Trapped at the Altar (22 page)

The man regarded Ivor, eyes suddenly narrowed. “T'other fellow said there was a coach an' horses, an' men.”

“They're coming up behind,” Ivor said briskly. “I came ahead to make the necessary arrangements.” He opened the drawstring neck of the purse and took out a guinea. The gold flashed in the dimness. “You've a loft where my wife and myself can have a bed. We will need supper for the two of us. My men will take care of the horses and their own needs in the barn. I believe you can supply them with whatever's necessary for their comfort and that of the horses, for the right price.” He rolled the guinea between his fingers.

The innkeeper's eyes were riveted on the glittering coin. “For another one o' them, sir, they can 'ave whatever they want.”

Ivor nodded. “And you can provide a decent meal for my wife and myself?”

“Aye. The wife's a dab hand with a Cornish pasty,
there's a flitch of bacon an' a couple of partridges ready hung. If that'll do you.”

“Amply, I thank you.” Ivor placed the coin into the man's outstretched hand. “I'll pay the rest of the reckoning when we leave in the morning.” He glanced over his shoulder at sounds on the track. “And here, I believe, are the rest of our party.” He dismounted, turning to give a hand to Ariadne, but she was already on the ground, loosening Sphinx's girth strap, looping the stirrups up onto the saddle.

At some point, that was another conversation they were going to have to have, Ivor reflected. But while they rode through the wilderness, it was probably best to leave Ari to be self-sufficient, as she knew so well how to be.

A woman appeared in the open doorway, her none-too-clean apron dusted with flour. She nodded at the new arrivals before saying, “Well, if you're comin' inside, best get on wi' it. The rain'll start soon enough.” It was a typical country welcome, not much of one at all. Folks in these hinterlands tended to keep themselves to themselves and look with suspicion at strangers.

“Thank you, mistress.” Ari took charge, moving past Ivor to greet the woman with a smile. “I'll own we're all very weary after a long day in the saddle.” She stepped past the landlady into a taproom, from which a rickety staircase rose in the far corner. It was not unlike her own cottage, except that the taproom floor was matted with clotted sawdust, and the air, reeking of ale and tobacco, was thick enough to coat a spoon. A long, stained slab of pine served as a bar counter, a wooden settle stood to one
side of the fireplace, where a fire smoldered rather than blazed, and a few scattered stools provided the rest of the seating.
Cheerless
was the word, Ari thought, but at least it was shelter, and there was a strong sense of a storm brewing. The wind banged the open shutters against the outside walls.

“Tilly needs to be in here with us,” she said softly to Ivor, who had stepped in after her.

“Of course,” he agreed instantly. “Forgive me for not thinking of it earlier.” He turned to the woman, who stood now at the bar counter, wiping ineffectually at the stains with her apron. “My wife's maid will need accommodation within, mistress. And she will sup with us.”

“Lor', Miss Ari, 'tis beginning to rain.” Tilly's voice came opportunely from the door to the taproom. She stood swathed in her many garments, looking around the room with some disfavor. “Looks like a proper storm is brewing.” She spied the landlady at her dusting and stepped in. “If you've the makings for a punch bowl, mistress, Sir Ivor and Miss Ari would be glad of it, I'm sure. Show me where to find it, and I'll have it ready in no time. An' if you'd like a bit of help with supper, I'd be glad to give a hand. 'Tis hard, I know, to have folk drop by when you're not prepared for 'em.”

The landlady looked at Tilly closely and instantly recognized her for what she was, a West Country lass with the same broad Somerset dialect of her own speech. “I'll not say no to a bit of help,” she said. “Kitchen's this way.”

Tilly discarded her cloak over a stool and unfastened the sheepskin jacket. “Keep an eye on these, Miss Ari,”
she instructed, dropping the jacket over the cloak. “Rob you blind soon as look at you, I wouldn't be surprised.”

“She may have a point,” Ivor said with a chuckle. “But at least in Tilly's hands, we'll have an edible supper.”

“Yes, let's go and look at this loft.” Ari started for the stairs. She climbed up into a sleeping loft similar to her own. It was very sparsely furnished. A straw mattress on a rough bedstead and little else. “Where's Tilly to sleep?”

