Medieval 03 - Enchanted

the
bushel basket.”
    “That is why pigs are turned loose to root in
the orchard after harvest,” Duncan retorted. “Otherwise
only the worms would fatten.”
    “At present, the pig in question is
underground, rooting in one of your cellars.”
    “God’s blood,” Duncan said
through his teeth as he strode out the door. “I told Ethelrod
to build a pen stout enough to hold that clever swine.”
    “Excuse me,” Amber said, trying not to
laugh out loud. “I must see this. Ethelrod’s pig is a
source of much amusement to the people of the keep.”
    “Unless that swine is kept under
control,” Simon said dryly, “it will be the source of
much bacon.”
    Amber burst out laughing and hurried after her
husband.
    Simon’s quick eyes caught the shadow of a
smile on Ariane’s lips. The beauty of it reminded him of the
first instant he had seen the Norman heiress. He had felt as though
the breath had been driven from his body by a mailed fist.
    Even now it was hard to believe that Ariane was
almost within his reach, a highborn girl engaged to a bastard whose
only claim to wealth or worth lay in his quick sword arm.
    Without meaning to, Simon reached out to her.
    “Ariane…” he whispered.
    Ariane blinked at the sound of her name. For a few
moments she had forgotten she wasn’t alone.
    When Simon’s hand touched her hair, she
flinched away.
    Slowly Simon lowered his hand. The effort not to
clench it into a fist was so great it left him aching. Yet he made
the effort without knowing it, for he had vowed never again to let
lust for a woman rule his actions.
    “Soon we will be husband and wife,” he
said flatly.
    A shudder went over Ariane.
    “Do you react like this to all men,”

Simon asked, “or just to me?”
    “I will do my duty,” Ariane said in a
low voice.
    Yet even as she spoke, she realized that the words
were a lie. She had thought she could go through with her wifely
duties. Now she knew she could not. She simply couldn’t force
herself to submit to rape again.
    Unfortunately the realization had come too late.
The wedding was set. The trap was sprung.
    No way out .
    Except one .
    Yet this time the thought of death brought no
comfort to Ariane.
    How can I kill Simon, whose
only crime is love of his brother ?
    Failing that, how can I endure
rape again, and then again, all the years of my life ?
    “My duty,” she whispered.
    “Duty,” Simon repeated in a low voice.
“Is that all you will be able to bring to the marriage? Is
your beauty like the whore Marie’s, a lush fabric wrapped
around a soul of icy calculations?”
    Ariane said nothing, for she was afraid if her
mouth opened, a scream of rage and betrayal would be all that came
out.
    “Your anticipation of our marriage overwhelms
me,” Simon said sardonically. “See that I don’t
have to send a man-at-arms to fetch you to the altar. For by
Christ’s blue eyes, I will do just that if I must.”
    Simon turned and left the room without another
word.
    None was needed. Ariane had no doubt that Simon
would do exactly as he said. He was, in all things, a man who kept
his vows.
    No escape .
    Save one …
    Without knowing it, Ariane’s fingers closed
around the harp strings. A despairing, dissonant wail was ripped
from the instrument.
    It was the only sound Ariane made.
    The wedding would begin before the sun set and end
before the moon rose. Before the moon set once more, the bride must
find a way to kill.
    Or die.

3
    M elancholy, subtly clashing chords
quivered through Ariane’s corner room. Although Stone Ring
Keep seethed with hurried preparations for the coming wedding, no
one disturbed Ariane until the maid Blanche belatedly arrived to
see to her mistress’s needs.
    A glance was all it took for Ariane to see that
nothing had changed in the handmaiden’s health. The
girl’s face was still too pale. Beneath a kerchief of
indifferent cleanliness, Blanche’s light brown hair had no
luster. Nor did her blue eyes. Obviously she felt no better today
than she had since the middle of the voyage from Normandy to
England.
    “Good morning, Blanche. Or is it
afternoon?”
    There was no censure in Ariane’s voice,
rather simple curiosity.
    “Did you not hear the sentries crying the
time?” Blanche asked.
    “No.”
    “Well, ’tis to be expected, what with
finding yourself so soon to be married to a groom who is not the
man you expected to wed,” Blanche said with a maturity far
beyond her fifteen years.
    Ariane shrugged. “One man