His horse whickered again, nudging at his tunic and looking for treats.
“Here,” he opened the stable door and walked quickly inside, holding out a small apple on the palm of his hand.
She crunched up the apple, then dropped her head, allowing him to place one hand on either side of her face and look deeply into her wise brown eyes.
This was the horse who carried him unflinchingly in battle, who galloped straight as an arrow in jousting tournaments, who had been his companion since youth. She was the fastest horse in Darkmoor, probably the fastest in the North. But more importantly, she trusted him, had faith in him, even amidst the chaos of battle.
If only Otto could summon the same instinctive faith in himself.
Show no weakness, show no mercy.
“I begin to tire of this old dictate,” he admitted, in the privacy of the stable.
He was jolted from his thoughts by a discreet cough from beyond the wooden door.
Otto looked up sharply, one hand going again to his sword belt. “Who’s there?” he demanded for the second time.
A young stable boy stepped forward. “It is I, Matthew, milord. I heard a noise, so I came to check on your horse.”
Had he been eavesdropping? A spy of Otto’s enemies? For he had many, he was sure, both inside and outside the castle walls. A flash of anger flared in Otto’s chest and his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.
“How long have you stood there?”
“No time at all, milord.”
Otto breathed deeply, unable to quell his unease. His father’s brother, Althalos, was a powerful man with many loyal followers. He had come to Darkmoor upon Lord Ulric’s death and remained here still. Was Althalos plotting against him?
“I’m sorry, milord,” the boy continued, a tremble in his voice betraying his unease. He was barely more than a child.
Otto felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He had been named earl, heir to Lord Ulric, with Althalos putting up no objection. Would he allow such fear and suspicion to plague him forever? If so, then self-doubt would be his undoing, and faster than an enemy’s sword.
And his father’s tyrannical reputation with the servants would soon extend to him as well.
“Have no fear, Matthew,” Otto said, unclenching his hand. “Your keen ears do you credit.”
“Thank you,” Matthew breathed, his relief evident in the slope of his slender shoulders.
The stable boy disappeared into the shadows and Otto felt the lateness of the hour catch up with him. He’d been up since dawn, training with the knights, and the enforced ritual of his wedding to Ariana had been a further ordeal. The afternoon ofdrinking and feasting in celebration of a loveless marriage had not passed easily for him.
He could go to the village and seek comfort in the arms of willing women; forget his cares in the warmth of their tender flesh. He knew of many a door that would open to him. But since the battle of Branfeld, when Lord Ulric had lost his life—and later, when Otto had watched his own men take their revenge upon peaceful people—he had lost all appetite for such earthly pleasures.
Blood. Vengeance. Retribution. When would it end?
How many more unnecessary deaths must he witness?
So where could he take his ease? As a boy, Otto had spent many a night sleeping under the stars, enjoying the vast emptiness of the outside world after the close restrictions of stone walls and duty, but the Earl of Darkmoor could do no such thing.
With a reluctant sigh, he swiveled around and returned to the keep. To his own cold bedchamber, where the fire had been left unlit in the expectation of his absence. This was his wedding night, after all.
Otto felt the familiar weight of obligation settle on his shoulders. Tonight, he had shirked from his duty; tomorrow would have to be different.
*
“Victory shall beyours.” Sir Althalos clapped Otto on his armor-clad shoulder. “Be sure to make it so,” he added before turning away, his gray eyes cold and distant as they raked over the jousting arena in the shadow of Darkmoor Castle.
Otto bowed his head in deference to his uncle, even as his jaw tightened at this unwelcome reminder of his father’s unquenchable thirst for success. The desire to win, at any cost,ran thickly through the veins of the Sarragnac men. But despite his instinctive recoil, he knew that Althalos was correct. Defeat today was not an option.
If yesterday’s wedding had been a brief and hurried affair, this was a time for glory and feasting in Darkmoor. Red and gold crests fluttered gaily above hundreds of townsfolk who had crowded into the wooden stands, laughing and jeering before the jousting tournament had even begun. A smell of dust, ale and hot bodies hung in the air.