Ivor came up behind her and looked around. “You and she take the bed. I'll get some straw and bed down on the floor.”

Ari stared at him. “I don't think that will be in the least satisfactory,
husband
.”

He shook his head, half laughing. “My dear, a night of unbridled passion in a wayside loft is hardly practicable.”

“Maybe not. But I intend to have it, nevertheless,” she said with the stubborn lift of her chin that he knew so well. “We will make a bed for Tilly downstairs on the settle in the taproom, near the fire. She will be perfectly content.”

“We'll talk about that later.” Ivor unfastened his cloak and turned his attention to the fireplace, where a few bits of kindling lay on a bed of old embers. “Wonder when they last lit a fire in here.” He picked up the poker and stuck it up the chimney, rattling it against the sides. “Well, that's something . . . no birds' nests, at least.” He disappeared down the stairs, and Ari heard him giving brisk instructions.

She unfastened her own cloak and went to the small round window under the eaves. The sky was a purple-black
color, and the trees were beginning to sway as the wind blew strong, gathering speed as it came from the distant sea across the flat plain of the Levels. There was no sign of moonrise and not a glimpse of the evening star.

She
did
want a night of lovemaking with her husband. The memories of the previous night were fading, and she needed to repaint them. Somehow she had to work through this confusing tangle of feelings. Why was it possible to feel such needful lust for one man when the memories of what she believed to be an eternal love and passion for another were still so bright? Perhaps last night had not been as wonderful as she remembered. Maybe her relief that the obstacle of consummation was overcome without any of the discomfort or downright repulsion that she had expected had colored the experience. But Ariadne didn't think it was that . . . not in her heart of hearts.

Footsteps clattered on the stairs, and a young boy of about ten came in bearing a basket of wood on his back. “The gennelman says I'm to light the fire, mistress.”

“Thank you.” Ari pulled back the covers on the bed. The straw mattress was lumpy and probably jumping with fleas. She went to the staircase and called down for Tilly, who came to the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes, Miss Ari . . . punch is almost ready.”

“We brought some of that extra-thick coarse sheeting, didn't we?”

“Oh, aye.” Tilly came up the stairs and examined the straw with a wrinkled nose. “Fleas and lice, too, I'll be bound. The sheeting's in one of the bags in the coach. I
told 'em to pack it on top of the rest so we could get at it easily.” She retreated downstairs again.

“What on earth are you doing?” Ivor reappeared on the stairs. “The punch is ready.”

“But the bed isn't,” she said succinctly. “Not unless you want to wake up covered in flea bites.”

“It's a hazard of travel,” he observed. “What are you doing about it?”

“Tilly's gone to fetch the sheeting. It's thick and coarse enough to stop them getting through.” Smoke billowed into the chamber from the newly lit fire, and she coughed. “We could always smoke 'em out, I suppose.”

“Well, leave that to Tilly, and come down and drink your punch.”

Ariadne complied, eager to escape the still-billowing smoke. The outside door opened on a violent gust of wind as Tilly struggled in, her arms so full she could barely see over the top of her burden. Ivor leapt forward, yanking the door open as the girl fought her way into the taproom. “Lor', that's some storm a-brewin'. The horses are mighty restless.”

She set her burden on a stool and felt in her apron pocket, taking out a small muslin bag. “I'll sprinkle this first, then we'll put down the sheets, an' then we'll sprinkle some more. Should do the trick.” She was still talking as she went back upstairs.

Ivor was stirring a punch bowl over a trivet in the hearth. “What is she talking about?”

“Oh, a mixture, garlic, cloves, mint, basil, I think, and some other things no one else knows about that keep
fleas away.” Ari came to sit on a stool by the fire. “Tilly has remedies for everything. Her mother was a renowned herbalist and taught Tilly all she knew.”

“Useful,” Ivor said, ladling the pungent, steaming liquid from the bowl into a tarnished pewter cup. “Try that.”

Ari took a sip, and the heady mixture of rum, brandy, hot water, and butter, with a liberal dash of nutmeg and cloves, seemed to invigorate her tired limbs. “Oh, that is good.” She listened to the rushing sound of the wind, the rattling of the shutters now closed against the battering. “Will they be all right in that barn?”

“It's sturdy enough. Besides, they've all known worse weather,” Ivor responded, sipping from his own tankard.

