Trapped at the Altar

by Jane Feather

  Servants came in with jugs of wine and sack, trays of pasties and sweetmeats and tiny songbirds in aspic. The dogs howled at the smell of food, and Charles, with a languid wave of his hand, instructed, “Bring them bones, and make sure there’s much meat on them. They’ve been running hard since dawn.”

  The servants came back with thick, meaty, marrow-filled bones and, without expression, tossed them into the pack of circling dogs. The hounds fell on them, snapping and snarling in competition. The King smiled with benign satisfaction and patted Fubbs’s rounded bottom as he eased her off his knee. He bit deep into a meat pasty and followed it with a draught of sack.

  “His grace the Duke of York,” a footman announced from the double doors, bowing as the heir to the throne stepped into the room.

  James looked around the noisy room, at the greasy-mouthed courtiers, now hastily bowing, the rapidly emptying tankards, the pieces of flesh and bone scattered on the rich Turkey carpets, the snapping dogs. Louise was perched on the arm of the King’s chair, delicately gnawing the flesh of a tiny thrush, but she rose instantly to curtsy. A flicker of disdain touched the corners of the Duke’s mouth.

  Charles saw his brother’s expression and felt a familiar surge of irritation. His brother’s pious asceticism annoyed him. “Greetings, brother.” He spoke through a mouthful of pasty and took a deep gulp from his tankard. “We missed you at the hunt this morning.”

  “I was attending early mass in the chapel with my wife,” James responded with a dour smile. “I trust you enjoyed the chase, sir.”

  “Immensely . . . immensely.” Charles flung out a hand in an exuberant gesture and rose to his feet. “You wish private speech with me, brother?”

  The Duke of York merely bowed his assent, glancing pointedly once again at the crowd of sweat-rank huntsmen, the pack of slavering dogs. His gaze flicked across the King’s mistress, a woman he wouldn’t trust any farther than he could throw her. It was well-known that Louise had her own political purposes, not necessarily in her royal lover’s best interest.

  “Come to my privy chamber, James.” The King strode to a far door. “I bid you good day, gentlemen. Portsmouth, come to me in two hours.”

  The Duchess of Portsmouth curtsied and flicked the tiny bones onto a footman’s passing tray. With the King retired to his bedchamber, she had no reason to stay in the antechamber, and with a stately rustle of her rich damask skirts, she moved to the double doors. The courtiers bowed as she passed, and she inclined her head in acknowledgment. She was the King’s favorite, at present even surpassing her rival, Nell Gwyn, in his favors, although she was far too clever to imagine that Nell would ever fade from the picture. The actor’s hold over the King was far too strong. But Louise knew that she herself had much more power over the King than his Queen Consort, Catherine of Braganza, and she possessed a fortune to match. Her coffers were enriched not only by her lover’s generosity but also by gifts from her own king to whom she owed fealty. Louis XIV bought her loyalty, and she repaid him in kind, her spies and her own ears supplying vital pieces of information to the French court.

  It pleased her to know that her sharp intelligence and skillful manipulations were concealed from prying eyes by her outward appearance, the almost childlike innocence of her doll-like features and guileless blue eyes. Men did not watch their tongues around her; they had eyes only for her fashionably lush beauty.

  Charles stood with his back to the fire in his bedchamber, still gnawing on a mutton chop. “That’s good,” he informed his brother. “Can’t be doing with these mincing little birds Louise likes so much. Nelly loves ’em, too,” he added with a small smile. He enjoyed keeping his rival mistresses on their toes, and truth to tell, he had no idea which one he favored more. He loved Nelly’s ribald wit, her vulgar tongue, her lack of awe when in his presence, but Louise, now, there was a woman whose advice he could rely on. Louise had a brain, a very sharp one. She always had an opinion, and while he did not always agree with it, there was always merit in it.

  He licked his fingers, tossed the bone onto a table, and surveyed his brother. “So, what is it?”

  James clasped his hands behind his back. “I understand that you have celebrated mass in private several times, brother.”

  Charles frowned. “And just what little bird whispered that in your ear, James?”

