Margaret found Catherine in her bedchamber,
standing by the window with a listless air. Though Aldis was
drawing back the shutters, Margaret did not think either girl was
aware of the white world that lay outside the manor walls.
“He despises me,” Catherine said when
Margaret put an arm around her.
“I do not think so,” Margaret responded. “I
am so sorry our friendship has brought you to this unhappy state. I
should never have invited you to Sutton Castle, and never asked for
your help. It was wrong of me to involve you.”
“I do not regret a single thing I have done,”
Catherine said with a brief resurgence of her usual spirit. “I
would gladly do it all again. Nor do I think my father will blame
me, once I have explained my reasons to him, for he is a
kind-hearted and understanding man. Not like Arden. I think Arden
is using what I did at Sutton Castle as an excuse to keep me at a
distance, perhaps for the rest of our lives. There is such a
terrible coldness surrounding him. And Tristan, too, is lost to me
forever.”
Catherine's voice broke on a sob. When she
drew in a breath she began to cough and could not stop until, at
Margaret's urgent request, Aldis ran into the solar and brought
back a cup of wine. This Catherine drank, and the coughing
eased.
“My chest hurts. I don't feel at all well,”
Catherine said, wiping at her streaming eyes. She went to her bed
and sat upon it. “I think I will try to sleep for a while.”
“Perhaps that would be best. While you rest,
I will investigate the stillroom to see if I can find any horehound
that I can use to make a syrup for your cough.” Together, Margaret
and Aldis helped Catherine to undress and tucked her into bed.
Catherine lay quietly with her face turned away from the
windows.
“I think she's asleep,” Aldis whispered after
a while. “I will stay with her if you want to see what's available
in the stillroom.”
At her suggestion, Margaret tiptoed away.
Catherine did not join the men of Bowen at
the evening meal, nor did she appear in the hall the next morning.
The chill she had sustained during the ride from Sutton to Bowen
rapidly worsened into a congestion of the lungs.
Margaret prepared and administered the
horehound mixture, which alleviated Catherine's cough somewhat, but
Catherine's spirits were brought low by Arden's coldness toward her
and by the news about Tristan's marriage. She declared herself too
ill to get out of bed, saying she wanted only to be left alone.
Just as her brother had done, Catherine was withdrawing to protect
her wounded spirit. At the moment it appeared there was nothing
Margaret could do for either of them. Telling Aldis to keep a close
watch on Catherine and to let her know if she needed anything,
Margaret left her friend to rest. She thought Aldis was glad of an
excuse to stay away from the great hall and out of reach of Arden's
cold indifference to her questions.
For the next two days Margaret acted as
chatelaine of Bowen Manor while Catherine kept to her chamber with
Aldis constantly at her side. Not that there was much for Margaret
to do beyond making suggestions to the cook and the maidservants
about preparations for the eventual arrival of Sir Tristan and his
lady. Margaret was used to running a much larger establishment, so
she had plenty of free time.
Unfortunately, there was no one for her to
spend her time with. Catherine refused to rise from her bed or to
carry on an extended conversation. Aldis would not leave Catherine.
Sir Wace treated Margaret kindly but he was a busy man and did not
have time to spare for female concerns. As for Michael the squire,
he had retreated from his initial friendliness into silence,
perhaps feeling that in revealing the news of Tristan's marriage,
he had said too much.
Arden barely acknowledged Margaret's presence
in the hall at meals, he never mentioned his sister or his cousin,
and Margaret knew for a fact that he did not visit Catherine. A
portion of each day he spent with Sir Wace, discussing the upkeep
of the manor, but the majority of the time Arden kept to himself,
usually in the lord's chamber.
Left to entertain herself, Margaret decided
the time was right for her to compose the letter she intended to
send to Lord Royce. As soon as the snow stopped and the roads were
passable Sir Wace was bound to send a report to Wortham Castle, and
Catherine's note to her father explaining her presence at Bowen
would go with the report. Margaret wanted her own letter to be
included in the packet.
