Medieval 03 - Enchanted

never
complained of anything lacking in you before her marriage to
Robert. Afterward, she complained of little else.”
    Dominic made an impatient sound. “Do not play
theslackwitted serf with me, Simon. I know too
well just how quick your mind is.”
    Simon waited.
    “Lust is one thing,” Dominic said
flatly. “Love is quite another.”
    “To you, perhaps. To me, both mean a singular
stupi—um, vulnerability in a man.”
    Dominic’s grin was wolfish. He knew quite
well how Simon felt about men who loved women. Stupid was the least
insulting word he had heard Simon use.
    But it had not always been thus. Only since the
Holy Crusade and the Saracen dungeon.
    “Nothing I learned among the Saracens led me
to believe that a vulnerable knight was a wise one,” Simon
concluded.
    “Love isn’t a war between enemies to be
won or lost.”
    “For you, yes,” conceded Simon.

“For other men, no.”
    “What of Duncan?”
    “Nothing I have seen of Duncan recommends
love to me,” Simon said coolly.
    Dominic looked surprised.
    “God’s teeth,” Simon snarled.
“Duncan nearly died in that hellish Druid place where he
found Amber!”
    “But he didn’t die. Love was
stronger.”
    “Love?” Simon grunted. “Duncan
was simply too thick-skulled and stubborn to let feminine witchery
defeat him.”
    The Glendruid Wolf looked broodingly at the
handsome, sun-haired brother whom he loved more than anything on
earth save his wife Meg.
    “You are wrong,” Dominic said finally,
“just as I was wrong when I came out of the sultan’s
hell.”
    Simon started to argue, thought better of it, and
shrugged instead.
    “Aye,” Dominic said, “you do
understand what I am talking about. You were the first to see the
difference in me. I had no warmth.”
    Again, Simon didn’t disagree.
    “Meg brought warmth to my soul,”
Dominic said. “And then I noticed something that has troubled
me ever since.”
    “Weakness?” Simon asked ironically.
    A wolf’s smile flashed and vanished.
    “Nay. It is you, Simon.”
    “I?”
    “Yes. Like me, you left all warmth in the
Saracen land.”
    Simon shrugged. “Then the cold Norman heiress
and I are well matched.”
    “That is what worries me,” Dominic
said. “You are too well matched. Who will bring warmth to you
if you marry Ariane?”
    Simon speared another piece of meat.
    “Do not worry, Wolf of Glendruid. Warmth will
be no problem for me.”
    “Oh? You sound quite certain.”
    “I am.”
    “And how will you achieve this
miracle?” Dominic asked skeptically.
    “I shall line my mantle with fur.”

5
    B etween shouts of wind and bursts of
icy rain, the sentry called out the hour. The call was repeated
through the bailey and into the settlement beyond, telling serf and
villein to set aside their tools and bring their animals into the
fold even though there was still light in the stormy sky.
    Motionless but for her own breaths, Ariane stared
through the slit window down to the bailey, fighting her fear of
the coming night by concentrating on the view below. Fragrant smoke
poured from the uncertain shelter of the kitchen area. Servants
bustled about the ovens and spits that had begun working well
before dawn, baking and roasting all that was necessary for the
hurried marriage feast.
    “’Tis fortunate that the harvest is
good,” Cassandra said from the doorway. “Otherwise the
keep would have been sore put to create a feast worthy of the
coming marriage. There has been scant time to prepare for such an
important alliance.”
    Slowly Ariane turned around. She wasn’t
surprised to see Cassandra, for she had recognized the Learned
woman’s voice even before she saw her distinctive scarlet
robes. But Ariane was surprised by the fabric Cassandra held in her
hands.
    With a sound of wonder, Ariane walked closer. Her
first thought was that she had never seen a dress more beautifully
embroidered. Intricate silver stitches flashed at neckline and hem,
and ran likecurved lightning through the lining
of the long, very full sleeves.
    Ariane’s second thought was that the color of
the rich cloth itself was an exact match for the amethyst ring she
wore. Her third thought was that such a magnificent dress should be
worn by a happy bride, rather than by one looking for any way out
of the marital trap.
    Even death.
    Cassandra’s pale eyes watched each shade of
Ariane’s response, from the pleased light in the Norman
heiress’s otherwise dark eyes at the sight of the cloth, to
the