“Then he should be pleased to find you safely wed to a fine Norman knight,” Dominic said.
“Pleased? By his daughter?” Ariane laughed humorlessly. “That would be unprecedented, lord.”
Dominic swept the armory with torchlight. The flame was reflected back countless times over from weapons hanging on the walls, from chain mail hauberks hung on wooden rests, and from helms and gauntlets stacked neatly on shelves.
In one corner, seventeen chests were neatly laid out according to size. The brass bindings of the chests were dulled by salt air and neglect, but the locks were oiled and gleaming.
Dominic set his torch in a holder, reached beneath his mantle, and pulled out a large purse. Inside were various keys and a rolled parchment. The parchment’s neat printing detailed the exact contents of the dowry chests, as well as other aspects of the nuptial contract. The heavy wax seal at the bottom of the document was repeated on the lids of all the chests in such a way as to make it impossible to open the chest without breaking the seal.
“The silks first,” Dominic muttered. “Have you seen them, Ariane?”
“Aye, sir. They are very fine, with colors to shame a rainbow. Some are sheer enough to permit sunlight to pass through. Others are embroidered so cleverly that it is as if silk had been woven upon silk until the fabric can all but stand on its own.”
“Fine silks indeed,” Dominic said.
“If Simon agrees,” Ariane continued, “I would like to give Lady Amber some cloth for her kindness to me. And there is a green that would exactly match Lady Margaret’s eyes.”
“Done,” Simon said instantly.
“There is no need,” said Meg.
“Thank you,” Dominic said over his wife’s words. “I enjoy seeing Meg in green.”
“I fear the cloth is too sheer for ordinary use,” Ariane cautioned. “From what I overheard father telling one of his knights, ’tis more suited to a harem than a cold English keep.”
A sensual smile changed the lines of Dominic’s face.
“I will look forward to that cloth most particularly,” he said. “The sultan’s concubines wore very, um, intriguing clothing.”
As Dominic spoke, he shook out the bag of keys. Clattering and clanging, they fell onto a stone ledge next to battle gauntlets. He selected a key and went to the biggest chest. Grudgingly the lock gave way. The seal broke a moment later. With a creak of brass hinges, Dominic heaved up the lid and looked within.
“God’s teeth, what is this?” he muttered. “Simon.”
At the sound of his name, Simon went to Dominic’s side and glanced into the chest. Torchlight showed sacks made of coarse fabric. With a speed that made Ariane blink, Simon drew his dagger and opened one bag.
Coarsely ground flour spilled out. Simon grabbed a handful, worked it through his fingers, and sniffed it. With a sound of disgust he opened his fist and let the contents spill out over the armory’s stone floor.
“Spoiled,” he said curtly.
“The silk?” Ariane asked, for Simon’s broad back stood between her and a view of the chest.
“Flour,” Simon said.
Dominic began poking around in the chest.
“What of the silk?” Ariane asked, perplexed.
“There’s none in this chest,” Dominic said, straightening. “The rest of the bags are dirt rather than flour.”
With a startled sound Ariane pushed between the two men. She looked at the scarred chest, then at the broken seal, and then at the chest again.
“The seal,” she said. “Was it intact?”
“Aye,” Dominic said.
“I don’t understand. I saw my father’s steward fill the chests.”
“One chest often looks like another,” Dominic said. “Perhaps there was an error.”
Simon said nothing. He simply took a key from the pile and sought the correct lock. This key fit a smaller chest. He inserted the key, broke the seal, and lifted the lid. The smell of cinnamon and cloves wafted upward.
Simon didn’t speak.
“Well?” Ariane said.
“Sand,” said Dominic curtly.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked.
“Sand,” Dominic repeated.
“But there was cinnamon once,” Simon said. “And cloves. The wood reeks of it.”
“I don’t understand,” Ariane said.
Yet her tone said she was very much afraid that she did.
In a silence that grew deeper with each chest opened, Dominic and Simon went through Ariane’s dowry. The creak of a lid was followed by a single terse word that described worthless goods in place of gems, gold, silver, silks, furs, and spices.
“Stones.”
“Sand.”
A Saracen curse was followed by more understandable descriptions of what the chests held.
“Rotten flour.”
“Rocks.”
“Dirt.”
Ariane swayed and felt like stopping up her ears so that she wouldn’t have to hear the ugly truth.
Betrayed.
When the final chest stood open, Dominic surveyed the lot with his hands on his hips. Ballast rocks still smelling of the sea were all the chest contained.
The wolf’s head pin on Dominic’s mantle seemed to snarl as he turned to face Ariane. His eyes were like hammered silver.
“It would seem,” Dominic said smoothly, “that there is a discrepancy between the dowry promised by Baron Deguerre and that which was delivered.”
“Aye,” Ariane said in a raw voice.
Though Dominic waited, she said nothing more.
“Lady Ariane,” he said sharply, “what say you?”
“I have been betrayed. Again.”
The bleakness in Ariane’s voice touched Dominic in spite of his anger, as did the sight of her fingers reaching for the strings of the harp she had left behind.
“It would seem that the baron is trying to provoke a war,” Dominic said.
