Trapped at the Altar

She turned to look down the river to the cliff that rose at the end of the gorge. The river shrank to a thin stream, flowing beneath the cliff to widen once it emerged into the countryside beyond. There were caves beneath the cliff, and some years ago, she and Ivor had tried to explore them, an adventure that had not gone down well with the Daunt elders, she remembered with a grimace.

She was saying goodbye, Ari realized as she turned back to the village. Once she had left the valley, she would never return to it, and yet it seemed to be a part of her, to flow in her veins with her blood. She returned to Ivor’s cottage, wondering whether he would have returned home yet. He’d been in conference with the Council most of the day.

Ivor was not in the cottage, but Tilly was doing something in the scullery when Ari came in. The girl emerged with a small green glass vial in her hand. “Here you are, Miss Ari. You take a spoon of this each night.”

Ari took the vial and held it up to the light. She took out the oiled stopper and sniffed the contents. “It doesn’t smell very nice.”

“Don’t taste nice, neither, I reckon,” Tilly commented. “Ma only gave it to women who’d had too many babies already or if they were sick and couldn’t carry safely and their menfolk wouldn’t leave them alone. I never heard tell of using it just because . . .” She shook her head in patent disapproval and went back to the scullery.

Ari decided it was simpler not to discuss the morality of the precaution. “How does it work?”

“I don’t know, don’t think Ma knew, neither, but if you take it regular, you’ll not fall for a baby.” Tilly reappeared holding a plucked chicken. She threw it on the table and took up a heavy knife, beginning to eviscerate and joint the bird with deft efficiency. “I’ll cook this for supper, and what’s over will make a good pasty for the journey tomorrow,” she declared. “There’s already meat pies an’ a flitch of bacon to go with us. Enough provisions for a couple of days, at least.” She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “What we’ll do after, the Lord only knows.”

“No need to sound so gloomy, Tilly.” Ivor stamped his feet in the doorway to get rid of the dried mud on his boots. “There’ll be food aplenty, don’t you worry. We’ve enough money to buy the royal storehouse.”

“Really?” Surreptitiously, Ari slipped the vial into her apron pocket as she turned to the door with a ready smile. “Has Rolf disgorged some of the Daunt wealth?”

“Yes, and a chest full of jewelry. Most of it belonging to the family, but I suspect we don’t want to inquire too closely into the provenance of some of the other pieces.” He filled a tankard from the ale flagon. “The coach is almost loaded. The roof is so packed it’ll be a miracle if we can get through the pass.”

He went through to the scullery, and Ari heard him pouring water from the bucket into a bowl. She hurried up to the bedchamber and buried the green vial under her shifts in the dresser. She would take the spoonful when Ivor went to the privy before bed.

She felt rather melancholy during supper, and Ivor seemed distracted. Tilly disappeared to supper with the women as soon as she’d set the chicken and a pan of potatoes and carrots on the table. “I’ll be back here afore dawn, Miss Ari.”

“We’ll be up and about by then, Tilly,” Ivor responded, carving the bird. He served them both, filled a wine cup for Ari, and sat down. They ate for the most part in silence, but once or twice Ari felt Ivor’s eyes resting on her, a slight questioning look in his eye.

As soon as they had finished, Ari took the plates into the scullery. “I think I’ll get ready for bed,” she called. “As we have to be up so early tomorrow.”

Ivor came into the scullery, carrying their empty cups. “A wise move. I think I’ll go for a drink in the village . . . say my farewells. I won’t be above an hour.”

She nodded, scraping the plates vigorously into the chicken scraps. “Seems a bit cannibalistic to feed them chicken bits.”

“They’re scavengers; they eat anything.” He bent, and for a second she felt the brush of his lips against her neck. It was so fleeting she could almost have imagined it, except that she hadn’t. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he repeated, and she thought there was a touch of emphasis to the statement. The door closed behind him.

She touched her nape reflectively, almost expecting to feel some manifestation of the warm tingle that his fleeting lips had left behind—nothing, of course. She finished cleaning the dishes and went to the outhouse before taking a spoon up to the bedchamber, where she took out the vial and carefully measured a dose, swallowing it down in one gulp. Tilly was right; it tasted foul and smelled sulfurous, like rotting grass. She pushed the stopper back in and buried the vial under her shifts again. The contents of the dresser would go in the cloak bag that would contain her personal possessions for the journey.

She rinsed her mouth with salt to freshen it and get rid of the foul taste, undressed, and shook out her night shift. She was about to drop it over her head when she stopped. If she went to bed without her shift, Ivor would know the monthly bleeding had stopped and would act accordingly.

She could keep him from knowing for a couple of days yet, but that would mean this long-awaited consummation would have to take place in some probably filthy roadside hostelry. Surely better here, where the sheets were clean, the chamber familiar, their privacy assured. Once this first time was over, it would not be so awkward and difficult the next time.

The act had assumed monumental proportions in her mind. The long wait for the inevitable had created expectations of embarrassment and discomfort. Did Ivor feel the same way? Somehow she doubted it. Very little threw Ivor off stride. He would consummate his marriage in the same calm, efficient manner in which he did everything. It was impossible to imagine him fumbling and embarrassing them both. Which was somewhat reassuring. And at least she wasn’t a complete novice herself, which, in the circumstances, was a mixed blessing, she thought without humor.

She glanced out of the window towards the refectory from where the sounds of laughter and music drifted on the cool evening air. Of course, if he was getting drunk with his friends for one last time, he wouldn’t be able to manage the act anyway. But as she looked out, she saw his unmistakable figure emerge from the building. He stood for a moment on the threshold, looking around him, as if he was saying goodbye, just as she had done on the bridge that afternoon. Then he swung around and strode towards home, not a hint of instability in his step.

Ari discarded the shift, tossing it onto the end of the bed, blew out the candle, and climbed hastily into bed. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin and lay in the shadowy darkness, the flickering light from the village torches beyond the window making strange shapes on the sloping walls. She heard the door open and then close, the thud of the bar as Ivor dropped it across. She heard his footsteps recede and guessed he was going to the outhouse.

She waited.

? ? ?

Ivor made sure the chickens were safely shut away and returned to the scullery. He locked the back door and took off his boots and stockings so as not to wake Ari as he climbed upstairs. He entered the bedchamber, his eyes growing quickly accustomed to the dim, shadowy light. The white garment on the end of the bed told him all he needed to know. He stepped to Ari’s side of the bed and looked down at her. Her eyes were open, and she turned her head slightly on the pillow to look at him.