Trapped at the Altar

Even so, the knowledge of the naked man at her back sent that little shudder rippling across her skin again.

Gingerly, she edged a foot outside the coverlet and slowly inched herself after it until she was standing beside the bed. Ivor grunted and flopped onto his back, then rolled onto his other side.

Ari breathed a sigh of relief. She crept to the dresser, took out what she needed, and tiptoed down to the living room. The embers glowed in the range, but it was still too early for Tilly to come and rekindle the flame. Ari took up the poker, riddled the embers until a little flame appeared, then tossed in kindling followed by carefully placed logs. She filled a kettle with water and set it on the range as the fire took.

She let herself out to the privy. The grass was rimed with frost for the first time since the beginning of last spring, and she shivered in the dawn chill. The privy was as inhospitable as ever, and she hurried back across the crisped grass into the warmth of the house.

She washed, threw out the dirty water onto the vegetable plot, and went to release the chickens from the coop Ivor had built for them, on stilts to protect them from the overnight predation of foxes. The rooster emerged first, strutting and crowing loudly as his hens came squawking down the ramp, chattering away at Ari and to one another in their oddly conversational fashion.

They always made Ari laugh, and she went inside for the pail of scraps Tilly would have set by the scullery door for their breakfast. She threw the scraps, and they began pecking and picking and chattering busily, and Ari hurried back into the warmth. The range was burning brightly now, and the sun coming up above the cliff top was slowly banishing the long shadows the cliff cast across the valley.

She was stirring a pot of oats on the range when Ivor came down the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder. He was dressed once more in shirt and britches, but she couldn’t banish the remembered feel of his nakedness against her, the warmth of his hand on her turned hip, and to her embarrassment, she felt her cheeks warm. She concentrated on stirring the pot, praying that he had no recollection of the night, of his naked body in such intimate contact with her own.

“You’re up early,” he said in his normal voice. “Are you feeling better?”

His casual tone reassured her, and she responded in kind. “Yes, much, thank you. Would you like some porridge?” She gave him a quizzical look. “It’s very good for settling the belly in the morning after a night’s drinking, I’m told.”

“Is it, indeed?” he answered drily. “Well, my mouth tastes like a cesspit, and my head’s thick as a blanket, so if porridge does anything for that, I’ll take some gladly.” He sat down at the table, stretching his legs. His feet were bare, and he wriggled his toes, staring at them with the curiosity of one who had never seen his own feet before.

They were very long feet, high arched, with long toes and squared-off nails. Ari wondered why she’d never noticed Ivor’s feet properly before; she’d seen him shoeless often enough.

Gabriel had small, neat feet that matched his thin, compact frame. The thought came unbidden, and confusion swamped her anew. She must not think of Gabriel. Not if she was going to survive this emotional maelstrom that threatened to drown her. She had to accept that he was gone from her now. She had to learn to forget him, to think of him as dead to her in every practical aspect. Only thus could she manage to live the life she had been given. She would never see him in London. And even if she did see him? What on earth could she do about it?

A faint whiff of burning came from the pot, and she whisked it off the fire, setting it on the side.

“They look normal enough to me,” she observed, pouring a tankard of mead and putting it on the table beside Ivor.

“What do?”

“Your feet. You seem rather struck by them this morning.”

Ivor shook his head as if to dispel cobwebs. “Sweet heaven, no wonder I don’t drink deeply very often.”

“You’re in the minority,” Ari observed, ladling creamy porridge into a bowl. She put the bowl on the table, made a hole in the center with the back of a spoon, and poured golden honey into the middle. Then she stirred the whole and gave him the bowl. “My grandfather taught me to do that. It makes ordinary porridge taste quite extraordinary. Try it.”

Ivor took a spoonful of the rich, sweet oats and inclined his head in acknowledgment. “A revelation. Where’s yours?”

“Coming,” she responded, bringing her own bowl to the table. “I thought you’d sleep till noon.”

“I’m never able to sleep much beyond dawn.” He took a draught of mead, feeling the honeyed brew begin to clear his head. “What are your plans for the day?”

Ari grimaced. “More time with the seamstresses. Just a few bits and bobs to finish up.”

“You’ll be ready soon, then?”

“By hook or by crook.” She finished her porridge and set down her spoon. “I can’t wait to get out of here, Ivor.”

“We will, and if there are still things that need to be done for your wardrobe, then surely Tilly can take care of them while we’re traveling. She’ll have idle time enough.”

“I’ll have idle time enough for what, sir?” Tilly stood in the door. Neither of them had heard it open.

“Oh, to finish any buttons and bows on my traveling wardrobe, my dear,” Ari said.

“Sooner I shake the dust of this place from my feet, the happier I’ll be, even if it has to be London and them murdering thieves on every corner,” Tilly muttered. “Everyone’s out o’ sorts around here these days, since old Lord Daunt died.” She took the empty porridge pot off the stove and bore it into the scullery for scrubbing.

“Well, at least we’ll have one enthusiastic companion on the journey,” Ivor remarked, getting up from the table. “I have to see Lord Daunt.” He headed for the stairs to get his boots.

Ari stayed at the table for a moment, considering. Nothing had been said of the matter that concerned them most nearly, but perhaps Ivor was waiting until they could actually do something about it. She gathered up the porridge bowls and took them into the scullery. How would it be when it was all over? When they’d consummated this marriage of someone else’s convenience? Would Ivor insist on his conjugal rights every night? Or would he be as happy as she that the deed was done and they could manage to live again simply as friends, when they could resume their old ease and companionship, the friendly teasing, slip back into the old ways as they had done during the last hour at the breakfast table?

He could take a mistress or simply visit bawdy houses when the need arose . . . but no. She knew herself well enough to know that she would not be able to endure that. Her pride would not let her.





ELEVEN





Rolf stood with his back to the fire in the Council house, his morning tankard of ale in one hand, the other resting on his hip as he regarded Ivor Chalfont. “I have documents for you to carry to court. They were drawn up by my father.” He summoned a servant with a flick of his hand. “Bring me the casket.”

The man bowed and disappeared into a back room, returning bearing an oak casket, iron-bound with a heavy padlock. He set it solemnly on the table and stepped back.

Rolf took a key from his inner pocket and unlocked the padlock, lifting the lid. He took out a scroll of parchment. “This you are to present to his majesty, King Charles.” He handed it to Ivor.