Trapped at the Altar

“You the lot wantin’ a bed for the night?”

“Beds and supper,” Ivor stated, drawing a leather purse from inside his coat. He was not about to waste time with the landlord. “I understand you can provide both.”

The man regarded Ivor, eyes suddenly narrowed. “T’other fellow said there was a coach an’ horses, an’ men.”

“They’re coming up behind,” Ivor said briskly. “I came ahead to make the necessary arrangements.” He opened the drawstring neck of the purse and took out a guinea. The gold flashed in the dimness. “You’ve a loft where my wife and myself can have a bed. We will need supper for the two of us. My men will take care of the horses and their own needs in the barn. I believe you can supply them with whatever’s necessary for their comfort and that of the horses, for the right price.” He rolled the guinea between his fingers.

The innkeeper’s eyes were riveted on the glittering coin. “For another one o’ them, sir, they can ’ave whatever they want.”

Ivor nodded. “And you can provide a decent meal for my wife and myself?”

“Aye. The wife’s a dab hand with a Cornish pasty, there’s a flitch of bacon an’ a couple of partridges ready hung. If that’ll do you.”

“Amply, I thank you.” Ivor placed the coin into the man’s outstretched hand. “I’ll pay the rest of the reckoning when we leave in the morning.” He glanced over his shoulder at sounds on the track. “And here, I believe, are the rest of our party.” He dismounted, turning to give a hand to Ariadne, but she was already on the ground, loosening Sphinx’s girth strap, looping the stirrups up onto the saddle.

At some point, that was another conversation they were going to have to have, Ivor reflected. But while they rode through the wilderness, it was probably best to leave Ari to be self-sufficient, as she knew so well how to be.

A woman appeared in the open doorway, her none-too-clean apron dusted with flour. She nodded at the new arrivals before saying, “Well, if you’re comin’ inside, best get on wi’ it. The rain’ll start soon enough.” It was a typical country welcome, not much of one at all. Folks in these hinterlands tended to keep themselves to themselves and look with suspicion at strangers.

“Thank you, mistress.” Ari took charge, moving past Ivor to greet the woman with a smile. “I’ll own we’re all very weary after a long day in the saddle.” She stepped past the landlady into a taproom, from which a rickety staircase rose in the far corner. It was not unlike her own cottage, except that the taproom floor was matted with clotted sawdust, and the air, reeking of ale and tobacco, was thick enough to coat a spoon. A long, stained slab of pine served as a bar counter, a wooden settle stood to one side of the fireplace, where a fire smoldered rather than blazed, and a few scattered stools provided the rest of the seating. Cheerless was the word, Ari thought, but at least it was shelter, and there was a strong sense of a storm brewing. The wind banged the open shutters against the outside walls.

“Tilly needs to be in here with us,” she said softly to Ivor, who had stepped in after her.

“Of course,” he agreed instantly. “Forgive me for not thinking of it earlier.” He turned to the woman, who stood now at the bar counter, wiping ineffectually at the stains with her apron. “My wife’s maid will need accommodation within, mistress. And she will sup with us.”

“Lor’, Miss Ari, ’tis beginning to rain.” Tilly’s voice came opportunely from the door to the taproom. She stood swathed in her many garments, looking around the room with some disfavor. “Looks like a proper storm is brewing.” She spied the landlady at her dusting and stepped in. “If you’ve the makings for a punch bowl, mistress, Sir Ivor and Miss Ari would be glad of it, I’m sure. Show me where to find it, and I’ll have it ready in no time. An’ if you’d like a bit of help with supper, I’d be glad to give a hand. ’Tis hard, I know, to have folk drop by when you’re not prepared for ’em.”

The landlady looked at Tilly closely and instantly recognized her for what she was, a West Country lass with the same broad Somerset dialect of her own speech. “I’ll not say no to a bit of help,” she said. “Kitchen’s this way.”

Tilly discarded her cloak over a stool and unfastened the sheepskin jacket. “Keep an eye on these, Miss Ari,” she instructed, dropping the jacket over the cloak. “Rob you blind soon as look at you, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“She may have a point,” Ivor said with a chuckle. “But at least in Tilly’s hands, we’ll have an edible supper.”

“Yes, let’s go and look at this loft.” Ari started for the stairs. She climbed up into a sleeping loft similar to her own. It was very sparsely furnished. A straw mattress on a rough bedstead and little else. “Where’s Tilly to sleep?”

Ivor came up behind her and looked around. “You and she take the bed. I’ll get some straw and bed down on the floor.”

Ari stared at him. “I don’t think that will be in the least satisfactory, husband.”

He shook his head, half laughing. “My dear, a night of unbridled passion in a wayside loft is hardly practicable.”

“Maybe not. But I intend to have it, nevertheless,” she said with the stubborn lift of her chin that he knew so well. “We will make a bed for Tilly downstairs on the settle in the taproom, near the fire. She will be perfectly content.”

“We’ll talk about that later.” Ivor unfastened his cloak and turned his attention to the fireplace, where a few bits of kindling lay on a bed of old embers. “Wonder when they last lit a fire in here.” He picked up the poker and stuck it up the chimney, rattling it against the sides. “Well, that’s something . . . no birds’ nests, at least.” He disappeared down the stairs, and Ari heard him giving brisk instructions.

She unfastened her own cloak and went to the small round window under the eaves. The sky was a purple-black color, and the trees were beginning to sway as the wind blew strong, gathering speed as it came from the distant sea across the flat plain of the Levels. There was no sign of moonrise and not a glimpse of the evening star.

She did want a night of lovemaking with her husband. The memories of the previous night were fading, and she needed to repaint them. Somehow she had to work through this confusing tangle of feelings. Why was it possible to feel such needful lust for one man when the memories of what she believed to be an eternal love and passion for another were still so bright? Perhaps last night had not been as wonderful as she remembered. Maybe her relief that the obstacle of consummation was overcome without any of the discomfort or downright repulsion that she had expected had colored the experience. But Ariadne didn’t think it was that . . . not in her heart of hearts.

Footsteps clattered on the stairs, and a young boy of about ten came in bearing a basket of wood on his back. “The gennelman says I’m to light the fire, mistress.”

“Thank you.” Ari pulled back the covers on the bed. The straw mattress was lumpy and probably jumping with fleas. She went to the staircase and called down for Tilly, who came to the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes, Miss Ari . . . punch is almost ready.”