“I am reluctant to give you over to such a cold union,” Dominic said.
Faint amusement showed on Simon’s face. With a speed and skill that had unnerved more than one enemy, he drew his belt dagger and casually speared a piece of cold meat. Strong white teeth sank into the venison and chewed.
An instant later the tip of the dagger flicked out like a snake’s tongue. A brief movement of Simon’s wrist flipped the slice of meat toward Dominic, who caught it deftly.
“Your marriage was little warmer, at first,” Simon pointed out as his brother ate the venison.
Dominic smiled slightly.
“My small falcon was a worthy adversary,” he agreed.
Simon laughed. “She fair ran you ragged, brother. She still does. I’ll settle for less passion and more ease in my marriage.”
The Glendruid Wolf’s silver-grey eyes weighed Simon for a time. Beyond the stone walls, an early winter wind howled around the keep so fiercely that heavy draperies stirred.
The room was luxuriously furnished, having been designed for the lady of Stone Ring Keep. Now it was serving as temporary quarters for Dominic and Meg, Lord and Lady of Blackthorne Keep. But even the stout stone walls, thick draperies, and slit windows could not wholly turn aside the ice-tipped talons of an unseasonable storm.
“You are a passionate man,” Dominic said simply.
The quality of Simon’s eyes changed from clear black to something deeper, more distant, night in a sky that held neither stars nor moon.
“Boys are controlled by passion,” Simon said distinctly. “Men are not.”
“Aye. Yet men are passionate all the same.”
“There is a point to this catechism, I presume.”
Dominic’s mouth turned down at one corner. Though he was Simon’s older brother and his lord, Simon had little patience for advice. Yet a more loyal knight had never lived. Dominic was as certain of that as he was of his wife’s love.
“I have discovered,” Dominic said, “that a passionate marriage is a pearl beyond price.”
Simon grunted and said nothing.
“You disagree?” Dominic asked.
The impatience in Simon’s shrug was repeated in the flat line of his mouth.
“Whether I agree or disagree matters not one bit,” Simon said.
“When you rescued me from that sultan’s hell—”
“After you gave yourself to the sultan as ransom for me and eleven other knights,” cut in Simon.
“—I came out of it a lesser man,” Dominic said, ignoring his brother’s interruption.
“Truly?” Simon asked in a biting tone. “The few Saracens who survived your sword afterward must have been relieved.”
Dominic’s mouth shifted into a smile that was every bit as hard as his brother’s.
“I wasn’t discussing my fighting skills,” Dominic said.
“Excellent. For a time I feared that your sweet witch-wife had addled your brain.”
“I was discussing my lack of passion.”
Again, Simon shrugged. “The whore Marie never complained of anything lacking in you before her marriage to Robert. Afterward, she complained of little else.”
Dominic made an impatient sound. “Do not play the slackwitted serf with me, Simon. I know too well just how quick your mind is.”
Simon waited.
“Lust is one thing,” Dominic said flatly. “Love is quite another.”
“To you, perhaps. To me, both mean a singular stupi—um, vulnerability in a man.”
Dominic’s grin was wolfish. He knew quite well how Simon felt about men who loved women. Stupid was the least insulting word he had heard Simon use.
But it had not always been thus. Only since the Holy Crusade and the Saracen dungeon.
“Nothing I learned among the Saracens led me to believe that a vulnerable knight was a wise one,” Simon concluded.
“Love isn’t a war between enemies to be won or lost.”
“For you, yes,” conceded Simon. “For other men, no.”
“What of Duncan?”
“Nothing I have seen of Duncan recommends love to me,” Simon said coolly.
Dominic looked surprised.
“God’s teeth,” Simon snarled. “Duncan nearly died in that hellish Druid place where he found Amber!”
“But he didn’t die. Love was stronger.”
“Love?” Simon grunted. “Duncan was simply too thick-skulled and stubborn to let feminine witchery defeat him.”
