Medieval 02 - Forbidden

solar. The sight that greeted them was illuminated by hearth, torches, and the misty light pouring through the solar’s high window.
    Duncan sat in the chair of riven oak. Simon was carving a cold joint of meat with his dagger anddeftly piling the thin slices on a silver plate.
    At first Amber thought no one else was in the room. Only when Duncan spoke did she realize that Simon was slicing up food not for himself, but for another.
    “Lady Ariane,” Duncan said, rising from the lord’s chair, “I would like you to meet my weapon, a witch called Amber.”
    A woman dressed in a gown of black wool turned around. In her hands was a small harp.
    At first Amber thought Ariane was wearing a cowl of darkly shining black cloth embroidered with silver and violet threads. Then Amber realized that the cowl was Ariane’s hair, thickly plaited and coiled. Silver ornaments gleamed in the midnight blackness, and amethysts glittered almost secretly with Ariane’s smallest movement.
    “Go to her, Amber,” Duncan said.
    For a moment Amber couldn’t force herself to move. Then her feet obeyed the commands of her mind rather than her heart. She walked up to the Norman heiress.
    “Lady Ariane,” she said, nodding.
    For an instant, curiosity animated eyes that were as richly violet as the gems woven into Ariane’s hair. Then the woman’s thick black eyelashes swept down.
    When her eyes opened again it was as though a door had closed. Nothing of curiosity or any other emotion remained. The heiress’s eyes were as cold and remote as the amethysts she wore.
    “A pleasure,” Ariane said.
    Her voice was cool, her words accented by her birth in Normandy. She made no offer to touch Amber in any way, even the most trivial brush of fingers in greeting.
    Amber suspected it was Ariane’s nature, rather than any special warning on Duncan’s part about touching Amber, that kept the Norman aloof.
    “You have had a long journey,” Amber said.
    “A chattel goes where it is bidden.” Ariane shrugged gracefully and set the harp aside.
    Chill fingers caressed Amber’s spine. It was obvious that Ariane no more wanted the forthcoming marriage to Duncan than Amber did.
    “Now you see why I require you,” Duncan said sardonically. “My betrothed’s enthusiasm for the match reminds me that her father considers Saxons his enemy. God—or more likely the Devil—knows what Baron Deguerre thinks of Scots.”
    Ariane neither moved nor spoke in response to Duncan. Within the pale perfection of her face, her eyes were the only thing alive; and they were alive only as a gem is alive, reflecting light rather than having light of their own.
    “It reminded me of Dominic’s marriage,” Duncan added.
    Simon sliced through another bit of roast with a single swift stroke.
    “Aye,” Simon said. “John gave his daughter as an act of vengeance rather than as a true joining of clans.”
    “Exactly,” Duncan retorted. “I have no wish to wake up and find myself wed to a maid who can’t give me heirs.”
    Amber sensed the involuntary shrinking that went through the heiress who sat so still amid her splendor of rich black clothes and extraordinary jewelry.
    Cassandra also sensed the Norman woman’s inner flinching. She looked at Ariane with true interest for the first time.
    Simon put a plate of meats, cheeses, and spiced fruits in front of Ariane. When his hand brushed her sleeve, she started and looked at him with the wildness of a trapped animal in her amethyst eyes.
    “Ale?” he asked calmly.
    “No. Thank you.”
    Ignoring Ariane’s refusal, Simon put a mug of gently seething ale in front of her.
    “You’re too frail,” he said bluntly. “Eat.”
    Simon stepped back, no longer leaning over Ariane. She let out a ragged breath. When she reached for a sliver of meat, her hand trembled.
    Impassively, Simon watched until Ariane chewed, swallowed, and reached for a bit of cheese. When she began eating that as well, he looked at Duncan.
    “Lady Ariane needs rest,” Simon said. “We rode without pausing during the day. Nights were little better. After Carlysle, there was no shelter from the storms.”
    “I won’t keep her long,” Duncan said. He looked at Amber. “Take her hand, witch.”
    Amber had known this was coming since she had heard Duncan’s fears about heirs. Knowing, she had prepared herself. Her hand was steady when she held it out to Ariane.
    The Norman girl’s expression said quite clearly that she disliked being