“I should like to go and see.” Bright with determination, she altered their path to the low-slung stone building which housed Sir Leon’s private quarters.
“Sir Leon should not be disturbed.” The guard’s voice was stern.
Ariana turned wide eyes towards him and bit down on her lip. “I must make an apology.”
The guard raised his eyebrows.
“I should not have tried to escape.” A plume of smoke caught in her throat and made her cough. “It was wrong of me.” The guard looked unsure. Ariana knew that he could easily refuse her request. Worse, the marshal could appear at any moment, and he was not a man to be easily fooled. “Allow me to at least knock upon his door?”
Without waiting for a response, she tripped across the patchy grass and rapped her knuckles upon the solidly built door.
A growl came from within. “Go away.”
She winced, recognizing both her father’s voice and the temper within it. She had long lived in fear of Sir Leon’s rages. But she would not give up now.
“It’s me, father.” She tried the handle and found, to her surprise, the door was unlocked. “I have come to apologize.”
At first, she could make out little in the gloomy chamber. A grimy sort of light filtered through one window, which was partially obscured by an oil cloth. The fug of the room was most unpleasant: stale rushes, woodsmoke and ale. Her father sat slumped at a desk, surrounded by scattered parchments and spilled ink. He did not even raise his head at her entry.
“Go away,” he repeated, loudly.
“What are you doing?” Ariana swallowed down her fears and inched further inside, pleased at least that the guard had not followed her beyond the door.
“Why are you out of your chamber?” He finally acknowledged her presence, dark eyebrows arching over his unshaven face.
Ariana couldn’t help blanching at her father’s unkempt appearance. Sir Leon had always been a vain man, but it looked as if he had not shaved for several days. His tunic was rumpled, and his sword belt lay abandoned on the floor.
“Have no fear, Father, I am being carefully guarded,” she trilled, with a smile towards the man waiting outside.
He grunted in response. “I’m busy, Ariana. Leave me in peace.”
She regarded him for a moment, her mind whirring. She had thought she might plead for her freedom, but he showed less interest in his daughter’s presence than in the tankard of ale he was now draining. Her gaze jumped to the parchments on his desk. They were letters, all written in the same elegant hand.
“Who has been writing to you?” She moved closer, but he covered the parchments with his large hands before she could see anything of note.
“That is no concern of yours.” He made to rise from his chair as if to swat her away, but then he sank back into it with a low groan.
Ariana observed his red-rimmed, unfocused eyes and shaking fingers. The now empty tankard of ale, together with the fumes emanating from his half-open mouth, all confirmed her suspicions. Her father was drunk.
Her surprise quickly morphed into resolve to turn this to her advantage. Sir Leon may not be moved to sympathy for her plight, but mayhap he could be convinced to tell her of his intentions? Intentions which she could then somehow reveal to Otto.
Somehow.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best she had.
“It was a clever idea, to wed me to the Earl of Darkmoor,” she improvised.
Her father picked up the beer tankard and looked inside. “You think so?”
“It’s true, I didn’t think so at first.” She picked her way over the littered floor to a hard wooden chair pulled near an empty fireplace. She lowered herself down and folded her hands on her knees. “But that was because I didn’t understand.”
Sir Leon regarded her with glazed eyes. “And now you do?”
“Yes.” She put her head to one side and pretended to think. “Perchance not all of it.”
Her father’s response was a deep guffaw of laughter, which scared her more than his earlier shouting.
“You and me both, Ariana.”