  The Duke shook his head. “I cannot say, but Charles, if you celebrate in private, surely it is time to profess the true faith to your people?”

  “Don’t be a fool, James. The country’s up in arms about the issue as it is. They don’t trust you, they won’t stand for a return of Catholicism, and it’s difficult enough for me to insist on naming you, an affirmed Catholic with a Catholic wife, as my heir. That Protestant bastard of mine is a constant thorn in my side, demanding I acknowledge some nonexistent marriage contract with his mother. I would never have married Lucy Waters if my head had been on the block. I acknowledged him as my bastard, made him Duke of Monmouth, favored him in every way, and how does he thank me? By trying to assassinate me. And now there’s talk of his invading and inciting a rebellion in the West Country. If I publicly renounced the Protestant faith, Monmouth would be landing in the west and raising an army before I had time to confess my sins.”

  “Then you will die unshriven,” James stated. “Your immortal soul lost to the pits of hell.”

  “I’ll take my chance,” the King returned sharply. “I have one duty in this life, and that is to preserve the peace in this country. There’s been enough bloodshed. When the throne is yours, then stir up the devils if you wish, but it’ll not be laid to my hand.”

  The Duke bowed and took his leave without another word.

  Charles turned to stare down into the crackling logs, seeing fires of rebellion in their flames. He would keep those fires from the land for as long as he was able, but he feared that once he was laid to rest and his Catholic brother came to the throne, there would be no holding back the fierce Protestant revolt that would result. Nothing, unless James kept his faith secret and in public practiced Protestant worship. But James was a fanatic. Nevertheless, he was the one true heir to the throne on his brother’s death, and when all was said and done, in essence, it was not for the people of this country to choose their sovereign. That choice was God’s, and his brother of York was the rightful successor.

  The country was deeply divided now, the rich and influential families maneuvering for a position of safety when the schism happened. Sensible families were mingling Catholic and Protestant branches so that they could ally themselves with whichever faction came out on top of the bloodshed. Charles, for all his debauched and extravagant lifestyle, had spent too many years of his growing in poverty-stricken exile not to sympathize with those maneuverings, however cynically motivated.

  SEVEN

  Ariadne awoke to a strange silence and the bright sun of midday. She lay for a moment, warm and relaxed in the deep feather bed, gathering her bearings as the memory of the previous evening and night came back with full force. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked around the chamber. She was alone, as she’d guessed. The bolster that Ivor had put down on the bed was no longer in place, and she realized he had put it back against the headboard.

  It was the silence that she found unnerving. On any ordinary morning, the village would be alive with sounds as people went about their daily business, but there was now just an eerie silence. She listened for sounds from below, footsteps, a chair scraping along the floor, a poker riddling the coals in the range, but there was nothing. It felt alarmingly as if she were the only person left in the village.

  Which was, of course, ridiculous. She kicked aside the covers and got out of bed. Her eye was drawn instantly to the dried red stain on the sheet, and she grimaced at the memory of what she’d had to do. She’d seen enough knife cuts turn bad. Where was Ivor? The wound should be cleaned. She looked out of the window. The river flowed as peacefully as ever, but the street below was deserted, as was the
bridge. The mill wheel still turned, however, and she could see a group of children on the opposite riverbank, so she wasn’t inhabiting a ghost village after all.

  As she looked out, she saw a man come out of a cottage farther along the lane. He buried his head in the water butt and came up shaking off the cold water like a dog after a swim. The night’s drunken revelry had presumably taken its toll on the inhabitants of Daunt valley, Ari realized, stepping away from the window in case he should look up and see her standing there naked.

  Her nightgown still lay across the bottom of the bed, and she pulled it over her head, hearing the sound of the door open and close downstairs. Footsteps clattered on the stairs to the loft, and Tilly’s head preceded her arrival in the chamber.

  “Oh, you’re up and about, then, Miss Ari . . . Lady Chalfont, as I should say.” She gave a knowing little nod of her head.

  “There’s no need for that, Tilly,” Ari said brusquely. The idea that she now bore a different name was unsettling; it seemed to set in stone the fact of this marriage. She watched Tilly go to the bed, where the bloodstain seemed suddenly huge against the white sheet.

