Trapped at the Altar

“Home?” She increased her pace a little. “I don’t have my home anymore.”

He sighed. “It cannot be otherwise, Ari. And in my eyes, it is more your home now than mine. You are its mistress. Can you not accept that?”

“Oh, I can accept it perforce,” she said coldly. “And I suppose if you choose to spend most of your time over there . . .” She gestured across the bridge. “I suppose I will accept it even more readily.”

He stopped abruptly, putting a hand on her elbow. “What are you saying, Ari?”

She turned on him, her eyes glistening under the light of the torch overhead. “What am I saying? You know perfectly well what I am saying, Ivor. We part company, and immediately you go to the whorehouse. Did you enjoy your harlot? Did she satisfy your needs?”

He was suddenly very pale beneath the weather-beaten tan, his own eyes narrowed. “You have no right to question what I do, Ariadne.”

“Oh, really?” She lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “I must suffer because I did not come a virgin, pure as the driven snow, to your bed, and yet you have been with countless women, I am sure, and, judging by this afternoon, have every intention of being with countless more. Does that strike you as fair, Ivor? I fall in love with one man; you have no feelings whatsoever for the woman whose bed you share. An exchange of favors, money for her body. Don’t you think there is something just faintly hypocritical about that?” She heard the words pouring from her in an angry, fluent torrent and couldn’t seem to stop them.

“It is the way of the world, Ariadne,” he said coldly, her bitter words inciting his own. “There is nothing hypocritical about it. I have needs, and my wife cannot satisfy them at present; therefore, I use the outlet available to me. A man is entitled to expect his bride to be a virgin. You, however, lost your virginity through an act of fornication, and as a result could be carrying another man’s child. I am prepared to forgive your fornication, and once you are certain you are not with child, then we will begin married life as if none of this had ever happened.”

Ariadne stared at him under the light of the torch. How could Ivor, the person she had grown up with, loved as her friend, shared her troubles with, listened to his confidences, soothed his hurts, how could he prate such pious, sanctimonious claptrap? Her rational mind told her he was only responding to her attack, but her rational mind was not in control at this moment.

“Can you hear yourself?” she demanded. “Can you hear what hypocritical nonsense is coming out of your mouth? You and I have never subscribed to such societal nonsense. My so-called fornication was no betrayal of you or of any promises I had made to anyone. I neither need nor want your forgiveness. I suggest you keep it for yourself.” She swung his jacket from her shoulders and thrust it at him. “And I don’t need this, either.”

She stalked away, leaving Ivor clutching his jacket, watching her retreating back, and cursing his insensitivity. He had thought he should assert himself. It was what was expected of him, and yet all he’d done was make a pompous fool of himself. Anger and frustration had driven him to the whorehouse, and he had wanted Ariadne to know it. But now, looking through Ari’s eyes, he saw it as an act of childish spite.

They knew each other too damn well. He would never have behaved in such a way with someone he hadn’t grown up with, didn’t feel was almost a part of himself, another limb in some ways. A stranger or a mere acquaintance could not possibly hurt him the way Ariadne could. And, he realized belatedly, the same applied to her. No one could hurt her as he could. Not even her poet. The love affair between Gabriel and Ariadne wasn’t founded upon the depths of the years that formed the base of his own relationship with Ari. Her love affair with her poet could only be superficially threatening to him.

Ivor turned his steps to his cottage. Ari had been going in the opposite direction, but the cold would bring her in soon enough. And he would set a very different tone for this evening.

Tilly was putting knives and spoons on the table when he entered the cottage. “Oh, there you are, sir. Miss Ari didn’t find you, then?”

“I’m not sure she was looking for me, Tilly,” he said pleasantly, hanging his jacket on the wooden hook by the door. “Something smells wonderful.” He went to the stove and poked at the contents of the cauldron with a wooden spoon. “You found the venison?”

“Aye, sir. It was just ready for the pot.” Tilly put a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table.

“Yes, I thought it would be. I’ll catch trout tomorrow. They were rising well this evening. I should hook enough for a decent supper.” He licked the spoon before returning it to the cauldron. “I’ll wash at the pump.”

“There’s hot water there, sir, if you prefer.” Tilly gestured to a copper kettle. “I’ll fetch a basin if you’d like.”

“I can fetch it myself, Tilly.” Married life had something to recommend it, Ivor reflected, filling a basin with hot water and carrying it into the tiny scullery off the main room. As a bachelor, he had fended for himself domestically, when he didn’t join in the communal meals with the other single men in the refectory, and he’d generally washed at the end of the day, when he’d troubled to do so, with the other men at the village pump. He stripped off his sweaty shirt and splashed water on his chest, face, and neck.

“Here’s a clean shirt.” The soft voice behind him was Ari’s. She laid a fresh homespun shirt over the rough wooden rail on the scullery wall. Her expression was calm, her eyes containing none of the hostility of their last meeting, a mere half hour before. “Would you like mead, cider, or wine with your supper?” She opened a cupboard by the door that led to the outhouse in the small vegetable garden beyond.

“Which would you prefer?” He toweled himself dry roughly and pulled the shirt over his head.

“Tilly’s cooking generally warrants wine,” Ari said, taking a leather flagon from a shelf. “And with well-hung venison, a good, rich burgundy.” She uncorked the flask and inhaled deeply, then tilted it to her lips, tasting it. “This will do nicely. It was one of my grandfather’s favorites. He liked the fruits of the Burgundian routes when the smugglers came in.”

“I share his enthusiasm,” Ivor responded, combing his hair with his fingers. He wondered whether to refer to their quarrel or simply follow Ari’s lead. She seemed prepared to put acrimony aside, and an evening of harmony was appealing. In truth, he felt too exhausted to step onto the tournament ground again today. If she was willing to put up her lance, then he was equally so.

He followed her back to the living room. Tilly was filling bowls from the cauldron, and the rich, gamey aroma filled the room. Ivor took down two pewter goblets from the dresser and put them on the table, then used his knife to cut the bread while Ari filled the goblets.

“Tilly, you will join us?” he inquired pleasantly as he took his place at the table. He knew that Tilly frequently joined Ariadne at her evening meal.

“No . . . no, thank you, sir. I’ll eat with the other women.” Tilly unhooked her shawl from the peg by the door. “There’s a damson pie in the bread oven, and I’ll be back later to clear up the dishes.”

“There’s no need for that, Tilly,” Ari said swiftly. “I will see to it. There will be no need for you to return until the morning.”