Medieval 03 - Enchanted

to
be drawn to the river’s edge. A path wound irresistibly
through bracken turned gold by the wild, chill kiss of autumn gone
to winter. The rocky point where the path ended was home to a
handful of birch and rowan trees whose toughness was equaled only
by their elegance of line.
    In the most protected places, the trees still clung
to a few of their leaves, but the rest lay underfoot like coins
flung carelessly to the ground. More leaves floated on the small
river and caught among the cobbles that lined the banks.
    Ariane walked through the golden landscape until
she discovered a natural rocky bench that hadn’t been visible
from the upper lane. The faint polish of the stone’s surface
suggested that people had been coming to this place and staying to
watch the water flow for as long as the River Blackthorne had run
down to the sea.
    With a ragged sigh, Ariane settled onto the
time-smoothed stone. The empty basket dropped from her fingers. For
a while there was only the sound of the river swirling gracefully
over stones and the wind combing through branches naked of
leaves.
    Slowly Ariane removed her harp from its case and
began to play. The sounds she made harmonized with wind and river
and season, beautiful and yet bleak with the certainty of
winter’s killing embrace.
    Gradually Ariane’s thoughts turned to the
nightmare that did not end with the coming of the day. The
nightmare that had no end she could see. The nightmare that she
still struggled to understand…what had happened and why and
how she could weave that terrible thread into the pattern of the
rest of her life.
    Eyes closed, Ariane let the harp sing of
unspeakable betrayal begetting more betrayal, of grief both savage
and unrelenting short of the grave.
    And perhaps, not even there.
    “I thought it must be your fingers making the
harp sing. But by Christ’s blue eyes, you play dire notes.
Have you been pining for me, my little cabbage?”
    The music ended as though cut off by a sword.
    Geoffrey. Dear God, it
can’t be !
    Ariane’s eyes snapped open. Her nightmare was
indeed standing in front of her, his mantle thrown back to reveal
the armor beneath.
    Geoffrey the Fair.
    Tall, brawny, good-looking to the point of beauty,
beloved by girls and noblemen alike, and a deadly fighter who loved
to battle three to his one.
    The sight of Geoffrey standing proud and powerful
in his armor made Ariane’s stomach turn over. Nausea climbed
her throat as icy sweat broke on her skin.
    “I thought myself rid of you,” she said
starkly.
    Geoffrey smiled as though Ariane had called him her
dearest heart. Eyes as blue and opaque as robins’ eggs looked
slowly at her, taking in the sleek black of her hair, the matchless
beauty of her eyes, and the deep curve of her lips.
    “By the saints, I long to bite that mouth
again,” Geoffrey said. “I have dreamed of hearing you
moan and bleed while I lick it up like a starving hound.”
    Ariane fought nausea’s tightening coils. She
knew she must control her body enough to speak in her own defense,
for no one else would.
    No matter what happened, this time she would scream
and curse and claw blood from Geoffrey’s smiling face.
    “What do you want,” Ariane said.
    There was no question in her tone, simply a demand
that Geoffrey state his business.
    “You.”
    “I do not want you.”
    Geoffrey laughed. “Still the coy maiden, I
see.”
    “I am married.”
    “So?”
    Geoffrey’s shrug made the chain mail of his
hauberk shift and gleam in the rich autumn sunlight.
    “Unlike you,” Ariane said, “I am
honorable.”
    “Truly? Then why did you go to your husband
deflowered?”
    “Because you raped me!”
    The smile Geoffrey gave her was the boyish one
Ariane had once found charming. But no more. It revolted her that a
man could look as innocent as one of God’s angels and yet
have the soul and the sensibilities of a pig.
    “Rape? Nay,” Geoffrey said, rubbing his
gauntleted hands together. “Rather it was I who was ravished
by your beauty. I lay slack-witted from wine and awakened to find
your hands in my breeches.”
    “You are lying!”
    “Nay, little cabbage. There is no need to
pretend innocence. We are alone.”
    “Then why do you bother to lie?” Ariane
asked scathingly.
    “Lie? I but tell the truth. I am the one who
awoke to find my rod in your mouth and then in your hungry
wet—”
    “ Liar .”
    “Ah, I bring color to your little
cheeks.”
    “You bring vomit to my