Trapped at the Altar

“Oh, we’ll learn,” he said, but he sounded a little doubtful. In truth, it was difficult to imagine Ariadne’s free spirit confined in a cage of courtly pretense.

“It might be easier for you,” she said thoughtfully. “You’ve already had to adapt to a different life.” They had talked in the past about what it had been like for Ivor, as a small boy, to be separated from his family and everything that was familiar to him, having to learn the ways of another life altogether. “I’ve never had to be anyone but myself.”

“I was only six,” he pointed out. “Hardly formed. Once I had learned to forget my mother, I learned to become a part of the valley very quickly. It will be as hard for me as for you to dissemble in London.”

They were talking now with all the old ease and familiarity, sharing their deepest thoughts, revealing their weaknesses, always in the utter certainty that their confidences would be kept. Abruptly, Ari reached her hand across the table, catching Ivor’s, twining her small, delicate fingers with his. He had long fingers but the rough nails and callused palms of a working man, one who sawed and chopped wood, wielded a sword, thatched roofs, and hammered nails.

“I could not bear to lose our friendship, Ivor,” she said softly. “We cannot let this marriage come between us.”

For a moment, he looked at her in disbelief, then threw back his head with a shout of laughter. “Oh, Ariadne, only you could say something like that. Marriages are supposed to be union  s, they symbolize a joining of minds and bodies, and you see ours as an instrument of division.” He clasped her hand tightly for a moment and leaned towards her. “I will not let this marriage divide us, Ari. Whether you do is entirely up to you.”

He released his grip and pushed back his chair. “I have work to do. And the women are waiting for you in your old cottage, which has been set up as a workshop. They are to furnish you with a wardrobe for the journey.” He unhooked his hunting knife from the wall and left the cottage.

Ariadne sat at the table, looking absently at her hand, which lay across the table, her fingers stretched as if still reaching for Ivor’s. Her hand felt cold. Slowly, she withdrew it, tucking it into her lap. Presumably, Rolf had told him of the daily plans for herself; her husband should have the ordering of her day, after all.

She pushed back her chair and stood up. She felt as if she were suffocating. Everything had happened too quickly, as if they feared that if she were given time, she would somehow escape her destiny. And they were right. If she could, she would. But for as long as she and Ivor remained in the valley, there would be no opportunity for more than the trivial acts of defiance she had always relied upon to give her a spurious sense of freedom. Well, she would indulge in one more such act today. The women with their measuring tapes and pins and bolts of material would wait in vain.

She went up to the bedchamber and changed her thin muslin gown for a homespun skirt and jacket, woolen stockings, and heavier shoes. She was going to climb the cliff, and flimsy sandals wouldn’t give her traction.

She let herself out of the cottage just as Tilly came back with her wooden pails. “Eh, Miss Ari? Where are you going? They’re waiting for you in the cottage yonder. I’ll be along myself as soon as I’ve washed the dishes and put fresh sheets on the bed.”

“I have other things to do, Tilly.” Ari brushed past her and walked swiftly behind the cottage. She crossed the small vegetable plot that formed every cottage’s back garden and threaded her way through the buildings to the steep cliff towering above the valley. The path was a thin white line, which began after a jumble of rocks at the base of the cliff.

She climbed over the rocks and onto the path, glancing once behind her. The village was still somnolent, only a few people appearing on the lanes, women mostly, filling water pails, collecting flour from the mill. The men were presumably treating the aching heads of dissolution, she thought, and then wondered why Ivor was not suffering similarly. He was as bright-eyed and energetic as ever. And he certainly hadn’t appeared the worse for anything last night, planning for the bridal chamber, knowing all the while that there was to be no bridal night. Planning for the public proof of her lost virginity, all as cold and clear-headed as if he had never taken a drink in his life.

She thought with a sense of shock that Ivor Chalfont, this husband of hers, was a man to be reckoned with. Not just her friend and confident childhood playmate but a man who made plans and executed them to the last detail.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t known that about him, she thought as she climbed, swiping perspiration from her brow with the back of a hand. It was just that she hadn’t seen the fact of it as it affected her own life and hadn’t really taken it seriously.

She looked up. For some reason, the cliff top seemed a lot farther away than usual, and the path steeper and more treacherous.





EIGHT





Below, Ivor stood on the wooden bridge, his hand shading his eyes, looking up at the cliff. Damn the woman. She was almost at the top. Why did Ari have to make things so much more difficult than they needed to be? Rolf would be furious that she hadn’t spent the morning with the dressmakers, and he himself would look like an inept husband who couldn’t control his wife.

And then that wave of jealous anger flooded him once again. She was going to her lover? There could be no other explanation.

Well, not this time.

He set off at a run through the village to the base of the path. He stepped around the rocks at the beginning of the path and started upwards. And after a few minutes, he stopped. What was to be gained by a confrontation with the poet? Ari wasn’t going to run off with him; she was too practical to do something so foolhardy. His quarrel was with Ari, not Gabriel Fawcett. He turned back and found a comfortable spot on the pile of rock. She would have to come back this way eventually. He would be waiting.

? ? ?

Ari reached the top and hauled herself up the last few steps to the grassy summit. She stood up, regaining her breath. Maybe, just maybe, Gabriel had left something for her under the stone. Some indication of where he was going, what he was going to do. He hadn’t had much time to make plans since their parting just yesterday afternoon, but it was possible he’d left her some communication.

Without a backwards glance down the path, she raced across the grassy meadow to the gray rock that seemed to jut out of the grass like a beacon. Kneeling, she lifted the stone. A folded piece of paper was tucked deep into the indentation. He had left her something.

Her fingers shook a little as she lifted it out and unfolded it. My dearest, I will follow you to the ends of the earth. Oh, my dearest Ari, I will hold your heart in my breast every second we are apart, and pray God we will be united once more. Look for me in London. Dear one, think kindly of me always.

Ariadne folded the sheet again and tucked it into her shirt to nestle in the cleft of her breast. Look for me in London.

He was going to follow her to the capital. Her heart lifted, but only for a moment. By leaving here, Gabriel would escape one danger, but in London, there would be many others. How could she possibly make sense of this marriage to Ivor when she was constantly afraid for Gabriel and constantly looking out for him to appear around every corner? What would Ivor do if he came face-to-face with the man he felt had cuckolded him? The man his wife still loved? It didn’t bear thinking of. Ivor was a warrior, Gabriel a misty-eyed poet. He would not stand a chance against Ivor’s strengths and skills. And she would be ultimately responsible.