Trapped at the Altar

by Jane Feather

  It was mid-afternoon, and his mind turned to supper. It was his responsibility to provide the food for the table in his little household, and he mentally ran through the supplies of game hanging in the shed. Tilly always found something succulent there, but the image of fresh-caught brown trout sizzling in butter sharpened his appetite.

  He made his way back to his cottage for his fishing tackle. Ari would still be enduring the ministrations of seamstresses, he assumed. She found it tiresome, and it tended to make her poor company for the first half hour after her release. On impulse, he turned his step towards Ari’s old cottage. If the women were still at their work, he would give her a welcome early release. She loved to fish, and it was time they recaptured some of their old friendly ease, doing the things they had always enjoyed together.

  There had been too much stress since their marriage on preparations for the upcoming journey. It had been much harder for Ari than for him. He at least could escape with his gun into the fields or with his rod along the riverbank. They would fish for brown trout together.

  His step quickened as he imagined her ready smile, the shine in her eyes at the prospect, and just the thought of having her beside him, quietly casting into the smooth brown waters of the Wye, a companionable silence between them, filled him with a deep sense of pleasure.

  He opened the door to her cottage and found it deserted.

  He poked his head around the door of his own cottage, expecting to see Ari at the table or helping Tilly with supper. Instead, he saw only Tilly, sitting by the range plying her needle. The fire burned brightly, and a bubbling cauldron sent aromatic steam to the rafters.

  “Where’s Ariadne?” Ivor inquired, stepping into the room. “I thought she’d still be busy with the dressmaking.”

  “Not feeling too well, sir. She’s abed and asleep.” Tilly set aside her sewing and stood up. “Can I fetch you something?”

  Ivor shook his head. “No, thank you. I had it in mind to fish for some trout for supper. I thought Ari might care to join me. What’s the matter with her?”

  “Oh, ’tis nothing serious, sir. Just the flowers.” Tilly turned to stir the cauldron on the range. “It takes her bad some months. I’m just making her some soup.”

  Ivor said nothing. Tilly would have no idea of the significance this month of that regular event. With a distracted frown, he went to the dresser for the flagon of ale. He filled a tankard and took a thoughtful draught. Now their marriage could start in earnest.

  Abruptly, he set aside his tankard and started up the stairs to the bedchamber. He stood at the top of the stairs. Ari was a small, hunched ball under the covers. He watched for a moment to see if she gave any indication of being awake and then climbed back down. “I’ll eat in the refectory tonight, Tilly. No need to disturb Ari.”

  “Right, sir. If you’re sure you don’t want supper. I’ve soup for Miss Ari here, but I can whip up a meat pasty for you easy.”

  Ivor shook his head. “No need. Look after Ari. I won’t be back until late.” He went out into the early dusk and walked along the riverbank until the village was behind him. He sat on a rocky outcrop and considered his next step. It would be a few days before the bleeding stopped and they could finally consummate their marriage. But he couldn’t imagine a silent, hasty coupling. There had to be some ceremony, some acknowledgment of what it meant. And yet why should he think so? His wife loved another man and would not welcome any physical union with her husband, however willing she was to accept its necessity.

  He jumped to his feet. He was in the mood to drink and eat in congenial and uncomplicated company, and he would find that in the refectory with the young men of the village. The pitch torches were already alight, and light spilled from the building with the sounds of merriment as the kegs of beer were broached and the flagons of wine opened. Legs of lamb and shoulders of pork turned on spits over the open fire of the kitchen attached to the rear of the refectory, and the succulent smells of roasting meat and hot bread filled the air as he went into the building.

  Men sat on benches running along the tables, sprawled at ease, tankards at hand, laughing over ribald jokes. Ivor was greeted with a chorus of unquestioning welcome and took a place on one of the benches, accepting a brimming tankard and a few minutes later a loaded platter of roasted meat and potatoes. For now, he let his personal puzzles lie dormant and returned to bachelorhood with remembered ease.

