the sun sank lower, and he cursed Ariadne. She should have known better than to have stayed away this long. He glanced up the cliff, just making out the narrow trail snaking to the top. There was no sign of the small figure picking her way down to the valley. Wilfred and his friends would have left on horseback by the main pass out of the gorge. They would have reached the cliff top five or ten minutes ago. It didn’t bear thinking of what would happen if they found her with Fawcett.
Did Ariadne really love her poet? It was a novel idea and arrested Ivor mid-step. For
a moment, he stood still, hands thrust deep into his britches’ pockets. Somehow he had assumed Ari was merely in the grip of a fleeting romantic fantasy. Most girls her age had them, or so he believed, and having lived all her life in the shelter of the valley, there would be something almost exotic about a man from the outside world. She would come to her senses soon enough. Or so he had believed.
But Ariadne was not like any of the valley women. She had been treated differently, of course; she was special, and everyone knew it. No young man from the valley would have dared approach her for a dalliance or even something more serious. Ivor was accustomed to thinking of Ari as belonging to him. She was his friend, his companion, destined to be his wife, and until this moment, he realized, he had never once wondered if she could be considered attractive or desirable in the ordinary sense of the words. It had seemed an irrelevant consideration.
But clearly, her poet found her so. Abruptly, he felt a wash of intense jealousy, so surprising it almost took his breath away. The thought that they were up there on the cliff top somewhere, playing at lovers, or whatever it was they did together, was suddenly intolerable. She belonged to him. How dared she renege on such a binding pact? It was her destiny, and she knew it. It was one thing to dally with a romantic fantasy before that destiny had been presented to her as immutable, quite another now that it was fixed in stone. Now this romantic dalliance became a personal slight.
He started for the stables to fetch his horse. It was his business and his alone to find her and bring her home.
Lord Daunt remained at the table in the Council house, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
Three of his brothers had also stayed behind, and the youngest of them inquired rather tentatively, “Is something the matter, Rolf?”
“I don’t trust Ariadne,” Rolf declared after a moment. “She’s always been impetuous and not inclined to obedience. Our father indulged her shamefully, and she thinks she can do what she likes. It’s time she realized things have changed, and she’ll do as I want, when I want.”
He took a deep draught of the ale in his tankard. “My informants tell me that if the Duke of Monmouth lands along this coast, the West Country will almost certainly rise in his support. If his rebellion succeeds and he takes the throne, then the Protestant faction in this part of the world will become all-powerful, and our position in this valley will be even more precarious. Up to now, we haven’t been troubled by London interference. My father believed it was because the King has Catholic leanings, whatever front he puts on for public show. But Monmouth is a fanatic, as bad as Cromwell in his heyday, and if he chooses to send the might of an army after us, we cannot with-stand such a force, however protected we seem to be in this stronghold. But if the Daunt name is reinstated in court favor, through this marriage of Ariadne and Ivor Chalfont, our Protestant connections will ensure we don’t invite persecution.”
“The King is not ailing, is he?” Hector Daunt asked. “Monmouth surely will not make a move while his father is still alive.”
Rolf shrugged. “True enough, but the King leads a life of dissipation, and it takes a toll. He could be struck down at any moment. It would take Monmouth several months at least to muster a decent invasion force, which is why we need to get Ariadne and Chalfont in position and established at court before the winter sets in. There is no time to indulge Ariadne’s whims.”
He reached for the jug to refill his tankard. “So I intend to force the issue. I need the three of you to go above and bring back this man.” He pushed a piece of paper across the table.
Hector read what was written and nodded. “I know where this is.” He pushed back his chair. “Come, gentlemen.” He left the Council chamber, followed by his two younger brothers, leaving the eldest contemplating the contents of his ale tankard with a half smile on his thin lips.
THREE
Ariadne wriggled her shoulders into a more comfortable place between the spreading roots of the copper beech beneath which she lay, Gabriel still sprawled across her, his eyes half-closed. The springy moss was soft as any mattress, and she was tempted to sleep herself after the last passionate moments, but she could see through the dappling leaves above her that the sun was well past its zenith. The temptation to stay here in the spinney as night fell, never to return to the valley, was for a moment almost impossible to resist, but she knew it was only a dream possibility. She had made up her mind. Gabriel’s safety must be ensured at all costs, even at the cost of her own happiness. She was responsible for his safety as she had been responsible for putting him in the danger in which he now stood. He knew the reputation of the Daunts, but he had no experience of the reality. Somehow his family had managed never to offend a Daunt and so had escaped the scourge of their vengeance . . . until now.
