Trapped at the Altar

“We brought some of that extra-thick coarse sheeting, didn’t we?”

“Oh, aye.” Tilly came up the stairs and examined the straw with a wrinkled nose. “Fleas and lice, too, I’ll be bound. The sheeting’s in one of the bags in the coach. I told ’em to pack it on top of the rest so we could get at it easily.” She retreated downstairs again.

“What on earth are you doing?” Ivor reappeared on the stairs. “The punch is ready.”

“But the bed isn’t,” she said succinctly. “Not unless you want to wake up covered in flea bites.”

“It’s a hazard of travel,” he observed. “What are you doing about it?”

“Tilly’s gone to fetch the sheeting. It’s thick and coarse enough to stop them getting through.” Smoke billowed into the chamber from the newly lit fire, and she coughed. “We could always smoke ’em out, I suppose.”

“Well, leave that to Tilly, and come down and drink your punch.”

Ariadne complied, eager to escape the still-billowing smoke. The outside door opened on a violent gust of wind as Tilly struggled in, her arms so full she could barely see over the top of her burden. Ivor leapt forward, yanking the door open as the girl fought her way into the taproom. “Lor’, that’s some storm a-brewin’. The horses are mighty restless.”

She set her burden on a stool and felt in her apron pocket, taking out a small muslin bag. “I’ll sprinkle this first, then we’ll put down the sheets, an’ then we’ll sprinkle some more. Should do the trick.” She was still talking as she went back upstairs.

Ivor was stirring a punch bowl over a trivet in the hearth. “What is she talking about?”

“Oh, a mixture, garlic, cloves, mint, basil, I think, and some other things no one else knows about that keep fleas away.” Ari came to sit on a stool by the fire. “Tilly has remedies for everything. Her mother was a renowned herbalist and taught Tilly all she knew.”

“Useful,” Ivor said, ladling the pungent, steaming liquid from the bowl into a tarnished pewter cup. “Try that.”

Ari took a sip, and the heady mixture of rum, brandy, hot water, and butter, with a liberal dash of nutmeg and cloves, seemed to invigorate her tired limbs. “Oh, that is good.” She listened to the rushing sound of the wind, the rattling of the shutters now closed against the battering. “Will they be all right in that barn?”

“It’s sturdy enough. Besides, they’ve all known worse weather,” Ivor responded, sipping from his own tankard.

Tilly came back downstairs for the sheets, and Ari rose to help her. “No need, Miss Ari.” Tilly waved her away.

“Nonsense. It’ll be quicker with the two of us.” Ari grabbed the pile and headed up to the loft. “I’m sure Tilly would be glad of a cup of that punch, Ivor, when we’re finished.”

Ignoring Tilly’s objections, she helped her sprinkle some of the herb mixture onto the straw and then smother the whole with the thick, coarse linen. More of the herb mixture went over the sheets, and then Tilly shook out the blankets and covers and threw them back onto the bed. Ari wondered whether she and Ivor would be sprouting sprigs of basil and mint in the morning, but at least they wouldn’t be covered in itchy lumps.

“You’ll sleep on the settle below, Tilly,” she said.

“Lord, Miss Ari, there’ll be men drinkin’ at the bar, like as not.”

“No, you’ll be quite undisturbed.” Ari laughed. “Sir Ivor has paid for the inn for the night, just for us. It won’t be open for anyone else . . . not,” she added, “that there’ll be many out in this storm looking for a pint of ale. Let’s see what we can do about supper.” She went down to the taproom and found it empty. Ivor’s cloak was no longer on the stool, so he must have gone out.

The punch bowl still sat on the trivet, and she refilled her own tankard and filled another for Tilly, who took it and drank it down in one long gulp. “Thank you, miss. I’ll go an’ help out with supper now. Her pastry looks light enough, but there’s no knowing what she’ll be doin’ with those pheasants.”

Ariadne sat down by the fire, stretching her booted feet to the andirons, listening to the roaring wind. However primitive their accommodations, they were a lot pleasanter than a night outdoors in the storm.

The door opened and slammed as Ivor came in, shaking water from his hat and cloak. “The horses are bedded down snug enough. Sphinx isn’t too happy, but he’s safe. The men have a keg of scrumpy, so they have no complaints.” He draped his wet cloak over a stool close to the fire, where it steamed gently. “By the way, the outhouse is foul, way at the back of the kitchen garden. If you’ve any sense you’ll use a chamber pot tonight.”

Ari grimaced but made no objection. Privacy was a lost cause on a journey such as this.

Their host came in from the back and set two crusted bottles on the bar counter. “These do ye? You said wine with your supper.”

Ivor took up one of the bottles and examined the color in the lamplight. “Let’s try it.” He poured a small quantity into a cup and sipped. “Good . . . very good,” he pronounced. “You’ve obviously got a good supplier, Master Danton.”

The landlord looked as pleased as he was capable of doing. “Aye, our band look after us well enough.”

The landlady, her cheeks flushed from the range, emerged from the kitchen with a tureen. “Cabbage soup,” she declared, setting it down on the counter. “That girl of yours is takin’ some out to the barn. I told her the wind’d knock her off her feet . . . took no notice.” Muttering, she fetched two bowls from a dresser beside the fireplace, thumped them onto the table with a pair of spoons, and returned to her domain.

“Tilly’s carrying a tureen of soup to the men?” Ivor asked in astonishment. “In this weather . . . what the hell’s the girl thinking of?”

“Other people who’ve been on the road as long as we have and are probably chilled to the bone,” Ari retorted, her tone a little tart. She took her bowl back to her stool by the fire. “She’ll probably eat with them herself.”

Ivor frowned but accepted the reproof. “The lad could have taken it, if she’d said.”

“You don’t know Tilly very well, do you?” Ari observed, sipping her soup hungrily. “This is very good, but of course, it has Tilly’s magic touch.”

“Indeed,” he agreed with a dry smile. “I shall go in search of bread.” He ventured into the kitchen regions and came back triumphant with a loaf of oat bread. He set it down on a stool between them.

It was Tilly who brought in a pheasant stew and a Cornish pasty. “Here you are, then. All’s well in the barn. Sphinx has settled now, Miss Ari, thought you’d like to know. The men are snug, but Jake wants to know if you want one of ’em to stand guard, Sir Ivor.”

Ivor considered. The wind howled, the rain beat against the shutters. No one in their right mind would stage an attack on a night like this. And in truth, he didn’t have the heart to instruct one of his exhausted retinue to stand watch throughout the night. Not in the light of Ari’s sharpness on the subject of Tilly and the welfare of his men.

“I’ll go out and see them when I’ve finished supper, Tilly. You eat yours now. Come to the fire.”