Trapped at the Altar

She dressed in her old riding clothes—time enough for the elegant outfits when they were out of familiar land and on the proper road to London—packed her cloak bag, tucking the vial under her shifts, and went downstairs.

Tilly was dressed for the journey in what seemed like several layers of petticoats beneath her red woolen gown, a matching woolen jerkin, and a sheepskin jacket. She looked as round as a baby robin. She turned from the range and set a pan of eggs on the table. “Best eat up quick, Miss Ari. Everyone’s ready to go.”

Ariadne wondered if she could stomach eggs when she still felt half-drugged with sleep. But Ivor came in, bringing a blast of cold, predawn air with him. “Eat, Ari. We won’t stop until noon . . . Tilly, give her a tankard of small beer. We’ve a long way to travel before we can rest.”

Ari, still standing at the table, picked up the platter. She regarded Ivor surreptitiously as he took up a tankard of small beer. He really was quite different this morning; indeed, it was difficult to imagine the lover of the night in this hard-lined figure, his expression calm yet determined, his movements purposeful. Everything about him spoke of a man in charge, and even his eyes had lost the soft warmth of the night.

She ate as much of the eggs as she could manage, drank half of the small beer, and said, “I’ll fetch my bag from above.”

“I’ll get it. Make use of the outhouse. It’ll be a while before you have anything but a bush for privacy.” Ivor set down his tankard and took the stairs two at a time.

Ariadne said nothing, going out of the door into the dawn chill. When she emerged from the privy she stood for a moment in the garden to cast one last glance around the cottage before going around to the front. Ivor stood there, holding Sphinx, who greeted her with a welcoming whinny. She stroked his neck and blew softly into his nostrils. He responded with a nuzzle and a little whicker of pleasure.

“Ah, so you’re on your way.”

Ari turned at the sound of her uncle’s harsh voice. He came up the lane, warmly wrapped in his cloak, his eyes a little bloodshot. “So it would seem, sir,” she replied. “I’m sorry we dragged you from your bed betimes.”

“I’m always up before cock crow,” he responded. “Just wanted to make sure everything’s in order. You have everything ready, Chalfont?”

He seemed to be ignoring her, Ariadne thought. She was merely a necessary adjunct to this family business, rather like the jewelry in the iron-bound casket, set firmly under a seat of the coach, her usefulness defined only by her husband.

If Ivor noticed Ari’s deliberate exclusion, he gave no sign. “I believe so, Lord Daunt.”

“Good. Then I will expect to hear from you by courier when you reach London. I wish you God’s speed.” Rolf turned away and walked back to the Council house without a backwards glance or a personal farewell for his niece.

“Well, that puts me in my place,” Ari observed, turning Sphinx towards the pass out of the valley.

Ivor grimaced. If he could have prevented that encounter, he would have done so. As it was, he had no power to change Rolf’s attitude towards his niece. But since Ari couldn’t stand the man, it didn’t really matter. He shrugged and nudged his horse to follow Sphinx. Soon the valley and its personal politics would be far behind them.

What lay ahead was another matter altogether.

? ? ?

The narrow cliffs of the defile seemed to close over them as the little procession passed through it, the top-heavy coach swaying, the extra team of horses tied behind. Four armed outriders, two ahead of the coach and one on each side, kept their eyes on the road ahead. Tilly was perched up on the box with the coachman, huddled in a thick woolen cloak. She had never been out of the valley before, and everything about her posture indicated her anxiety as everything she had ever known disappeared behind her. As they reached the end of the pass, the sun came up, a few streaks on the eastern sky, and by the time they had reached the flat land of the Levels, it was high in the sky, although offering little warmth on the autumn day.

Ariadne and Ivor were riding just ahead of the coach but behind the two outriders acting as scouts. Sphinx was restless, prancing a little, lifting his head impatiently, pulling at the reins. He could smell freedom, and he was clearly anxious to shake the fidgets from his long legs. Turk, Ivor’s huge black, was behaving similarly, and after a mile or so, Ari said, “Could we just give them their heads for a few miles? Let them run . . . I would dearly love a gallop.”

Ivor glanced sideways at her. He was holding Turk back with a firm hand, but he could feel the animal’s impatience in every sinew of the powerful muscled body beneath him. “Very well. But don’t tire Sphynx. He has a long way to go before sundown.” He put two fingers to his lips and whistled, and the outriders ahead drew rein on the narrow track.

Ivor rode up to them, Ari close behind. “We’re going to ride ahead for a while. The horses need to run,” he informed the outriders. “Keep close behind us. It should be safe enough here. There’s nowhere for an ambush to hide.”

Indeed, the flat swamp and marshland of the Levels stretched on either side, and the faint glimmer of the sea shone on the far horizon. There was barely a bush or a crop of saplings to break up the flatness.

“As you wish, Sir Ivor.” The men drew their horses to one side of the track so that Ari and Ivor could move ahead.

Ari nudged Sphinx’s flanks with her heels, and the horse leapt forward with a joyous toss of his head and set off down the track. Ari could hear Turk’s hooves pounding behind her and then beside her. His chest was more powerful than the smaller gelding’s, and soon he pulled ahead, galloping hell for leather down the track. Sphinx lengthened his stride, goaded by the race, and for a few miles they rode in a glorious gallop, the air whistling past their ears. Ari’s hood flew back as the wind whipped past, and her hair knotted on her nape came loose from its pins, to fall into two heavy braids down her back. An involuntary exultant cry broke from her lips at the sheer joy of the speed and the rushing wind, and she leaned lower on her horse’s neck, encouraging him to greater speed.

Ivor was ahead of her, but slowly he began to draw rein, easing Turk back into a canter, and reluctantly Ari did the same, so that when Sphinx came up with Ivor’s black, both horses were slowing to a trot and then gradually to a walk.

“That was glorious.” Ari tossed her plaits back over her shoulders. “I really didn’t want to stop.”

“Neither did I, but it was enough for the horses. They’ve a long way to go.”

Ari made no demur. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that they had left the coach far behind, and the two advance riders, their horses built for endurance rather than speed, were a long way back on the track. “There’s a stream over there.” She gestured with her whip. “Shall we water the horses while we wait for them to catch up?”

Ivor nodded and turned Turk aside to cross the green plain to where the stream bubbled, crystal clear, through the water meadow. Ari dismounted and led Sphinx to the low bank. Ivor let Turk drink his fill as he looked around. There was no sign of habitation. The risk of flooding on the Levels prevented it, although in the summer, the flat green plain was used for grazing, and crops grew strong in the well-irrigated soil. Now, though, by the beginning of autumn, once the harvest was in, the farmers retreated to the higher ground of the Polden Hills, and there was something rather bleak about the flat, deserted landscape.