Enchanted

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Ariane’s freedom registered sooner on her mind than Geoffrey’s outraged complaints did. She caught her balance and was running toward the keep before he realized it.

  “Come back here!” he shouted furiously.

  Ariane picked up her skirts and ran faster, sending the harp banging against her back with each step.

  Cursing and nursing his hand, Geoffrey ran toward the horse he had tethered out of sight in one of the keep’s woodlots. He had no doubt that he could catch Ariane before she reached the keep.

  Neither did Ariane.

  She went no farther than a tangle of bracken, brambles, and rowan trees before she looked over her shoulder to see where Geoffrey was. He had his back to her and was running toward the nearby woodland where Blackthorne’s foresters got much of the keep’s lumber.

  As Ariane had hoped, Geoffrey had chosen to run her down from the back of his horse rather than on foot, slowed by his hauberk, helmet and sword.

  Unseen by Geoffrey, Ariane swerved aside from the trail and plunged deeper into the tangle. Branches raked over her mantle to the dress beneath, but found no hold there. The tough cloth resisted even the sharpest of the thorns.

  When Ariane was certain she couldn’t be seen from the cart road that led to the keep, she dropped to her knees and fought for breath. Hair fell into her eyes, for the thicket had raked her artfully coiled braids until they were half-undone. Impatiently she pushed the hair away and held her palm hard to her side where pain turned in her as a rogue knight’s dagger once had.

  Have I opened up that wound?

  The thought froze the breath in Ariane’s lungs. Frantically her fingers stripped laces open until she could see the wound just beneath her breast.

  No blood greeted her eyes. In fact, the scar itself was barely a pale line drawn against the smoothness of her skin. With a broken gasp, Ariane sank to the ground, heedless of the leaf litter and earth that were soiling her mantle.

  Soon Ariane was able to hear more than her own heartbeats and her own rasping breaths. She settled herself more comfortably, waiting to hear cries from Blackthorne’s battlements when Geoffrey was spotted by the sentry.

  The murmur of the river was overlaid by the calling of birds as they flocked together against the coming night. A cart whose axle needed grease groaned from the lane. Shouts from Blackthorne’s battlements rose above the complaining of the axle.

  Ariane cocked her head, listening intently. A fickle wind first chased away and then brought the sentry’s words to her. Geoffrey’s presence had been discovered, which meant he had no choice but to ride openly up to the gate.

  She was safe. Geoffrey was too clever to maul her in public, and she would be quite careful not to get caught alone by him.

  With a sigh of relief, Ariane stood up and pulled her mantle tightly around her. Bracken, fallen leaves, twigs, and bits of less identifiable matter clung to the bottom of the mantle. She flapped the edges impatiently, sending debris swirling. Holding the mantle more tightly about her body, she set off for the keep.

  24

  Sensing someone coming up behind him, Simon looked away from the strange knight who was riding up to the drawbridge. Sven’s broad-boned face and pale, assessing eyes emerged from the shadows of the gatehouse.

  “I heard of a strange knight,” Sven said.

  “Aye. The sentry spotted him riding out of the river woodlot.”

  Silently the two men stood and waited for a better view of the knight through the open sally port. As Simon waited, he absently rubbed the chin of Autumn, the huge tricolored cat who was draped, purring, around Simon’s neck. The cat’s sleek body was a mosaic of large patches of white, orange and black fur.

  The knight approached the keep at a smart trot. He was riding a war-horse and was fully armed, though without attendants. A ragged pennant flew from his lance. His shield, too was battered and darkened by hard use.

  Autumn lifted his head and watched the knight approach with unblinking orange eyes. Simon’s own eyes narrowed as his instincts stirred, whispering of danger.

  “Could this be one of Baron Deguerre’s knights, come to tell us of his lord’s visit?” Simon asked.

  “I have heard of no knight this large, save the rogue who outwitted you and Duncan by riding into the Silverfells clan lands.”

  Simon grunted. “This one is big enough, but he wears colors of a sort on his shield and pennant.”

  The cross on the shield was blurred and crudely rendered, but still there for all to see.

  “Aye,” Sven said.