  It was long past the midnight hour when Ivor made his way back to his cottage. He didn’t think he was drunk, but he was happy to admit that he wasn’t as steady and as sober as he preferred to be. He let himself into the cottage. The fire was tamped down for the night, and a single candle burned for him on the mantel. He took up the candle and climbed upstairs as softly as he could in his slightly unsteady state.

  He could hear Ari’s deep breathing as he entered the chamber and shielded the candlelight with his cupped hand to keep it from shining on the bed. She was still a tiny curled mound on her side of the bed, leaving a large expanse on the far side. He hesitated, wondering if he would risk waking her if he slipped into that inviting space. He’d intended to sleep downstairs tonight, unsure what degree of privacy she would need in present circumstances, but now he wondered if it was necessary.

  He set the candle on the mantel and perched on the windowsill to remove his boots. His movements were clumsy, and the boot slipped from his hand with a thump on the floorboards. The mound in the bed stirred.

  Cursing under his breath, Ivor tackled his other boot and managed to set it down with exaggerated caution beside its mate and turned his attention to rolling down his stockings. He stood up gingerly to remove his belt and britches and yank his shirt over his head, all the while keeping an eye on the sleeping form in the bed. He couldn’t see his nightshirt anywhere and debated opening the linen press, but the hinges needed oiling, and it sometimes squeaked like a mouse in a cat’s jaws.

  He gave up the idea and blew out the candle before creeping naked into bed. He was asleep almost instantly, and within minutes, the stertorous snores of a man sleeping off a night’s drinking filled the chamber.

  Ari lay listening. She had been awake from the moment Ivor had set foot in the chamber and had waited, keeping silent, hoping he would assume she was asleep and not start a conversation she didn’t want tonight. It didn’t take her long to realize that he was rather the worse for wear, and the thought brought an unconscious affectionate smile to her lips, one that if Ivor had been awake would have presaged one of her teasing comments. Ivor almost never let himself go. He had a horror of losing control, a feeling they both shared. It was with some relief that she felt him slide into bed beside her. At least horizontal, he couldn’t come to any harm.

  She had expected the bolster at her back as usual, but tonight she could feel his body warmth even though he wasn’t touching her. What would his skin feel like? Not the weather-beaten skin on his arms, legs, hands, face—she knew what that felt like—but the secret skin, kept concealed beneath his shirt and britches. His private skin. The urge became irresistible. Tentatively, as his snores deepened, she slipped a hand across the space separating them, and her fingertips encountered warm, bare flesh. She snatched them back hastily but his breathing didn’t change, and she let her fingers creep back to rest lightly against his side, feeling his ribs lift and fall with each sleeping breath.

  What would it be like to feel all of him, the whole length of his skin against her own nakedness? To feel him inside her, possessing her? To hold him against her?

  Ari shivered, and she didn’t know why. It was a strange shudder of what? Fear? Anticipation? She withdrew her fingers and rolled over onto her side, away from her sleeping husband, and finally drifted off into sleep herself.

  Ari awoke to the first faint streaks of dawn in the small window and the first chirrup of the dawn chorus. And then to a heavy warmth against her hip, which turned out to be a hand on her flank. She lay rigid for a moment as she understood that Ivor’s body was
touching hers, his belly against her back, his long legs following the line of her own. And her mind was filled with the memory of her secret exploration a few hours ago. She had wondered then what it would feel like to have his whole length pressed against her. But she hadn’t imagined being swathed in her thickest shift when that happened, she reflected with an ironic smile.

  Even so, the knowledge of the naked man at her back sent that little shudder rippling across her skin again.

  Gingerly, she edged a foot outside the coverlet and slowly inched herself after it until she was standing beside the bed. Ivor grunted and flopped onto his back, then rolled onto his other side.

  Ari breathed a sigh of relief. She crept to the dresser, took out what she needed, and tiptoed down to the living room. The embers glowed in the range, but it was still too early for Tilly to come and rekindle the flame. Ari took up the poker, riddled the embers until a little flame appeared, then tossed in kindling followed by carefully placed logs. She filled a kettle with water and set it on the range as the fire took.