If Ariane heard, she didn’t answer.
“Aye,” Meg said tightly. Her small hands became fists. “But what does he gain from such dishonesty?”
“Freedom from an alliance he never sought,” Dominic said.
“But he went back on his given vow,” Meg protested. “Surely such dishonor in the eyes of his peers costs him more than a few chests of spices and gold?”
“My father’s steward saw those chests filled, sealed, and put under the guard of his finest knights,” Ariane said tonelessly. “So did I. Those same knights guarded the dowry until Blackthorne Keep.”
“In other words, if I claim there was no dowry, I will be declaring war,” Simon summarized.
“A war that Deguerre will certainly be in a position to win, for he believes Duncan of Maxwell to be too poor to hire knights without the dowry,” Meg said.
“Nor will King Henry look kindly upon being asked to go to war over holdings that some believe belong to Robert the Whisperer in any case,” Dominic concluded.
He turned to Ariane. “Your father is gambling that he will have won the battle before King Henry has time to take the field.”
“It would be like my father,” Ariane said, her voice flat, emotionless. “He is extremely good at finding weakness where others see only strength. ’Tis why he is called Charles the Shrewd.”
“Then we say nothing,” Simon said.
“What?” Dominic demanded. “We can’t—”
“I have no quarrel with my wife’s dowry,” Simon said succinctly.
Silence spread through the armory.
Ariane’s bitter smile gleamed for an instant in the torchlight. The tears she had not shed when she had awakened shamed and dishonored at Geoffrey’s hands now threatened to choke her.
“Simon,” she whispered. “It would have been kinder to kill me when I offered the chance.”
His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“The spider spins,” Ariane said tightly, “and it is I who am caught like an insect. And through me, you. No mat
ter how we struggle, Baron Deguerre will win.”
“Explain,” Dominic said curtly. “And explain most carefully.”
“My father foresaw weakness and division. He didn’t foresee loyalty and restraint.”
Dominic gave a sideways look to his brother, who was watching Ariane with dark, emotionless eyes.
“My father expected me to die on my wedding night,” Ariane said starkly.
“God’s blood. What nonsense is this?” Dominic demanded.
Ariane turned to Meg.
“This is the truth you sought so harshly, Lady Margaret. I hope it pleases you.”
“No,” Meg said, reaching out as though to stop Ariane.
But Ariane was already speaking, letting pain wash through her, surprised only that she could still feel.
“My father is coming to Blackthorne Keep expecting to start a war on the pretext of avenging my death at the hands of my husband.”
“He will be disappointed,” Simon said neutrally. “You are alive.”
“Aye. But will I still live when you discover that I came to this marriage not a maiden?”
Simon became very still.
“You knew this?” Dominic demanded of Simon.
Simon said nothing.
“Our marriage is unconsummated,” Ariane said. “I will swear that before a priest. An annulment will—”
“Nay,” Simon said, cutting across her words. “I have no complaint with my marriage. No reason to seek an annulment. No reason for war.”
“By Christ’s holy blood,” Dominic snarled, “what of your honor?”
“I gave up my honor the moment I lay with another man’s wife in the Holy Land.”
“Marie?” Dominic asked, startled.
“Yes. I am the man Marie’s husband saw sneaking into her tent. I am the reason the cuckold struck his devil’s bargain with the sultan. I am the reason we were betrayed and you were so cruelly tortured.”
“Simon, it wasn’t your doing,” Dominic said bluntly. “It was Robert the Cuckold’s!”
“I hold myself responsible. As does God.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Ah, but I do. Don’t you see the perfection of the punishment God designed for me?”
“I see nothing but—”
Simon kept talking over Dominic, wanting his brother to understand once and for all time that what had happened in the Holy Land was finally being paid for in the Disputed Lands.
And Simon had no quarrel with the payment.
“I married for wealth, beauty and heirs,” Simon said calmly. “The wealth is a chimera, the heirs will never be conceived, and Ariane lies alone in her bed every night as she prefers, her cold beauty a mortification of my body. Aye, my bride is a fitting chastisement indeed for my sin of lust and adultery.”
“But—”
“If it had been you in Marie’s bed and I the one who had been tortured by the sultan,” Simon said, “would you feel differently than I do now?”
Dominic opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and shook his head wearily.
He would feel no differently than Simon.
“You are my brother,” Dominic said softly, “and I love you.”
“As I love you, brother.”
Then Simon smiled with all the pain of the time since his unbridled lust for a married woman had nearly cost Dominic’s life.
“At least I won’t have to serve much time in hell when I die,” Simon said. “My hell has come to me on earth, and her name is Ariane.”
23
For the rest of the day Ariane sat in her room and waited in dread for Simon to come and question her about her lack of virginity.
He did not.
Simon went about his duties as Dominic’s seneschal without so much as looking Ariane’s way. The chests were locked once more, the keys were given into Dominic’s keeping, and no one spoke within Ariane’s hearing about the missing dowry.
In fact, it was as though she did not exist.
As though Simon did not care why she came to the marriage without her maidenhead.
As though he did not care about his wife at all.
And why should he? Ariane thought bleakly. I am his punishment. A mortification of his body for his sin of lust.