  The knight turned onto the cart road that went directly to Blackthorne’s moat. Though the bridge was lowered, the gate into the bailey was closed. Only the sally port was open, and it was too small for any but a man on foot.

  “’Tis Deguerre’s sign,” Simon said.

  “Aye. A thin white cross on a black field.”

  Simon looked over his shoulder into the bailey. Autumn’s fur stroked his cheek. Simon stroked the cat in return. The animal’s muscular purring rumbled against Simon’s throat.

  Though an unusual number of the keep’s people had found an excuse to be in the bailey so as to see the strange knight, Simon didn’t find Ariane among those eagerly looking toward the bridge. Simon glanced up to the top of the keep. The shutters over Ariane’s windows were barely ajar.

  Sven followed Simon’s glance.

  “Your wife is collecting herbs,” Sven said.

  Simon’s head swung back to the lithe descendant of Vikings who was Dominic’s most trusted knight save Simon himself.

  “Are you certain?” Simon asked.

  “Aye. Harry mentioned it to me.”

  “Odd,” Simon muttered. “Ariane has shown no particular interest in herbs before this time.”

  One of Simon’s hands lifted and resumed stroking Autumn. Claws appeared and retracted with rhythmic ecstasy, though the cat’s eyes never left off watching the approaching knight.

  “’Tis why Harry mentioned her leaving,” Sven said. “He said she seemed quite strained.”

  Simon didn’t respond.

  “But not unduly so, considering what passed in the armory,” Sven said under his breath.

  Simon gave Sven a glittering glance. Dominic had demanded that only Sven be told the truth about Ariane’s missing maidenhead and dowry, but Simon knew that few secrets were kept for very long in the intimacy of a keep.

  Not that it would be Sven who gave away the game. Whatever secrets Sven held—and they were many—none showed on his face. But then, few things ever did. It was part of what made Sven so valuable to the Glendruid Wolf.

  With the cat’s low purring vibrating against his neck, Simon went back to observing the strange knight through the open sally port. He was close enough now to make out smaller details of armor and armament.

  “I feel I have seen this one before,” Simon said softly.

  “Grey war stallions are as common as fleas on a hound.”

  “I wonder where his squires are?” Simon asked. “He looks a bit hard-used, but not poor. Surely he has attendants.”

  “Perhaps he has a squire in Deguerre’s entourage.”

  “A squire’s duty is to his knight.”

  “Perhaps this knight and the missing squire were part of Lady Ariane’s escort,” Sven said dryly. “Not many of them survived.”

  “And the ones who did lacked manners,” Simon said. “They dumped Ariane and her handmaiden in Blackthorne’s bailey and galloped off without staying for so much as a crust of bread.”

  “They must have felt unworthy to attend the opening of the dowry chests,” Sven said blandly.

  Breath hissed between Simon’s teeth in a Saracen curse that drew a sideways glance from Sven.

  Autumn’s long tail flicked in displeasure, pointing out to Simon that he was failing to please the lordly feline.

  “Aye. Perhaps they did,” Simon said. “’Tis a pity. I would have enjoyed discussing their lack of manners with them.”

&n
bsp; “Here is your chance,” Sven said, gesturing toward the man who had reined in at the moat. “’Tis a great strapping knight astride yonder horse. You could question him with your sword until you tired of the exercise.”

  “A waste of time.”

  “Swordplay?” Sven asked, shocked.

  “Nay. Questioning a lout that size. ’Tis my experience that brains and brawn rarely ride together, with the exception of my brother.”

  “Your mind is quicker than even the Glendruid Wolf’s.”

  “But my body isn’t as brawny.”

  “All knights should be as delicately made as you,” Sven agreed sardonically.

  Simon smiled. He was barely smaller than his brother, and he well knew it.

  “Shall I greet this knight?” Sven asked.

  “Nay. We will do it together.”

  Sven gave Simon a sideways look from eyes whose blue was so light it appeared almost colorless. Though Simon’s fingers petted the cat with unerring rhythm, his clear black glance was focused entirely on the strange knight.