  She let herself out to the privy. The grass was rimed with frost for the first time since the beginning of last spring, and she shivered in the dawn chill. The privy was as inhospitable as ever, and she hurried back across the crisped grass into the warmth of the house.

  She washed, threw out the dirty water onto the vegetable plot, and went to release the chickens from the coop Ivor had built for them, on stilts to protect them from the overnight predation of foxes. The rooster emerged first, strutting and crowing loudly as his hens came squawking down the ramp, chattering away at Ari and to one another in their oddly conversational fashion.

  They always made Ari laugh, and she went inside for the pail of scraps Tilly would have set by the scullery door for their breakfast. She threw the scraps, and they began pecking and picking and chattering busily, and Ari hurried back into the warmth. The range was burning brightly now, and the sun coming up above the cliff top was slowly banishing the long shadows the cliff cast across the valley.

  She was stirring a pot of oats on the range when Ivor came down the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder. He was dressed once more in shirt and britches, but she couldn’t banish the remembered feel of his nakedness against her, the warmth of his hand on her turned hip, and to her embarrassment, she felt her cheeks warm. She concentrated on stirring the pot, praying that he had no recollection of the night, of his naked body in such intimate contact with her own.

  “You’re up early,” he said in his normal voice. “Are you feeling better?”

  His casual tone reassured her, and she responded in kind. “Yes, much, thank you. Would you like some porridge?” She gave him a quizzical look. “It’s very good for settling the belly in the morning after a night’s drinking, I’m told.”

  “Is it, indeed?” he answered drily. “Well, my mouth tastes like a cesspit, and my head’s thick as a blanket, so if porridge does anything for that, I’ll take some gladly.” He sat down at the table, stretching his legs. His feet were bare, and he wriggled his toes, staring at them with the curiosity of one who had never seen his own feet before.

  They were very long feet, high arched, with long toes and squared-off nails. Ari wondered why she’d never noticed Ivor’s feet properly before; she’d seen him shoeless often enough.

  Gabriel had small, neat feet that matched his thin, compact frame. The thought came unbidden, and confusion swamped her anew. She must not think of Gabriel. Not if she was going to survive this emotional maelstrom that threatened to drown her. She had to accept that he was gone from her now. She had to learn to forget him, to think of him as dead to her in every practical aspect. Only thus could she manage to live the life she had been given. She would never see him in London. And even if she did see him? What on earth could she do about it?

  A faint whiff of burning came from the pot, and she whisked it off the fire, setting it on the side.

  “They look normal enough to me,” she observed, pouring a tankard of mead and putting it on the table beside Ivor.

  “What do?”

  “Your feet. You seem rather struck by them this morning.”

  Ivor shook his head as if to dispel cobwebs. “Sweet heaven, no wonder I don’t drink deeply very often.”

  “You’re in the minority,” Ari observed, ladling creamy porridge into a bowl. She put the bowl on the table, made a hole in the center with the back of a spoon, and poured golden honey into the middle. Then she stirred the whole and gave him the bowl. “My grandfather taught me to do that. It makes ordinary porridge taste quite extraordinary. Try it.”

  Ivor took a spoonful of the rich, sweet oats and inclined his head in acknowledgment. “A revelation. Where’s yours?”

  “Coming,” she responded, bringing her own bowl to the table. “I thought you’d sleep till noon.”

  “I’m never able to sleep much beyond dawn.” He took a draught of mead, feeling the honeyed brew begin to clear his head. “What are your plans for the day?”

  Ari grimaced. “More time with the seamstresses. Just a few bits and bobs to finish up.”

  “You’ll be ready soon, then?”

  “By hook or by crook.” She finished her porridge and set down her spoon. “I can’t wait to get out of here, Ivor.”

  “We will, and if there are still things that need to be done for your wardrobe, then surely Tilly can take care of them while we’re traveling. She’ll have idle time enough.”