I am his hell.
Ariane shuddered. The ripple of movement pulled discordant notes from the harp she held in her lap. Broodingly she looked down at the instrument, but it was her own dark thoughts she was seeing rather than the intricate, beautifully inlaid wood.
Aimlessly she walked around the room, strumming the harp, seeing nothing of the color and luxury and warmth of her quarters. Indeed, she felt more like a person in prison than a highborn lady.
But the prison was of her own making. Not by so much as a look or a word had the lord or lady of Blackthorne Keep indicated that Ariane was no longer a valued guest in their home.
Unhappily Ariane looked out one of the high slit windows that ran down the side of her room. If she leaned into the depth of the keep’s walls and braced herself on the chill stone, she could see the sinuous ribbon of blue that was the River Blackthorne.
During the last of the ride to Blackthorne Keep, Ariane had enjoyed the silver rush and chatter of the river. It had reminded her of her own home, and the river that had been her companion on many a warm summer day. She had sat on the bank and played her harp, patterning her music after her own thoughts, the cries of the birds, the wind, and the distant calling of herders.
It seems like a dream, now. I was so innocent. So foolish. I trusted…
Too much.
A shout came from the bailey below, followed by the sound of the keep’s stout wooden gate being opened. A horse’s hooves drummed hollowly on the drawbridge, then clattered over the bailey’s cobblestones.
Ariane went to another window just in time to see Simon exit the forebuilding and stride across the bailey toward the knight who had just ridden up. The pale flash of the knight’s hair, and the supple grace of his dismount, told Ariane that Sven, the Glendruid Wolf’s spy, had returned to Blackthorne Keep.
Simon’s greeting was lost in the wind that gusted through the bailey. Together the two men strode toward the forebuilding’s steps.
A cat the color of autumn bounded across the bailey and launched itself at Simon. Without breaking stride, Simon caught the beast, draped it around his neck, and petted it thoroughly while he listened to whatever Sven had discovered.
It seemed to Ariane that she could hear the cat’s smug purring from four stories up.
She told herself that she didn’t envy the cat being stroked by Simon’s long, exquisitely knowing fingers. Yet in the next breath she admitted that she was lying.
Despite her brutal use by Geoffrey the Fair, Ariane had learned to treasure one man’s touch, one man’s caresses, one man’s hands moving sweetly over her body.
Just one man.
The man whose punishment she had become.
My hell has come to me on earth, and her name is Ariane.
Ariane longed to explain to Simon how her maidenhead had been brutally taken. But she was afraid he wouldn’t believe her.
No one else had.
I want him to believe me as no one has ever believed me!
I am not like Marie, a whore to lie down with every man and love none. I am a girl whose honor was dragged torn and bleeding from her body. I am a girl who screamed her betrayal to God.
And I was not believed.
Why should anyone believe me now? Even you, Simon, who has touched me as no one ever has.
Especially you.
The harsh cry of the harp jarred Ariane from her thoughts.
Footsteps sounded down the hall, coming from the staircase to Ariane’s room. She looked around almost wildly, as though seeking an escape she didn’t really want.
The steps paused at her door.
Simon? Have you finally come to me? Is this the hour when you finish what I could not on our wedding night?
&
nbsp; The footsteps went on to another room, leaving Ariane undisturbed but for her wild thoughts.
Abruptly Ariane knew she must get out of the room or scream her anguish so that all the keep could hear. But she didn’t want to pass Simon in the great hall and suffer yet one more of his cool, remote greetings. She didn’t want to look into his eyes again and see the knowledge of his betrayal reflected there with such bleak clarity.
Ariane the Betrayed had become Ariane the Betrayer.
With a small cry, she began unlacing and stripping off the pale lavender dress that was one of the few she had brought from Normandy. She wanted nothing of her former land touching her. She wanted nothing touching her at all.
Except Simon.
Blindly Ariane reached for the Learned gift that she hadn’t worn since discovering that the dress might be like Erik’s animals—more clever by half than anything not human should be.
But right now Ariane didn’t care what the dress was or was not. She wanted only to be warm when the winter winds blew. She wanted to feel cherished. She wanted to be free of her past and of the consequences of Geoffrey’s brutality. She wanted…
Simon.
The dress flowed over Ariane like a velvet benediction, caressing and soothing her flesh, her blood, her very soul. The cloth clung to her in the manner of a cat too long without petting. And like a cat, Ariane stroked it.
Silver laces glistened more brightly than sunlight on water, drawing together the edges of the dress from Ariane’s knees to her collarbone. Silver stitches ran through the amethyst fabric, gathering like runic lightning inside the sleeves and making them flash with each motion of her arms.
As though in echo of the secret silver lightning, two human figures of the same profound, transparent black as Simon’s eyes twisted and rippled sinuously through the cloth. No matter where or how Ariane looked at the dress, the figures were there, haunting her with the very thing she wanted and would never have.
Cloth seethed caressingly around Ariane’s ankles, coaxing her to look at the silver and the black alike, demanding that she see the man and the woman locked in mutual abandon within the very threads of the weaving.
Enchanted Page 24