Trapped at the Altar

There was no neutral ground on which to build anything new. And Ivor had no idea how to go on from this point.





FIVE





It was long past midnight before the toasts and speeches of the wake began in good earnest, man after man rising to his feet with brimming tankard to extol the virtues of old Lord Daunt, to tell stories about his campaigns and his successes, about the raids he had led and the hand-to-hand battles he had fought in his youth.

Ariadne sat on a stool in a quiet corner, cradling her goblet of Rhenish, her discarded shoes pushed beneath the stool as she listened to the speakers. This was what the evening was supposed to be about, not some hole-in-the-corner hastily performed marriage. The priest had been bundled off under escort, well rewarded for his fearful experience, and Ari had been grateful that the attention had been so quickly diverted from her and back to the real purpose of the evening. She steered clear of Ivor, and he made no attempt to press himself upon her, dancing with the young girls and the established matrons as merrily as if everything was perfectly normal.

Just what was to happen when the evening finally drew to a close? she wondered. Would she and Ivor simply go to their separate cottages? There had been no time, surely, to prepare a bridal chamber. But she knew the marriage would have to be consummated. Rolf hadn’t gone to all the trouble of trapping her into the ceremony only to run the risk of annulment if she managed to get clear of the valley.

Someone was singing a melancholy ballad to the accompaniment of a solitary fiddle, and the room had fallen quiet, just the single voice and the single plaintive note of the instrument, and then other voices joined in, low and tuneful as they sang the old man to his last rest. And as the last notes died away, the mood changed again.

Rolf’s voice rose above the crowd. “Come, it’s time to put the bride to bed,” and a cheer went up to the smoky rafters.

Ariadne gasped. Dear God, she hadn’t expected this horror, not on top of everything else. But why on earth would she be spared it? she thought helplessly. She looked to Ivor, who had momentarily closed his eyes, his own expression filled with distaste. At least he hadn’t been a party to this planned barbarism, then. But there was nothing she could do to stop it. They would ignore her protests and would carry her forth as easily as if she were a sparrow chick fallen from its nest. Best to turn in on herself, a trick her mother had taught her long ago when bad things happened in the valley: ignore what was happening, ignore the ribaldry, and protect what she could of her self.

They descended upon her, a drunken group of large Daunt men, scooping her up, seating her on her uncle’s shoulder. He held her easily with a hand at her waist, and the entire party surged from the Council house into the torchlit night. Singing and chanting, a drum beating a barbaric rhythm that reminded her of some primitive blood sacrifice, which in many ways this was, the procession wound along the river path. Behind them came the young men surrounding Ivor, their bawdy sallies greeted with gales of drunken laughter. Lamps shone in the windows of Ivor’s cottage, and a small party of young women stood waiting for them outside the door.

Tilly was among them, which gave Ari a little comfort. Tilly could be quite fierce at times, and she might be able to protect her from the worst of the excesses of indignity that lay ahead. Presumably, all the preparations for this bedding had been made during the wake. She would have laid any odds that Tilly had known nothing of the surprise wedding when she had helped her dress for the evening.

Rolf swung Ariadne off his shoulder and tucked her under his arm before ducking beneath the lintel of the cottage, which downstairs was in every detail a copy of Ariadne’s own. He headed for the narrow wooden stairs at the rear, still carrying her, slung now over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He went up the stairs, the group of young women scampering behind him, the men crowding them as they struggled up to the loft bedchamber.

This was much more spacious than Ariadne’s. The eaves were high enough for a man to stand upright, and there was room for a four-poster bed, a carved chest at its foot, a dresser, and the linen press. The bed was hung with white muslin and strewn with lavender and dried rose petals. A three-branched candlestick stood on the sill of the round window, and the candles emitted a delicate scent.

Someone had had the sensitivity to turn this rough-hewn room into a true bridal chamber. Who would have given the order? Ari wondered. Not her uncle Rolf, that was for sure. He had set her on her feet now, and she was aware of the men crowding the top of the stairs, drinking and laughing, as the young women moved to help her undress.

There was nothing she could do but endure. The women gathered around her in a tight circle, shielding her as best they could from prying eyes, but as each garment was removed, the raucous ribaldry grew ever coarser, and Ari felt her skin grow hot with anger and embarrassment. “She’s such a tiny little thing, Ivor, you’d best be careful you don’t split her apart,” some inebriated young colt slurred, and the next moment, a hard thrust to his chest unbalanced him, sending him tumbling backwards, knocking into the men on the stairs behind him so that they all fell in an ungainly heap.

Ivor took three steps down the stairs. “Take your vile tongue out of my house . . . and the same goes for the rest of you. You’ve had your fun, now get out and leave me to my own business. You, too, my lord Daunt.” He had bounded up the stairs again and now confronted Rolf. “Enough is enough, sir. Leave Ariadne to her women now.”

Rolf looked momentarily confused, but there was something about Ivor’s determination that penetrated his drunken haze. “Oh, if you must spoil sport, Ivor . . . I suppose you’re overeager to get to your bride yourself. Come on, men, there’s many a bottle left to broach before dawn.” He stumbled to the stairs, and the rest of the elders followed him, casting darkling looks of disappointment at the groom, who held his place at the top of the stairs until he heard the front door close.

Ariadne stood in her chemise, looking at Ivor. “My thanks,” she said softly.

He shook his head and said coolly, “It doesn’t suit my pride to see my bride exposed to prying eyes. I’ll leave you to the women.” He went back downstairs. Ordinarily, the men would be waiting for him, to undress him and deliver him naked to the bridal bed, but his outburst seemed to have put an end to that little ritual, too. For which he could only be thankful.

He poured a goblet of brandy from the bottle he kept on the dresser and stood with his back to the range, waiting . . . waiting for the moment when he had to confront this travesty of a marriage head-on.

He heard low voices and footsteps above his head as the women moved around the bedchamber and then feet on the stairs. Tilly, her cheeks a little flushed, stopped on the bottom step and announced with portentous gravity, “Lady Ariadne is abed, sir. If you would be pleased to come up.”

“In a few minutes, Tilly. You and the women leave now. I have no further need of you this evening. You may come to attend Ar . . . my wife in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Tilly managed an ungainly curtsy on the narrow stairs and turned to scamper back up to the bedchamber. In a moment, she and the other women came down together, all looking remarkably solemn.

“You’re sure you won’t be needing me again tonight, sir?”

“Quite certain, Tilly. And thank you for your efforts with the bedchamber. You had little enough time to work such a miracle.” He took a small leather pouch from the mantel and handed it to her. “With my thanks, all of you.”