The Glendruid Wolf looked broodingly at the handsome, sun-haired brother whom he loved more than anything on earth save his wife Meg.
“You are wrong,” Dominic said finally, “just as I was wrong when I came out of the sultan’s hell.”
Simon started to argue, thought better of it, and shrugged instead.
“Aye,” Dominic said, “you do understand what I am talking about. You were the first to see the difference in me. I had no warmth.”
Again, Simon didn’t disagree.
“Meg brought warmth to my soul,” Dominic said. “And then I noticed something that has troubled me ever since.”
“Weakness?” Simon asked ironically.
A wolf’s smile flashed and vanished.
“Nay. It is you, Simon.”
“I?”
“Yes. Like me, you left all warmth in the Saracen land.”
Simon shrugged. “Then the cold Norman heiress and I are well matched.”
“That is what worries me,” Dominic said. “You are too well matched. Who will bring warmth to you if you marry Ariane?”
Simon speared another piece of meat.
“Do not worry, Wolf of Glendruid. Warmth will be no problem for me.”
“Oh? You sound quite certain.”
“I am.”
“And how will you achieve this miracle?” Dominic asked skeptically.
“I shall line my mantle with fur.”
5
Between shouts of wind and bursts of icy rain, the sentry called out the hour. The call was repeated through the bailey and into the settlement beyond, telling serf and villein to set aside their tools and bring their animals into the fold even though there was still light in the stormy sky.
Motionless but for her own breaths, Ariane stared through the slit window down to the bailey, fighting her fear of the coming night by concentrating on the view below. Fragrant smoke poured from the uncertain shelter of the kitchen area. Servants bustled about the ovens and spits that had begun working well before dawn, baking and roasting all that was necessary for the hurried marriage feast.
“’Tis fortunate that the harvest is good,” Cassandra said from the doorway. “Otherwise the keep would have been sore put to create a feast worthy of the coming marriage. There has been scant time to prepare for such an important alliance.”
Slowly Ariane turned around. She wasn’t surprised to see Cassandra, for she had recognized the Learned woman’s voice even before she saw her distinctive scarlet robes. But Ariane was surprised by the fabric Cassandra held in her hands.
With a sound of wonder, Ariane walked closer. Her first thought was that she had never seen a dress more beautifully embroidered. Intricate silver stitches flashed at neckline and hem, and ran like curved lightning through the lining of the long, very full sleeves.
Ariane’s second thought was that the color of the rich cloth itself was an exact match for the amethyst ring she wore. Her third thought was that such a magnificent dress should be worn by a happy bride, rather than by one looking for any way out of the marital trap.
Even death.
Cassandra’s pale eyes watched each shade of Ariane’s response, from the pleased light in the Norman heiress’s otherwise dark eyes at the sight of the cloth, to the slender fingers reaching for the fabric…and curling into a fist short of their goal.
“You may touch the dress, Lady Ariane. It is our gift to you.”
“Our?”
“The Learned. Despite Simon’s dislike of
our ways, we…value him.”
“Why?”
The blunt question didn’t displease Cassandra. Rather, it made her smile.
“He is capable of Learning,” Cassandra said. “Not everyone is.”
The shimmering richness of the gift in Cassandra’s hands captivated Ariane. The subtle play of light over the lush, dark fabric was entrancing.
Abruptly Ariane blinked and went quite still, compelled by something she could not name, only sense. Something was condensing within the fabric, a picture calling to her like chords from an ancient harp. Beneath the lightning strokes of embroidery, embedded in the color and texture of the fabric itself, there was a suggestion of two figures…
Unknowingly, Ariane reached out to trace the design. It shimmered throughout the cloth like an amethyst beneath a full harvest moon. The play of color and light was as subtle as a sigh breathed into a storm. Yet like a sigh, the design was unmistakable to anyone who had the sensitivity to discover it.
