In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,63
spectre hovering over him, his first wild thought was that the charm had somehow failed.
“I have come to give you fair warning, Uncle,” Ariel declared, her breasts heaving, her cheeks flushed from running. “I will not marry the lout. I will not even return to England if that is to be my fate, and if you try to force me, I will climb to the highest turret of this accursed castle and throw myself from the peak!”
“Ariel? Plague take me, girl … what is the hour?”
“It is late,” she snapped. “Far too late to offer apologies or excuses. I trusted you. I came to you because I loved and trusted you as I have always loved and trusted you!”
William, whose habit was to sleep naked, drew the blankets up over his belly. His chest was a mass of knotted muscles and swarming gray hairs, the latter frothing like a covering of fresh snow in the candlelight.
“Sit you down, girl … no! Fetch a stoup of wine first; my mouth tastes like a farrier’s bib.”
Ariel thought his eyelids looked polished and heavy enough from drink, and she told him so under her breath as she walked over to the bedside table and poured a measure of wine from the standing ewer. She could hear him grumbling as he pulled on his bliaut and braies, and ordering his man— Tinker, who was almost as old as the marshal and far from being in the blush of his squiring days—to fetch a mantle for warmth.
Ariel drained the goblet of wine she had poured, bracing herself for the fiery thrill as it coursed down her throat. The strength of it brought a sting to her eyes and caused her to reach out and grasp the tabletop for support, but she weathered the dizzying rush and hastened to pour her uncle another goblet full before he emerged from behind the bed curtains.
He scowled at the fire in passing as if to confirm, by its life and brilliance, that he had not had his head to the pillow long. The men had spent several hours debating strategies and schemes, seeking weaknesses and trying to anticipate problems in the plan to rescue the princess. When the candles had melted into puddles and several flagons of ale had been emptied, they had decided to adjourn and meet again on the morrow with clear heads and fresh thoughts … which would hopefully have been encouraged by a few hours’ sleep.
“Could you not have waited until morning to give poor Tinker cause to think his heart had stopped?”
“No,” she said adamantly. “I could not.”
William grunted and eased his big body into a chair. He waved for her to bring him the wine and indulged in several deep swallows as he peered at her over the rim. She looked like a wild woman, one of the Welsh Furies who were said to roam the barren, rocky coastline in search of souls to steal. Her hair fell in damp spirals over her shoulders, and her face … something was odd about her face.
“Where have you been this late of an hour and who have you been talking to with such fine results?”
“I have been on the roof, seeking air, and I have been talking to the Bastard, FitzRandwulf.”
“FitzRandwulf? What has he said to twist your nose into such a knot?”
“He said”—she plumped her hands on her hips and glared down at him like an avenging angel—“you have charged him with the task of delivering me back to England, back into the arms of my betrothed.”
William took another mouthful of wine. “And so I have. He looks a capable enough fellow. Together with your brother, they should manage not to lose you.”
“Lose me? Lose me?”
William winced. “Must you shout, Niece? My head aches enough as it is.”
Ariel whirled, paced to the far wall, then paced back. “Aye, it appears I must shout if I am to make myself heard. Uncle! How can you send me back knowing what waits in store?”
“What waits in store if I do not? Setting aside the fact that the king does not take kindly to blatant acts of rebellion, you are eighteen years old—almost nineteen! You should have been wed half a dozen years ago. Would have been, by Christ, had I only listened to your aunt. You have rejected too many offers to recount, for too many reasons too flimsy to support the weight of a feather. No, you are long overdue for a husband, whether he