  The girl said nothing, however, merely stripped the sheet from the mattress and bundled it up. Then she looked at Ariadne with the same knowing smile. “Should I heat hot water for a bath, Miss Ari? It will ease any soreness.”

  Ariadne felt like the fraud she was, but the prospect was a very appealing one, and she said with enthusiasm, “If you would, Tilly. It would be most welcome.”

  “I’ll set it up below in front of the fire, miss.” She hastened to the stairs.

  “What are you doing with the sheet, Tilly?”

  Tilly said matter-of-factly, “I’m to show it to Lord Daunt, Miss Ari.”

  Ariadne merely nodded. Much good would it do him, she thought with a secret pleasure. He deserved to be deceived. “Do you know where Sir Ivor is, Tilly?”

  “No, miss, I thought to find him here with you.”

  “He’s an early riser,” Ari said carelessly. “I expect he’s riding out somewhere.”

  “Yes, that’ll be it, I’m sure. Help to clear his head, I expect.” Tilly disappeared down the stairs. “I’ll fetch the water,” she called. “And then I daresay you’ll be glad of a bite of breakfast. It’s past noon.” The door opened and closed behind her.

  Ariadne looked around the bedchamber. In all the chaos and emotional upheaval of the previous night, she hadn’t really taken in what was to be her new home. She opened the linen press and saw that her own clothes had found their way there. The small casket of her few pieces of jewelry was on the dresser, together with her brush and combs. She could see nothing belonging to Ivor in the chamber. Barefoot, she went downstairs. Ivor’s living room was as familiar to her as her own; she had been in it often enough. She saw now, though, that it contained another linen press, presumably for Ivor’s clothes. A pair of boots stood against the boot jack by the door, and his cloak hung on a peg on the wall. There was a faint, musky, masculine smell to the room, mingling with wood smoke and leather.

  Tilly struggled in with two heavy pails of water. She filled the copper cauldron hanging over the fire in the range. “I’ll go along home and fetch the bath, Miss Ari. I don’t reckon Sir Ivor has one. Can’t find it, at any rate.”

  “Oh, why don’t I go home and have my bath there?” Ari said, suddenly longing for the privacy of her own cottage.

  “You can’t do that, Miss Ari. It wouldn’t be right.” Tilly was aghast. “You live here now. What would people say?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Ari said drily. “What would they say?”

  “Well, they’d say summat was wrong, that’s for sure,” Tilly declared on her way out of the door, closing it with a decisive bang that signaled an end to the subject.

  Ariadne couldn’t help a small smile. There was a loaf of wheaten bread on the table and a crock of golden butter. She cut herself a slice, buttered it liberally, and ate it at the window, watching the village slowly waking up from its night of carousal. But where was Ivor?

  Tilly came back, lugging the copper hip bath. She set it in front of the fire and filled it with the now-steaming water from the cauldron. “I’ve brought soap. Not sure if Sir Ivor had any.” She took a piece of rough lye soap from her apron pocket. “I’m sure there’ll be towels in the dresser above.”

  Ariadne set the fire screen between the bath and the rest of the room. It would give her some privacy, at least. She pulled her nightgown over her head and stepped into the bath, sliding down until her head was resting against the curved back and her knees were drawn up to her chin. She scoured herself with the harsh soap, washing it off with the piece of flannel that Tilly passed her. The door opened just as she was dipping her shoulders beneath the water.

  “Good day to you, sir,” Tilly said, greeting Ivor with a bobbed curtsy. “Miss Ari is taking a bath, sir.”

  “So I see.”

  Ariadne tried to make herself disappear into the water, but, small though she was, the hip bath wouldn’t take all of her under the water. She heard Ivor’s booted feet on the wooden floor crossing the room to the screen. She couldn’t make a fuss, not in front of Tilly, who would assume nothing untoward about a man finding his wife bathing before the fire. And besides, she told herself, she had seen him naked last night. The memory of his long, lean, and powerful nakedness rose unbidden in her mind’s eye, and she was aware of a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach, as her hips shifted involuntarily beneath the water.