She located pen, ink and parchment in the
kitchen, where the cook kept writing supplies for recording
inventories of the storerooms. Promising to return the materials
she did not use, Margaret carried the supplies to the solar. She
pulled the table close to the fireplace for warmth and sat down to
work.
An hour later she was staring at the
salutation at the top of the otherwise blank page when she sensed
Arden standing behind her, bending so close she could feel his
warmth.
“Why are you writing to my father?” he asked.
“Do you know him?”
“We have never met.”
“Then why a letter to him?”
“I was about to betray my father,” Margaret
said with a sigh. “I fully intended to reveal his recent activities
to Lord Royce. But I have been sitting here for the longest time
trying to decide exactly what to say, only to discover that I
cannot write the words. He has never loved me, but still, he is my
parent. I cannot betray him after all.”
“I know something of betrayal,” Arden
murmured.
“I owe an apology to Lord Royce, and to you
also, for involving Catherine and Aldis in my escape from Sutton.
Perhaps that is what I should write,” Margaret continued. “It was
for my sake that Catherine was exposed to the cold and dampness for
so long that she became ill, and for my sake she now endures your
displeasure.”
“I know about guilt, too.” Arden's hand
briefly rested on Margaret's shoulder, as if he wanted to comfort
her.
Margaret wished she dared to lean back and
lay her head on his chest. She yearned even more to stand up and
turn around, into his embrace. She ached to feel Arden's arms
enfolding her.
Arden was apparently indifferent to their
closeness. He straightened, releasing Margaret from the bond of his
warmth and easing her unseemly desire to a small degree.
“What, exactly, is your father doing that
makes you believe speaking of it will be a betrayal?” Arden
asked.
For a moment or two Margaret considered how
to answer his question, before she decided only the truth would
suffice. She wanted no more lies.
“My father is in league with several other
barons, with the intention of forcing King Henry to declare Robert
of Gloucester legitimate, and then to make him heir to the crown,”
she said.
“If what I've heard of Robert is true,” Arden
responded, “he is the best of all King Henry's brood of bastard
sons. But I find it hard to believe the king would ever agree to
such a scheme. Or Robert, either.
“I heard a similar tale while traveling
through Aquitaine.” Arden paused as if considering what to say
next. After a moment he took a deep breath and went on. “We also
heard rumors claiming that the ship carrying Henry's sons on their
final voyage was deliberately sabotaged so it would sink. Tristan
and I have agreed to tell my father what we have learned, in the
belief that he can reach the king quicker than either of us
could.”
“That's what Catherine said about my
information. She suggested I write to Lord Royce.”
“Ah. I should have guessed as much.” The
corners of Arden's finely chiseled mouth turned downward.
“Please.” Margaret reached out a hand and
caught Arden's wrist. He stared down at her pale fingers against
the dark wool of his tunic sleeve. His other hand moved as if he
was going to lay it over hers. He made a fist instead and pulled
that hand down to his side.
“Please, what?” he demanded, reverting to his
usual harsh tone.
“Be kinder to Catherine. You are breaking her
heart. Aldis would welcome a bit more warmth from you, too.”
“I have nothing to say to either of them. Not
until I have spoken with my father.”
“If the bad weather continues it will be a
long time,” Margaret said.
“So it will. And I wish I were here in the
bad weather – alone.” With that, Arden pulled away from Margaret's
hand and hurried down the steps, through the archway, and into the
entry hall.
* * * * *
By the third day after Arden's homecoming
Margaret was thoroughly frustrated. Arden was becoming so closed-in
upon himself that he scarcely seemed to be present. Yet every time
Margaret looked at him she recalled the night he had come home and
the tender way he had embraced her. She recalled the anguish she
had detected in him during one unguarded moment in the great hall,
and she remembered their quiet conversation in the solar. That
soft-spoken, gentle man was so different from the Arden she saw
every day. She could not understand the discrepancy, and because
she could not, she was convinced there must be something very wrong
with him.
Of more immediate concern was the problem of
Catherine. Both Margaret and Aldis tried to coax her into eating.
