He saw immediately that he had played into Althalos’s hands. His uncle’s dark eyes glinted with triumph. “The people of Darkmoor expect you to uphold the knights’ code, as instilled by your father.Show no weakness. Show no mercy. You knowthis better than anyone, Otto. Has some frenzied desire for this dark-haired wench overcome your sense and learning?”
Gaius reached out a restraining hand and Otto forced himself to stay rooted to the spot, though every inch of him burned with the wish to pummel his uncle to the ground.
“What would you suggest I do?” he asked for the second time.
Althalos took a moment to pretend to consider. “Traitor’s Gate would be a step too far,” he mused. “Mayhap the woman should be flogged?”
Otto shook off Gaius’s hand. “TheCountesswill most certainly not be flogged,” he said icily. “Anyone who lays a hand on her will have me to answer to. Is that clear?”
Gaius nodded quickly, but Althalos did not move. “What is your solution then, nephew? And I pray, do not let your youth and naivete blind you to what must be done. Peace in Darkmoor must be protected, at all costs.” His eyes narrowed. “At the very least, theCountessshould be locked up.”
“Do not lecture me, Althalos,” Otto replied, knowing that every word his uncle spoke was chipping away at his hard-won self-control. “I am the Earl of Darkmoor, and I will act in the best interests of my people.” He gnashed his teeth together, the heat of his anger dispelling the chill of the rain. “Including my wife.”
“The guards are already gathering,” Gaius flung out, preventing Otto’s departure.
Otto clenched his fist, frustration churning in his belly. He was seconds away from losing his composure. “Who gave the order?”
He didn’t need to see the quick flicker of Gaius’s eyes towards Althalos to know the answer.
“I thought it was wise.” Althalos straightened his cloak. “My actions are only ever intended to assist you, Otto.”
Otto bit down on his lower lip until he tasted the metallic tang of blood. “From now on, please assume that I have no further need of your assistance.”
He delivered his words slowly and emphatically, before swiveling on his heel and finally taking his leave, his leather boots splashing through the puddled courtyard as he strode towards the keep. He needed to put as much distance between himself and Althalos as possible, else there was a real risk he might strike the man down. He allowed himself to imagine the moment, picturing the impact of his fist against his uncle’s weak chin, seeing him fall to the ground. But then he shook his head to dispel the fancy. Otto was the one to favor peace over violence; it would be an ill start to his time as earl if he felled his father’s only brother.
Gaius had been right to warn him. The castle guards were already gathering inside the hall, their heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. Several of them carried spears, with sharpened tips pointing up at the vaulted ceiling.
Spears, against a woman?
Otto broke into a jog which took him halfway up the staircase and clapped his hands together.
“Silence,” he roared.
The assembled guard amounted to at least twenty men, all clad in the red tabard of Darkmoor bearing the rearing lion of the Sarragnacs. They stood sharply to attention at the sound of his voice.
“Well done for gathering with such speed,” he called out, improvising quickly. “Your services are not required this day, but we all sleep more easily in our beds knowing we have the best guards in the North here in Darkmoor. You are dismissed.”
A murmur of confusion rippled through the hall and Otto thought for a chilling moment that his words might bedisobeyed, but then a tall man near the front held his spear aloft and dipped down onto one knee.
“Thank you, my lord.”
He raised himself up and the guards filtered out of the hall behind him, moving as one. Otto exhaled with relief as the last of them marched out into the courtyard. But the trials of the morning were not yet over. He had bought but temporary reprieve for Ariana, and for himself. He did not pretend that Althalos was not capable of fanning the flames of rumor and discontent amongst his men. For some reason, his uncle had taken against his bride. And Ariana would not be safe inside the fortified walls of Darkmoor Castle until Otto had unpicked that reason.
In the quiet of the empty hall, Otto took a deep, calming breath and gazed up at the Sarragnac coat of arms, blazoned above the vast stone fireplace. A golden lion standing out on a background of rippling red. The lion represented strength, courage, and resilience.
Show no weakness; show no mercy.
Otto’s scar began to itch as his mind raced from one conclusion to the next. His new bride was an honest young woman who deserved his protection.
His new bride had plotted against him and could yet undermine the tentative peace he’d won for Darkmoor.
He was the earl; he had no choice but to act against a potential thief and traitor. Althalos was right about that. Mayhap he was right about the rest. The people would turn against Otto if they saw him taking the coward’s way out.
Otto knew a surge of anger at the thought. He could never countenance being seen as a coward. On a broiling tide of conviction, he stalked through the shadowed halls to the back of the keep, barely hesitating on the threshold of the morning room.
He flung open the door and strode inside, immediately conscious of his chainmail and muddy boots amongst the delicate furnishings.
Ariana was sitting in an upholstered chair by the window. She was dressed in a simple pale gown with her hair loose around her shoulders and as soon as he saw her, the fight drained away from him.