As soon as Ariane’s fingertips touched the cloth, she knew that the figures were not those of two knights fighting or two noblemen hawking or two monks trans-fixed by prayer. The figures were a man and a woman, and they were intertwined in one another as surely as the threads of the cloth itself.
Silently Ariane traced the figures with her fingertips, beginning with the woman’s darkly flying hair. The cloth had a whisper of warmth. It was soft yet resilient, as though it were alive.
The feel of it was marvelous, but even more fascinating was the pattern that became clearer with each moment Ariane’s fingertips lingered. Though the faces of the figures were concealed by the subtle sheen of the fabric, the weaver had been so skilled that there was no difficulty in telling male from female.
A woman of intense feeling, head thrown back, hair wild, lips open upon a cry of unbelievable pleasure.
The enchanted.
A warrior both disciplined and passionate, his whole being focused in the moment.
The enchanter.
Now he was bending down to her, drinking her cries even as he drew more sounds from her. His powerful body was poised over hers, waiting, shivering with a sensual hunger that was as great as his restraint.
Simon?
With a startled sound, Ariane snatched back her fingers.
“That cannot be,” she whispered.
Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, but when she spoke, her voice was soft, almost supplicating.
“What is it?” the Learned woman asked. “What do you see?”
Ariane didn’t answer. Rather she simply stared at the fabric.
It was changing again even as she watched. Now Simon’s midnight eyes were staring back at her, promising her a world she no longer believed in, a world as warm and darkly shimmering as amethysts and wine.
Enchantment.
“Nay,” Ariane whispered, “it cannot be! It is but a mummer’s trick!”
“What cannot be?”
This time the Learned woman’s voice was less soft, more compelling.
Ariane’s answer was a wild shaking of her head that sent black locks flying from their careful confinement. Yet even as she stepped back from the fabric, she reached for it once more.
Or did it reach for her?
“No,” Ariane said. “It cannot be!”
Cassandra draped the cloth over Ariane’s hands.
“There is no need to be afraid,” the Learned woman said casually. “’Tis but cloth.”
“It appears—the fabric appears too fragile to wear.”
Ariane spoke the half-truth quickly, forcing herself to look at Cassandra’s pale eyes rather than at the dress that even now was curling caressingly over her hands.
“Fragile?” Cassandra laughed. “Far from it, lady. The fabric is as strong as hope itself. Do you not see the unspoken dreams woven into the very warp and weft?”
“Hope is for fools.”
“Is it?”
Ariane’s mouth turned down in a curve too bitter to call a smile. “Yes.”
“Then Serena’s cloth will drape calmly around you,” Cassandra said. “It responds only to dreams, and without hope there are no dreams.”
“You make no sense.”
“’Tis a charge often leveled against the Learned. Is your handmaid feeling well?”
“Er, yes,” Ariane said, caught off guard by the abrupt change in subject.
“Good. Please remind her not to take more of the potion than I advised. Too much will muddle her wits.”
“How would I know the difference?” Ariane said beneath her breath. “The girl has little more wit than a goose as it is.”
Cassandra smiled. It changed her face from austere to quite striking.
“Blanche is more like a raven than a goose,” Cassandra said dryly. “Though she is quite shrewd in her own way, she will always be distracted by whatever trinket shines the brightest at any moment.”
Ariane couldn’t help smiling at the Learned woman’s astute assessment of her handmaiden.
With a nod, Cassandra withdrew, leaving Ariane alone but for the fey dress that precisely matched her eyes. Rather warily she looked at it.
Nothing looked back at her but the ripple of light over rich cloth.
Ariane didn’t know whether she was relieved or disappointed. With a muttered word, she reached out to drape the dress across the bed.
The same bed she and Simon would share tonight.
I cannot bear it. Not again.
Never again!
Instead of releasing the dress, Ariane’s hands clenched more tightly in it. The cloth became a soothing richness, whispering of a sensuous amethyst world where a woman’s cries were of pleasure rather than pain.