  His russet head appeared over the top of the screen, his black eyes suddenly sparkling with the mischief of the old Ivor. “Good day, mistress mine,” he murmured, his gaze running over her bare shoulders, the line of her arms covering her breasts, the curves of her up-drawn knees. “I trust you find the water refreshing?”

  “Very,” she returned, not looking at him. She would not let him put her out of countenance, any more than she already was. At least he couldn’t read her mind.

  “Would you like me to wash your back?” he inquired kindly.

  She ignored the question, keeping her eyes steadfastly fixed on some point in the middle distance. “Tilly, would you bring me some towels?”

  Ivor laughed and backed away from the screen as Tilly came around it with an armful of towels. Furious, Ari stood up, gathering towels against her dripping body in case he decided to pop his head over again. She was used to his teasing, but this was too much. Given everything that lay between them at the moment, he had no right to behave with the humorous camaraderie of their usual encounters . . . not that he’d ever invaded her modesty before, she amended. Not even in jest, so this was some kind of revenge, she supposed. Hastily, she pulled her nightgown back over her still-damp skin and stepped out from behind the screen.

  Ivor was leaning back in a chair at the table, his legs crossed at the ankle, grinning with a deviltry that she knew too well. In other circumstances, she would have fallen upon him in mock combat, but not now.

  “There’s bacon and fresh eggs in the pantry, Tilly,” Ivor said. “Would you be good enough to make us some breakfast?”

  “Aye, sir. And I’ll fry up a few potatoes in the bacon fat.” Tilly moved the fire screen away. “I’ll just see to the tub first.”

  “No, I’ll do that. It’s too heavy for you. You cook.” Ivor unfolded himself from his chair, hoisted the heavy, water-filled copper tub, and carried it outside, pouring the contents on the grass. He left the tub outside to dry in the sunshine. “So, did you sleep well, wife of mine?” He took a jug of mead from a cupboard and set it on the table. “You were out like a light when I left this morning.”

  The mischief seemed to have disappeared from his mood now, and there was an edge to his voice. “Where did you go?” she asked in neutral tones.

  “Hunting for pheasant. There’s a brace hanging in the shed. They’ll make a good stew when they’ve hung for a day or two.” He poured mead into two tankards and pushed one towards Ari.

 
; She took it with a nod of thanks, noticing that his arm was a little stiff, the bulge of the makeshift bandage pushing against his shirt sleeve. She glanced at Tilly, who was working at the range, her back to them. “Would you come up to the bedchamber for a moment?” she asked softly.

  He looked at his arm. “It’s fine.”

  “I’d like to see,” she insisted, soft but determined.

  He shrugged, rose from the table, and went ahead of her up to the bedchamber. He glanced at the sheetless bed. “Tilly’s done her work, I see.”

  Ari ignored this. “Roll up your sleeve.”

  He obliged, holding out his arm for her inspection. She unwrapped the red kerchief and lightly touched the small wound. She gave a sigh of relief. “It’s not red or hot; there’s no infection. We won’t need to consult Tilly. How does it feel?”

  “A bit stiff. Tie it up again, Ari.”

  “Have you a clean kerchief?”

  “In the bottom drawer of the dresser. Your belongings are in the top two.”

  She took out one of her own linen handkerchiefs. “This will be less bulky.” She tied it around the wound and examined her handiwork. “There, that’ll hold until tomorrow.”

  “Somehow I hadn’t realized you were a competent healer,” Ivor remarked, rolling down his shirt sleeve.

  “I’m not . . . I listen to Tilly, that’s all. I’ve never had to do anything myself before.” She stuffed the stained kerchief into the pocket of her nightgown. “I’ll wash this out later.”

  “Well, I remain impressed nevertheless.” He gestured to the stairs. “Will you go down, ma’am?”

  “You go. I think I’ll dress before we eat.”

  He raised an eyebrow, and a flicker of amusement crossed his countenance. “Don’t worry, I won’t insist on any aspect of my conjugal rights as yet, my dear. You may dress in private.”

  His tone was sardonic, and her temper, as so often, rose to meet his challenge. “You are too kind, sir,” she snapped.