  “I’ll have idle time enough for what, sir?” Tilly stood in the door. Neither of them had heard it open.

  “Oh, to finish any buttons and bows on my traveling wardrobe, my dear,” Ari said.

  “Sooner I shake the dust of this place from my feet, the happier I’ll be, even if it has to be London and them murdering thieves on every corner,” Tilly muttered. “Everyone’s out o’ sorts around here these days, since old Lord Daunt died.” She took the empty porridge pot off the stove and bore it into the scullery for scrubbing.

  “Well, at least we’ll have one enthusiastic companion on the journey,” Ivor remarked, getting up from the table. “I have to see Lord Daunt.” He headed for the stairs to get his boots.

  Ari stayed at the table for a moment, considering. Nothing had been said of the matter that concerned them most nearly, but perhaps Ivor was waiting until they could actually do something about it. She gathered up the porridge bowls and took them into the scullery. How would it be when it was all over? When they’d consummated this marriage of someone else’s convenience? Would Ivor insist on his conjugal rights every night? Or would he be as happy as she that the deed was done and they could manage to live again simply as friends, when they could resume their old ease and companionship, the friendly teasing, slip back into the old ways as they had done during the last hour at the breakfast table?

  He could take a mistress or simply visit bawdy houses when the need arose . . . but no. She knew herself well enough to know that she would not be able to endure that. Her pride would not let her.

  ELEVEN

  Rolf stood with his back to the fire in the Council house, his morning tankard of ale in one hand, the other resting on his hip as he regarded Ivor Chalfont. “I have documents for you to carry to court. They were drawn up by my father.” He summoned a servant with a flick of his hand. “Bring me the casket.”

  The man bowed and disappeared into a back room, returning bearing an oak casket, iron-bound with a heavy padlock. He set it solemnly on the table and stepped back.

  Rolf took a key from his inner pocket and unlocked the padlock, lifting the lid. He took out a scroll of parchment. “This you are to present to his majesty, King Charles.” He handed it to Ivor.

  Ivor unrolled it, and as he began to read, his brow creased. “I don’t understand. Lord Daunt seems to be abjuring the Catholic faith, offering himself to King Charles as a loyal subject. His granddaughter, now married to a staunch Protestant and therefore obliged to embrace her husband’s loyalties, is his representative . . .
a loyal Protestant.” He looked up at Rolf. “Why?”

  Rolf’s smile was thin as, without answering, he took another scroll from the casket. “In the event of his majesty’s death and the ascension of the Duke of York to the throne, you will present this to King James.”

  Ivor read and shook his head. “This is so duplicitous. I, as the son-in-law of an ancient Catholic family, am to swear fealty to a Catholic king on behalf of my wife.”

  “Duplicitous, maybe, but Lord Daunt’s greatest wish was to reestablish our family’s position. And that is now mine and therefore yours. You will go to the court at Whitehall, you will present your credentials to King Charles, and you will also encourage Ariadne to make friends in the Duke of York’s court.”

  “I understand.” Ivor tucked the scrolls into the pocket inside his jerkin. “Why now? Why not last year or the year before?”

  Rolf shook his head. “Had I had my way, it would have happened as soon as Ariadne passed her twelfth birthday and was of marriageable age, but my father would not consider it until he felt she was old enough to understand the complexities.” He took a draught from his tankard. “I doubt she has the wit to understand properly now. However, this has been long in the planning, starting, of course, with your adoption. My father planned a perfect couple, with appropriate credentials, to play the cards dealt them. It is your time now.”

  “I see. And what of this talk of the King’s bastard, the Duke of Monmouth? If he succeeds in his bid for the succession, then we have no credentials here”—Ivor patted his jerkin—“to give us credit in a successful rebellion.”

  “Should Monmouth mount an armed rebellion in the event of the Duke of York’s succession, and should he succeed in defeating the King’s armies, then you, as a Chalfont, will declare yourself for the new Protestant monarch and carry your wife and her family’s loyalties with you. Do you see?”