She stroked his back, murmured his name, and with a reluctant sigh, he moved himself sideways until he lay beside her, propped on his elbow.
“I love you, Ariadne.” He stroked a dark curling lock from her cheek.
She caught his hand, pressing it to her lips. “And I love you, Gabriel.” She moved his hand to her face, resting her cheek against his palm before slowly letting his hand fall.
Resolutely, she sat up, brushing her disheveled hair away from her face. “I must go, love. I must get back to the valley before sundown, before they set the guards for the night.” She rose to her feet in one graceful movement, shaking bits of moss and grass from her skirt. “It will be all right in the end, dearest.” She could hear the falseness in her voice even as she tried to smile, and her throat seemed to close with the rush of love and loss as she looked down at him, his long, lean frame stretched upon the moss, the hands that only a few minutes ago had touched her, held her, given her such joy. She could still feel his presence upon her, imprinted on her skin; her body still retained the memory of him, the hard length of him inside her.
Gabriel got to his feet and placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes filled with shadows. “Don’t try to pretend, Ari, there is nothing you can do to gainsay your family. No one has ever got the better of a Daunt.”
“You forget, my love, I am a Daunt.” And then the bravado left her. “No, what am I saying? We have to face the truth.” She touched her fingers to his lips, tracing them lightly. “You need to leave here for a while, Gabriel. Is there family you can visit in another county? Somewhere far from here, just for a few months until this is over?”
He looked blank for a moment. “Go away? Why should I go away, Ari?”
“Because if so much as a whisper of this reaches my uncles, you will die,” she stated. “They will spit you on the end of a sword, my dear, and I could not bear that. At least if I know you are alive and well, I can face what I must. Ivor and I are to go to London, to the court, once we are wed, and there . . .”
She tried to smile, but somehow her mouth wouldn’t move properly. She tried to sound strong for him, resolute, hopeful. “Maybe there we may meet again, and maybe, in all the bustle and whirl of such a large and busy place, we can find a place for ourselves. A secret place, just for us.” She continued to caress his mouth with a fingertip. “What do you think, Gabriel? London, we could get lost in London. It just means we must be apart for a few months.” This time, she managed a smile, but it was a tentative shadow of the genuine article.
His expression changed. “But you would be a married woman,” he said, a deep frown corrugating his brow.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But not in my heart. A forced marriage is not morally binding.” Ari realized she was desperately reaching for something, anything that would give them hope, would take the bleakness from Gabriel’s eyes. She took his hands in hers, holding them tightly. “In my heart, I will still belong to you, Gabriel. And no law of the land can set that aside.”
He shook his head. “I want you for my wife, Ari, not my mistress. I could not bear some hole-in-the-corner grubby liaison. I love you.”
Her voice faltered as she tried to explain. “I know, and I understand, but, m
y love, you do not understand what it means to be a Daunt. I am held, shackled by my family. I cannot escape them, at least not now, not without endangering both of us, but you first and foremost. Nothing is to be gained by that. This way, there is hope, hope for a future. Anything could happen in that future, but we have to be alive to have it.” Her words gained strength, pouring forth with passionate intensity as she fought to convince him once and for all of the inevitability of this plan.
“We will see each other again, be together again. But not here.” Suddenly, she could bear this inevitable leave-taking no longer. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his mouth, lingering for a moment, before stepping back. “Farewell, my love. For now. Go away from here as soon as you can, I beg you . . . promise me that.”
Gabriel’s head was spinning. One minute she had been in his arms, a passionate lover as hungry for his body as he had been for hers, and then she was saying goodbye, telling him it was over, that he must go away.
“Promise me,” she repeated urgently. “Go as far from here as you can.” And then she seemed to freeze, every muscle immobile, before she whispered, “Sweet heaven help us.” She looked wildly around the spinney. “They are coming.”
“Who?” He could hear nothing. And then the high-pitched, excited yap of a dog came through the still air.
“I knew if I stayed away too long, they’d come in search. They’ve brought the dogs, damn them, and they’ll have my scent.” Ariadne turned to him, her face white and set, her voice rushed and urgent. “Run, Gabriel. Back through the spinney. Walk through the stream. If they catch your scent in here, they will lose it in the water.” She pushed at him. “Go . . . I’ll head them off.” And without another word, she was running away from him, out of the spinney in the direction of the barking dogs.