  “Memorize him,” Simon said so that only Sven could hear. “Be able to recognize him at fifty yards in the dark.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And Sven?”

  “Aye?”

  “If we allow this knight into the keep, be the shadow of his shadow. Always.”

  “What is it?” Sven asked in a low voice. “What do you see that I don’t?”

  “Nothing. Just a feeling.”

  Sven laughed softly. “A feeling, eh? I warned you, Simon.”

  “About what?”

  “Living with witches. First you have uncanny cats like Autumn always with you. Next you have ‘feelings.’ Soon you’ll have the fey sight yourself.”

  “That is a pail of—”

  Abruptly Simon cut off his words, for they were the very ones Ariane had used to describe love: A pail of slops.

  A grim smile turned Simon’s lips down at the corners. He doubted that Ariane had felt that way about the man to whom she had given her maidenhead.

  Did he marry another, Ariane? Is that how you were betrayed? Did you spread your untouched thighs for the lie called love?

  With an effort, Simon wrenched his thoughts back to the knight who was growing more impatient by the moment at his lack of hospitable greeting.

  “Don’t open the main gate until I signal,” Simon called to Harry, who had been waiting thirty feet away. “And then, open only one gate. There is, after all, but one knight.”

  “In sight,” Sven muttered.

  “Aye, sir!” Harry answered.

  “If we let him in,” Sven said softly, “he will soon learn how few true knights we have.”

  “And if we don’t let him in, we will insult my father-in-law.”

  Sven grunted.

  “Come,” Simon said. “’Tis easier to watch the devil you have than to go hunting in hell for a different one.”

  Sven gave a crack of laughter and followed Simon through the sally port, but they walked side by side when they went across the bridge to meet the strange knight whose chain mail hauberk gleamed beneath his heavy mantle.

  The cat on Simon’s shoulders rode easily, its wise orange eyes opened wide. Despite the fact that Simon’s hands were near his sword rather than petting Autumn, the feline made no protest. He simply watched the strange knight with unblinking, oddly predatory interest.

  “How are you called, stranger?” Simon asked from the keep side of the bridge across the moat.

  Simon’s voice was civil and no more. He would have preferred that no strangers come to Blackthorne Keep until Dominic had more—and better-trained—knights.

  “Geoffrey the Fair, vassal to Baron Deguerre,” said the big knight. His smile was apparent across the width of the bridge. “Is this indeed the fabled Blackthorne Keep, home to the Glendruid Wolf?”

  The admiration in Geoffrey’s voice would have disarmed most men. Sven disregarded the implied compliment, for flattery was one of a spy’s most useful tools.

  Simon discounted it because he truly disliked Geoffrey. Nor could Simon have said why. He simply knew his distaste as surely as he knew that Autumn was no longer purring against his neck.

  “Aye. This is Blackthorne Keep and I am Simon, brother to Dominic le Sabre. The man with me is Sven, a valued knight.”

  “I am honored to greet you,” Geoffrey said.

  “Is your lord far behind?” Simon asked.

  “I’m not certain.”

  “How many are in his entourage? We will have to let the kitchen, falconer and gamekeeper know how many more we must feed.”

  “I don’t know that, either, sir,” Geoffrey said.

  As he spoke, his hand rubbed across his face in a gesture of bone-deep weariness.

  “Forgive my lack of information,” Geoffrey said heavily. “I was one of Lady Ariane’s escort from Normandy. The sickness…”

  “We heard,” Simon said.

  “I have but lately come back to myself,” Geoffrey admitted. “I have ridden hard to reach this keep, twice getting lost.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Aye. I came upon a peddler four days’ ride north, or perhaps it was five or six and not true north at all…”

  Sven and Simon exchanged a look.

  Geoffrey shook his head as though to clear it. “I am sorry, sirs. That foul illness laid me low. Even now I am weak. ’Tis relieved I am to find the shelter of Blackthorne Keep.”

  Sven and Simon exchanged another look.

  “Is the Lady Ariane here?” Geoffrey asked when Simon remained silent. “She will vouch for my honor. We are old, old friends.”

