drugged—as the morning passed, then midday, the last of the drug wore off,
and she regained her wits somewhat. Finally the mules stopped, and for the
first time it was in the middle of the day. She remained huddled in the litter,
afraid to look out, but gnawed with an anxious need to know what was happening.
The
decision on what to do was taken out of her hands. That now-familiar leather
gauntlet shoved the curtains aside, and Lord Lyon's voice rang out with hearty
cheer that she knew now was all too false.
"Come
out and look upon your new home, sweeting! We are here at last!"
He
pulled her from the litter without giving her a chance to move her own stiff
limbs, then set her down on the roadway with a
smacking kiss on her forehead.
"There
you are, my Lady!" he crowed, waving his hand with proprietary pride. "Lyon Castle! I'll wager you've never seen its like before!"
That
much was certainly the truth. Her cozy and welcoming home was nothing like
this.
Lyon
Castle was as grim and imposing as the tall men that guarded it, a huge pile of
stone and iron that loomed gray and cheerless against the overcast sky. Armed
men patrolled the top of the crenellated wall surrounding it, and more armed
men stood watch on top of towers at each corner of the walls. No welcoming
lights gleamed at the windows, because there were no windows, only mere defensive
slits in the thick rock walls. A formidable portcullis, just now drawn up,
defended the entrance with fangs of blackened iron. It made the entrance look
exactly like the open maw of a terrible monster. At her feet a moat full of
dark, chill water encircled the castle and its grounds, with the drawbridge now
down and extending from the road where she stood to the entrance. There was no
crowd of welcomers standing on the other side of the bridge, only another pair
of dour, armored guards in slate- gray surcoats, one on either side of the
entranceway.
If
her legs had been steadier, she would have turned and run at that moment. But
her knees trembled and threatened to give way under her, and Lord Lyon's firm
grip on her arm seemed impossible to dislodge. He marched cheerfully towards
the fangs of his portcullis, drawing her with him, and his men marched behind,
their spurs ringing with each step.
Once
inside the entrance, she heard the portcullis groan as it was lowered into
place behind her, chains clanking and clattering until it dropped into position
with a final, echoing thud.
The
entrance was a long, dark tunnel beneath the walls, lit by a pair of smoking
torches. It ended in a bare little courtyard open to the ashen sky, at a huge
wooden double door with massive iron hinges, half of which swung open as they
approached. More guards waited inside, and Lord Lyon urged her onwards as she
felt the walls closing in around her like a trap.
The
entryway, dark and ill-lit by more torches, was nearly as cold as the road
outside. Huge chairs of dark wood, elaborately carved and uncompromisingly
uncomfortable, stood against the wall, which was not even softened by so much
as a single tapestry. A staircase descended to this stone-walled entryway, and
three women, the first Ariella had seen in four days, moved quietly down it
towards them.
The
woman in the lead was older than Ariella, though not as old as Lady Magda;
sleek and sensual, black of hair and gray of eye, with a perfectly sculpted
face that showed not a trace of emotion. Gowned in a velvet of deep blue, bound
around with a silver-chain chatelaine belt, with a silver crucifix at her neck
and a thin silver band binding her hair, Ariella knew she must be a woman of
rank—or at least, importance. The two younger girls behind her, fresh-faced,
brown-cheeked maids with brown hair, wearing simple chemises and woolen smocks,
were clearly servants.
"Lady
Katherine! I put my bride gratefully into your hands!" Lord Lyon called
out without bothering to hide his relief. "Lady Katherine, this is the
Lady Ariella, my distant cousin. Ariella,
and she regained her wits somewhat. Finally the mules stopped, and for the
first time it was in the middle of the day. She remained huddled in the litter,
afraid to look out, but gnawed with an anxious need to know what was happening.
The
decision on what to do was taken out of her hands. That now-familiar leather
gauntlet shoved the curtains aside, and Lord Lyon's voice rang out with hearty
cheer that she knew now was all too false.
"Come
out and look upon your new home, sweeting! We are here at last!"
He
pulled her from the litter without giving her a chance to move her own stiff
limbs, then set her down on the roadway with a
smacking kiss on her forehead.
"There
you are, my Lady!" he crowed, waving his hand with proprietary pride. "Lyon Castle! I'll wager you've never seen its like before!"
That
much was certainly the truth. Her cozy and welcoming home was nothing like
this.
Lyon
Castle was as grim and imposing as the tall men that guarded it, a huge pile of
stone and iron that loomed gray and cheerless against the overcast sky. Armed
men patrolled the top of the crenellated wall surrounding it, and more armed
men stood watch on top of towers at each corner of the walls. No welcoming
lights gleamed at the windows, because there were no windows, only mere defensive
slits in the thick rock walls. A formidable portcullis, just now drawn up,
defended the entrance with fangs of blackened iron. It made the entrance look
exactly like the open maw of a terrible monster. At her feet a moat full of
dark, chill water encircled the castle and its grounds, with the drawbridge now
down and extending from the road where she stood to the entrance. There was no
crowd of welcomers standing on the other side of the bridge, only another pair
of dour, armored guards in slate- gray surcoats, one on either side of the
entranceway.
If
her legs had been steadier, she would have turned and run at that moment. But
her knees trembled and threatened to give way under her, and Lord Lyon's firm
grip on her arm seemed impossible to dislodge. He marched cheerfully towards
the fangs of his portcullis, drawing her with him, and his men marched behind,
their spurs ringing with each step.
Once
inside the entrance, she heard the portcullis groan as it was lowered into
place behind her, chains clanking and clattering until it dropped into position
with a final, echoing thud.
The
entrance was a long, dark tunnel beneath the walls, lit by a pair of smoking
torches. It ended in a bare little courtyard open to the ashen sky, at a huge
wooden double door with massive iron hinges, half of which swung open as they
approached. More guards waited inside, and Lord Lyon urged her onwards as she
felt the walls closing in around her like a trap.
The
entryway, dark and ill-lit by more torches, was nearly as cold as the road
outside. Huge chairs of dark wood, elaborately carved and uncompromisingly
uncomfortable, stood against the wall, which was not even softened by so much
as a single tapestry. A staircase descended to this stone-walled entryway, and
three women, the first Ariella had seen in four days, moved quietly down it
towards them.
The
woman in the lead was older than Ariella, though not as old as Lady Magda;
sleek and sensual, black of hair and gray of eye, with a perfectly sculpted
face that showed not a trace of emotion. Gowned in a velvet of deep blue, bound
around with a silver-chain chatelaine belt, with a silver crucifix at her neck
and a thin silver band binding her hair, Ariella knew she must be a woman of
rank—or at least, importance. The two younger girls behind her, fresh-faced,
brown-cheeked maids with brown hair, wearing simple chemises and woolen smocks,
were clearly servants.
"Lady
Katherine! I put my bride gratefully into your hands!" Lord Lyon called
out without bothering to hide his relief. "Lady Katherine, this is the
Lady Ariella, my distant cousin. Ariella,
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