Without meaning to, Ariane looked at the cloth, admiring it. Then she looked into it…
A warrior both disciplined and passionate, his whole being focused in the moment.
His powerful body was poised over hers.
The thought sent a surge of emotion through Ariane, shaking her, making her feel more trapped than ever.
Hope is for fools! There is no way out but one and I can only pray that I am strong enough to take it.
“Lady Ariane?”
The voice made Ariane start as though she had been slapped. Hastily she dropped the dress on the bed and turned toward the doorway.
Lady Margaret, the wife of the Glendruid Wolf, was standing quietly there, waiting for Ariane’s attention. There was both curiosity and compassion in Meg’s green eyes.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Meg said.
“’Tis nothing.”
Ariane’s voice was hoarse, as though it hadn’t been used in some time. Distantly she wondered how long she had been staring into the fabric, fighting its enchantment even as a stubborn part of her soul reached out for the dream that shimmered just beyond her reach.
Fool.
“I made some soap for you and left it near the bath,” Meg said. “I hope the scent of it pleases you.”
Shall I have Meg blend me a special soap to please your dainty nostrils?
Your scent is quite pleasant to me as it is.
Ariane made a small sound as the memory of Simon looming over her bloomed in her mind, mingling with amethyst images from the dress.
Could I be the woman with the darkly flying hair? Is it possible?
Fool! It is but a sorcerer’s trick to bewitch you into accepting marriage to a man the Learned value. All pleasure in the marriage bed is for men.
“Lady?” Meg asked, stepping into the room. “Are you well? Should I send for Simon?”
“Whatever for?” Ariane asked hoarsely.
“He has a gentle hand with illness.”
“Simon?”
Meg smiled at the blunt skepticism in Ariane’s voice.
“Aye,” Meg said. “For all his black eyes and bladelike smile, Simon has great kindness in him.”
Ariane suspected that her outright disbelief showed on her face, for Meg kept singing Simon’s praises.
“When Dominic lay too ill to know friend from foe, Simon slept across the doorway so that the least whisper of need would alert him.”
“Ah, Dominic,” Ariane said, as though the single name explained everything.
And it did. Simon was called the Loyal for his unswerving fealty to his brother.
“Not only Dominic knows Simon’s kindness,” Meg said. “The keep’s cats vie for his petting.”
“Do they?”
Meg nodded, sending light like tongues of fire through her hair. The golden bells on the ends of her long red braids chimed sweetly with every motion of her head.
“The cats? How curious,” Ariane said, frowning.
“Simon has an uncanny way with them.”
“Perhaps they see themselves in him. Cruelty, not kindness.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
Ariane didn’t answer.
“Was Simon so harsh with you when he brought you from Blackthorne to Stone Ring Keep?” Meg asked sharply.
Ariane hesitated, wishing she had a harp to conceal the trembling of her hands. And her soul. But the harp was across the room and she was reluctant to show weakness in front of the Glendruid girl with the uncanny green eyes.
“Lady?” Meg asked.
“No,” Ariane said reluctantly. “The road was harsh, and the weather foul, but Simon was no worse than necessity required.”
“Then why do you think him cruel?”
“He is a man,” Ariane said simply.
“Aye,” Meg said smiling. “’Tis usual for a bridegroom to be a man.”
Ariane kept speaking as though she hadn’t heard Meg’s words. “Beneath that flashing smile and sun-bright hair, he is waiting only for the most telling moment to reveal his cruelty.”
Meg’s breath came in with an odd sound.
“’Tis no special disparagement of Simon,” Ariane added. “All men are cruel. To expect otherwise is to be a fool.”
Abruptly Meg looked at Ariane in the Glendruid way, seeing the truth in her.
Ariane, the Betrayed.
“Simon would never betray you,” Meg said. “You must believe me.”
A single bleak look was Ariane’s only answer.
“He would never take a leman,” Meg continued earnestly. “He and Dominic are alike in that. They expect no less honor from themselves than they do from a wife.”
Enchanted Page 4