  The fleeting smile on Geoffrey’s mouth at the word friends did nothing to increase Simon’s charitable feelings toward the unwelcome knight.

  On the other hand, it would be unwise to offend Baron Deguerre by refusing hospitality to one of his knights, and an ailing knight at that. Much as Simon wanted to turn his back on Deguerre’s vassal, nobody knew Dominic’s vulnerability better than Simon.

  ’Tis why I offered myself as a replacement for Duncan at the marriage altar.

  Necessity, not desire.

  But Simon knew he was telling only half of the truth to himself, and the lesser half at that. Even when Ariane was betrothed to Duncan, Simon had wanted her until he awoke sweating, fully aroused, teeth clenched against a groan of need.

  He still did.

  Abruptly, Simon signaled for the gate to be opened.

  “Thank you, gracious knight,” Geoffrey said, urging his stallion forward. “The baron will be pleased by your hospitality, for I am much loved by him.”

  As the stallion’s metal shoes clopped hollowly onto wood, Sven flicked Simon briefly on the hand in a silent signal left over from the times when they had hunted Saracens through the night.

  “Look,” Sven said in a low voice. “Out beyond the millrace.”

  Simon looked, shaded his eyes against the dying sun, and picked out the form of a woman walking toward the keep on a seldom-used path. He needed no more than a glimpse of the graceful, flowing stride to recognize his wife.

  “Ariane,” Simon said beneath his breath.

  “The herb gardens lie in another direction.”

  “Aye.”

  A groom rushed forward to take Geoffrey’s stallion. Geoffrey ignored him, for he had just spotted the figure drawing closer to the drawbridge.

  “Ariane!” Geoffrey said, anticipation in every syllable. “At last!”

  He dismounted in an athletic rush, smiling like a child who has unexpectedly been given a cream cake to eat. Only when he saw Simon’s bleak eyes did Geoffrey seem to remember that Ariane was now wed.

  To Simon.

  “Forgive me,” Geoffrey said, wiping away his smile. “I must make a confession to you. In truth, Ariane is why I came to Blackthorne first rather than trying to find the baron. I have missed her the way I miss the sun in winter.”

  “Indeed,” Simon said softly. “
Why did you not go to Stone Ring Keep, then? ’Tis where Duncan of Maxwell resides.”

  Geoffrey looked blank for an instant.

  “But…er…” Geoffrey fumbled for words, cleared his throat, and tried again. “The peddler said Ariane married another knight, for Duncan had been bewitched.”

  “Some said that,” Simon acknowledged.

  “You must know,” Geoffrey challenged.

  “Why?”

  “If you are the Glendruid Wolf’s brother, then it is you who wed Ariane!”

  “’Tis a well-informed peddler you met,” Simon said.

  “You have my congratulations, sire,” Geoffrey said.

  “You may have them back.”

  “Few men are lucky enough to wed a maid who is beautiful, rich, and as passionate as a nymph,” Geoffrey said, ignoring Simon’s aloofness. “By the Cross, ’tis a wonder you can stand at all after a night spent between her…”

  Again, Geoffrey appeared to realize too late where his words were going. He coughed, shrugged, and gave Simon a sheepish smile.

  “I find no fault in my wife,” Simon said evenly.

  “Of course not. ’Tis the very thing I told the innkeeper at the Sign of the Fallen Tree when he talked of a cold marriage made in haste,” Geoffrey said in a hearty voice. “A girl of Ariane’s wanton nature would never be able to keep herself from her husband’s bed.”

  Though Simon showed no outward response to Geoffrey’s tactless words, Sven began measuring the knight for a shroud.

  “Unless, of course,” Geoffrey continued cheerfully, “Ariane were yearning for her first lover to the point that she couldn’t force herself to permit another man entrance to her snug little, er…bed.”

  “I have known magpies that were less talkative than this creature,” Sven said casually. “More fair of face, too.”

  “’Tis a thing that can be cured,” Simon said. “The speech, that is. The face is beyond mortal help.”

  “Have I offended you?” Geoffrey asked Simon. “By the Cross, you are a sensitive soul. But then, people with a sore spot do jump when it is touched, is that not so?”