She would not, insisting her throat was too sore to allow her to
swallow solid food. The most Margaret could accomplish was to
convince her to drink a hot herbal brew.
“It will help you to sleep,” Margaret
promised.
“I hope it works. I wish I could sleep
forever,” Catherine said, lying back upon the pillows when Margaret
set down the empty cup.
“Do not say so,” Margaret cried, giving in to
her fears. “Oh, Catherine, I wish I knew what to do to help you.
After everything you’ve done for me, I will do anything for
you.”
“Can you bring Tristan to Bowen and make him
eager to love me?” Catherine asked.
“You know such a thing is not in my power,”
Margaret said. “Nor is it in your power to change what is in
Tristan's heart. All you can do is accept the facts as Arden has
told them to you, and then take up the threads of your life and go
on.”
“What practical advice you give,” Catherine
said with a sigh. “I have loved Tristan of Cliffmore since I was
seven years old. I cannot stop loving him now.”
“Perhaps what you have loved,” Margaret
suggested, “was a romantic tale such as the troubadours concoct, a
tale you invented and then embroidered in your mind as time went
on. Tristan left England shortly after your brother did, while you
were still quite young. So was he young, and you do not know the
man he has become, any more than you know Arden after he has been
absent for so long a time.” Margaret finished her speech with a
catch at her heart as well as in her voice, knowing the advice she
was offering to Catherine was the same advice she ought to be
following in regard to Arden.
“Arden does not come to see me,” Catherine
said. “He is so changed.” Her voice trailed off on a note of
hopelessness.
“Exactly,” Margaret seized on her friend's
sad comment to prove her point. “Arden's present anger will abate
and then you will have to learn to know your own brother all over
again, for he has grown into a man very different from the brother
you once knew. The same will be true of Tristan when next you meet
him. I suspect life in the Holy Land is so strange and difficult
that it changes all who go there.”
“I love Tristan,” Catherine insisted. “I
cannot cut him out of my heart.”
“At the very least, you will have to relegate
him to a smaller portion of your heart,” Margaret said as firmly as
she could. “He has a wife now.”
“I know it. Truly, I do,” Catherine whispered
and turned her face toward the wall.
This conversation so distressed Margaret that
she decided something must be done to improve Catherine's mood, and
it must be done promptly. It was time to approach Arden about his
sister's condition and insist he pay attention. Margaret waited
until late afternoon, after the midday meal was over. When she
heard Arden passing through the solar on his way to the lord's
chamber, where he would no doubt spend the rest of the day and the
evening in self-imposed isolation, she left Catherine's room and
hurried to the solar, only to see the door of the lord's chamber
closing.
“Arden, wait.” There was no time for polite
manners, or for deferring to his wish to be left alone. Margaret
flung herself against the door at the very last moment and wrapped
her fingers around the edge of the door as a way of preventing
Arden from latching it.
“What is it?” Arden demanded in an impatient
tone. His right hand was on the inner side of the door, pushing it
shut.
“It's about Catherine.” Seeing the
undisguised irritation on his face at the mention of his sister's
name, Margaret quickly withdrew her fingers from the door edge.
Instead, she splayed both hands flat on her side of the door,
holding it open against Arden's superior strength. She knew he was
the stronger and could easily have slammed the door in her face.
She was relieved and a little surprised when he did not. Perhaps
his sister's name carried more weight with him than she had
expected after his recent treatment of her, though his next words
did not suggest any tenderness toward Catherine.
“Is she still sulking?” Arden asked, the
too-frequent frown appearing on his brow.
“Catherine does not sulk. She has been ill,
as you would know if you ever troubled yourself to inquire about
her,” Margaret retorted with a flare of her own temper. She found
it upsetting that Arden could so easily provoke her into dropping
her self-control. Telling herself to be patient with him, she said
in a softer tone, “Catherine is desperately unhappy and her
unhappiness has made her illness worse. Her heart is broken; she
has not eaten since you told her about Tristan's marriage.”