Trapped at the Altar

Even now, in the cool, shuttered dimness of the Council house, he could feel again the heat of the late-summer sun on the back of his neck in the armorer’s yard as he’d bent over the sword he was sharpening that morning of the summons that had explained it all. Ariadne had been sitting on a saw horse, idly swinging her bare legs, watching him at work as she’d whittled a stick with her own dagger, a piece of perfectly chased silver that he’d never seen her without. As the voices around him droned on, his mind drifted to that morning . . .

“You two, you’re both wanted in the Council house.”

Ariadne regarded the newly arrived youth with an arrogantly raised eyebrow. “By whom, child?”

The young man blushed furiously at her tone. He was perhaps a year or so younger than Ari, but womenfolk did not speak with such derision to the men in Daunt valley. However, Lord Daunt’s granddaughter was different, and he knew better than to challenge her. “His lordship has sent for you both,” he responded sullenly.

“Ah, then, in that case, we’d better find out what he wants.” Ari slipped her dagger into the leather sheath at the waistband of her skirt, hidden by the close-fitting woolen jerkin she wore over her shirt. Ivor set aside his sword in the rack where personal swords were kept when their owners were going about their daily business in the valley. Tempers could run high in the valley, and less blood was drawn when men were unarmed. Ari and her little dagger were considered of no consequence, although privately, Ivor thought she could do a great deal of damage with her dainty little knife if provoked. He had seen her bring down a fleeing hare in one throw.

He held out his hand to her as they walked towards the large brick house where Lord Daunt lived and where the Council met. It was on the outskirts of the village, close to the water mill that ground the village’s flour. Ari took his hand, and they walked companionably side by side. It was only a friendly contact. Ivor was under no illusions, although a watcher could have construed otherwise. But Ariadne’s heart was a long way from her childhood companion, as Ivor knew only too well. As far as he was aware, he was the only person in on her secret, but that couldn’t last if she persisted in pursuing her poet. At some point soon, Ari was going to have to face the reality. She was not destined to be the wife of an ordinary Somerset citizen, however wealthy and well-bred he might be.

The watchman at the door of the Council house nodded as they approached and opened the door for them. Lord Daunt was sitting in his carved chair at the head of the table, and Ivor felt Ariadne stiffen as she slipped her hand from his. This was a formal summons, not the casual visit her grandfather often initiated.

She curtsied and stepped up to the table. “Sir, you wanted to see us.”

“Yes, Ariadne. It’s time we settled a few matters.” He regarded her closely, his gray eyes intent, as if he would read her mind, before he turned the same scrutiny on her companion. “Ivor.” He beckoned him closer. “The time has come for your betrothal to my granddaughter. The wedding will take place next month, or sooner should anything happen to me prematurely.” A slightly cynical smile curved his thin mouth. “As we know, in this life of ours, such premature events are all too frequent. In such an instance, it will take place seven days after my death.” He turned sharply to his granddaughter. “Did you say something, Ariadne?”

Ari’s face was white, her own gray eyes suddenly huge against the pallor. But her voice when she spoke was strong. “I . . . I do not wish for this betrothal, sir.”

“And since when, my child, did you imagine your wishes were of the least importance to this family?” His voice was low, with all the hidden menace of a serpent’s hiss. “You will do your duty, a duty that has been prepared for you from the moment of your birth. Ivor has understood that, why have you not?”

She stood straight, her small frame seeming somehow to dominate the dim chamber. “I have chosen not to think of the unthinkable, sir. I cannot marry Ivor.”

Her grandfather looked at her almost with pity, but his voice was icy. “You will marry Ivor Chalfont, Ariadne. That is all there is to be said. And as of this moment, your betrothal contract is ratified.” He pushed a parchment across the table to Ivor. “Sign.”

Ivor looked at Ariadne, who steadfastly stared at the wall ahead, and then he took up the quill and signed. He held it out to Ari, who ignored it, still staring at the wall.

“Sign,” her grandfather rasped.

And to Ivor’s relieved astonishment, she took the quill and carefully wrote her name in the assigned place.

“Good. That is done.” Lord Daunt took the parchment, wrote his own name below theirs, sanded the sheet, and folded it carefully, sealing it with candle wax and imprinting his own seal from his signet ring in the wax. He reached into his pocket and took out a silver box, which he slid across the table to Ivor. “Put this on her finger.”

Ivor opened the box. The ring was one single emerald, large and square, in a diamond setting. It seemed far too large for Ari’s small, delicate hand, but when he held out his hand for hers, half expecting her to refuse him, she put her hand in his without a tremor. Her face was expressionless, but there was something in her eyes that filled him with deep unease. He knew from experience that Ariadne picked the time of her fights and had on many occasions caught him off guard. He slipped the ring on her finger. It had been sized to fit, but the stone was far too large and extravagant a decoration for her delicacy.

“It doesn’t suit you,” Lord Daunt declared, “but it is the family betrothal ring, and therefore it is yours to wear.”

“Just as it doesn’t suit me to marry Ivor, but he is the family choice, therefore he is mine to wed,” she stated almost distantly.

Her grandfather’s eyes were lit with a momentary flash of anger, and then he said quite mildly, “I am glad you see the situation as it is, Ariadne. Your life will soon move outside this valley, yours and Ivor’s. It is time for our families to resume their rightful places at court. The times are changing. King Charles maintains that he follows the Protestant religion, but it is said in secret that he practices Catholicism. Be that as it may, he is old and failing, a life of debauchery finally taking its toll.” Contempt laced the old man’s words, and he moved a hand in a dismissive gesture of disgust, as if consigning his King to oblivion.

He continued briskly, “His brother, the Duke of York, who will inherit the crown, makes no secret of his Catholic faith. His wife is openly of our faith, and the time is now right for us to return to the world. You, Ivor, have been trained as a courtier. I have done what I can to educate you in the ways of the court. You will stand accused of no crime, no treason. You have led an unblemished life. This I have ensured. After your marriage, you will go to London with all pomp and ceremony, a wealthy young couple of noble estate, and you will take your place at court.”

He passed a hand across his eyes with sudden weariness. A gesture Ivor had never seen before, and he thought the old man looked worn out as his face was illuminated by a ray of sun through the open window. His skin seemed paper-thin, and the shadows beneath his eyes were black, the lines around his mouth deeply etched. Was he dying? Had he had a premonition? The thought for an instant terrified Ivor. It was impossible to imagine the valley without the old man.