Tilly came back downstairs for the sheets, and Ari rose to help her. “No need, Miss Ari.” Tilly waved her away.

“Nonsense. It'll be quicker with the two of us.” Ari grabbed the pile and headed up to the loft. “I'm sure Tilly would be glad of a cup of that punch, Ivor, when we're finished.”

Ignoring Tilly's objections, she helped her sprinkle some of the herb mixture onto the straw and then smother the whole with the thick, coarse linen. More of the herb mixture went over the sheets, and then Tilly shook out the blankets and covers and threw them back onto the bed. Ari wondered whether she and Ivor would be sprouting sprigs of basil and mint in the morning, but at least they wouldn't be covered in itchy lumps.

“You'll sleep on the settle below, Tilly,” she said.

“Lord, Miss Ari, there'll be men drinkin' at the bar, like as not.”

“No, you'll be quite undisturbed.” Ari laughed. “Sir Ivor has paid for the inn for the night, just for us. It won't be open for anyone else . . . not,” she added, “that there'll be many out in this storm looking for a pint of ale. Let's see what we can do about supper.” She went down to the taproom and found it empty. Ivor's cloak was no longer on the stool, so he must have gone out.

The punch bowl still sat on the trivet, and she refilled her own tankard and filled another for Tilly, who took it and drank it down in one long gulp. “Thank you, miss. I'll go an' help out with supper now. Her pastry looks light enough, but there's no knowing what she'll be doin' with those pheasants.”

Ariadne sat down by the fire, stretching her booted feet to the andirons, listening to the roaring wind. However primitive their accommodations, they were a lot pleasanter than a night outdoors in the storm.

The door opened and slammed as Ivor came in, shaking water from his hat and cloak. “The horses are bedded down snug enough. Sphinx isn't too happy, but he's safe. The men have a keg of scrumpy, so they have no complaints.” He draped his wet cloak over a stool close to the fire, where it steamed gently. “By the way, the outhouse is foul, way at the back of the kitchen garden. If you've any sense you'll use a chamber pot tonight.”

Ari grimaced but made no objection. Privacy was a lost cause on a journey such as this.

Their host came in from the back and set two crusted bottles on the bar counter. “These do ye? You said wine with your supper.”

Ivor took up one of the bottles and examined the color in the lamplight. “Let's try it.” He poured a small quantity into a cup and sipped. “Good . . . very good,” he pronounced. “You've obviously got a good supplier, Master Danton.”

The landlord looked as pleased as he was capable of doing. “Aye, our band look after us well enough.”

The landlady, her cheeks flushed from the range, emerged from the kitchen with a tureen. “Cabbage soup,” she declared, setting it down on the counter. “That girl of yours is takin' some out to the barn. I told her the wind'd knock her off her feet . . . took no notice.” Muttering, she fetched two bowls from a dresser beside the fireplace, thumped them onto the table with a pair of spoons, and returned to her domain.

“Tilly's carrying a tureen of soup to the men?” Ivor asked in astonishment. “In this weather . . . what the hell's the girl thinking of?”

“Other people who've been on the road as long as we have and are probably chilled to the bone,” Ari retorted, her tone a little tart. She took her bowl back to her stool by the fire. “She'll probably eat with them herself.”

Ivor frowned but accepted the reproof. “The lad could have taken it, if she'd said.”

“You don't know Tilly very well, do you?” Ari observed, sipping her soup hungrily. “This is very good, but of course, it has Tilly's magic touch.”

“Indeed,” he agreed with a dry smile. “I shall go in search of bread.” He ventured into the kitchen regions
and came back triumphant with a loaf of oat bread. He set it down on a stool between them.

It was Tilly who brought in a pheasant stew and a Cornish pasty. “Here you are, then. All's well in the barn. Sphinx has settled now, Miss Ari, thought you'd like to know. The men are snug, but Jake wants to know if you want one of 'em to stand guard, Sir Ivor.”

Ivor considered. The wind howled, the rain beat against the shutters. No one in their right mind would stage an attack on a night like this. And in truth, he didn't have the heart to instruct one of his exhausted retinue to stand watch throughout the night. Not in the light of Ari's sharpness on the subject of Tilly and the welfare of his men.