“Well, it's settled, then,” Phelan went on,
dismissing the ladies from consideration. It was clear to everyone
in the great hall that, in Phelan's opinion, they were nothing more
than troublesome chattel. “Lord Royce, we'll soon be relatives.
We'd best discuss the terms of the marriage contract at once.”
Margaret had seen the avaricious gleam
growing in Phelan's eyes ever since Eustace first voiced his
scurrilous insinuation. She knew her father was going to take full
advantage of the occasion, and she was familiar enough with his
character to know he would never stop with a marriage contract. For
the rest of his life Phelan would press Royce as far as possible,
wanting power and wealth and influence at court and believing Royce
could get it for him.
Royce was an honorable man, and the father of
Margaret's best friend, the same friend who had risked much in
order to help Margaret. She could not stand by in silence and allow
a marital connection to be arranged, knowing it would result in
constant harassment of Royce by Phelan, and that Phelan would
probably find a way to make Catherine and Aldis pay for what they
had done.
Nor was Margaret going to allow Arden to be
forced into a marriage he plainly did not want. She was not
surprised by her father's behavior, or Eustace's, either, but she
was outraged and deeply offended. She was the only weapon her male
relatives held against Arden and Royce. She would not let them
wield that weapon.
“There will be no marriage,” Margaret
said.
“You will do as I command you,” Phelan told
her.
“Not in this case.”
It was going to break her heart. She was
standing close enough to Arden to touch him if she dared to put out
her hand. His warmth and his strength tempted her to do so. He gave
her a quick look and she detected surprise and, she thought,
gratitude in his eyes.
She loved him with all the hopes and dreams
and feminine longings that she had been forced to put away deep in
her heart while she was barely more than a child who was commanded
by her father to marry an old man. Arden was the only man she would
ever love. She doubted if any woman was capable of plumbing the
dark, mysterious depths of his soul, and she feared he would never
be able to open his heart to love. Yet she would never stop loving
him.
Her father could beat her, starve her, drag
her back to Sutton and force her to marry some other decrepit
elder, or kill her for her disobedience, and she would still love
Arden. She could lie night after night in another man's bed, bear
another man's children, be subject to her father's choice of her
husband for the rest of her life, and on the day she died, she
would still love Arden.
Margaret had never suspected that she, ever
practical and sensible, was capable of so great a love, yet in the
instant after her father's declaration about a marriage contract
she saw very clearly that she had loved Arden ever since she was a
little girl. Perhaps she had simply been unwilling to admit to
herself the full extent of her love until the present moment, when
Arden's future lay in her hands.
With deep gratitude for the grace Heaven had
bestowed upon her, though she was going to have to give it up
almost as soon as she recognized it, Margaret acknowledged that it
was she, and not Catherine, who had nurtured an everlasting flame
within her bosom. Catherine was able to relinquish her devotion to
Tristan once she understood that what she felt for him was not true
love. But Margaret's love for Arden was so complete, so much a part
of all she was, that it could never die. Joy at the gift of love
surged through her, giving her the strength to set Arden free.
“I will not marry Arden,” Margaret told her
father with perfect calmness, “though you burn me at the stake for
disobeying you.”
“Burn you?” Phelan said, laughing at
Margaret, mocking her heartfelt words. “Why should I bother, when
you will surely burn in Hell for defying your father?”
“It makes no difference whether Margaret
defies you, or not,” Arden said to Phelan. “I cannot marry.”
“Why not?” Phelan demanded. He narrowed his
eyes as if considering every possible reason for Arden's blunt
statement. Margaret's refusal to marry Arden he had already openly
dismissed as undeserving of further comment. The objections of a
mere female meant nothing. Arden's refusal had to be taken more
seriously. “Are you wed already?” Phelan asked him.
“No,” Arden said, and repeated very
carefully, “I cannot marry.”
“Have you taken an oath of celibacy?” Phelan
persisted. “If you have, and if you've joined a religious order,
then you are in serious trouble with the Church for what you've
done to my girl, here. Certainly, I will expect reparations from
you, and an income for the child. Perhaps a piece of land, made
over to me till the babe is grown, and then a second bit of
property to sweeten Margaret's dowry, so I can convince someone
else to take her off my hands as soon as she is delivered of the
brat she's carrying.” He paused, once again considering various
possibilities, one hand stroking the dark stubble on his chin.
“I keep telling you,” Arden said through
gritted teeth as he struggled to hold on to the last shreds of his
temper, “I have not done the deed you accuse me of. There will be
no child. God forbid!”
“Well, then,” said Eustace, snickering at
Arden's words, “if you spent all that time alone here with Margaret
and you didn't get her with child, it must be because you're not a
real man.”
Arden looked from Margaret, with her pale,
frightened face, to Lord Phelan, determined to have his way now
that he was scenting the real possibility of social advancement and
profit, to the smug-faced Eustace, who was nodding in delighted
assurance that what he had just suggested was true.
A red mist formed before Arden's eyes and a
fury rose in him such as he had not known for years. In the next
instant he lost all control over his actions, though he remained
aware that his teeth were bared like those of an animal about to
attack, his hands were outstretched, and his fingers were curved to
dig into his enemy's throat and choke the life out of him. With a
howl of rage Arden launched himself at Eustace, wanting only to see
the fool dead at his feet.
“Arden, no!” Margaret shrieked. Breaking away
from the restraining hands of the other women, she flung herself at
Arden's back. She caught one of his arms and clung to it with all
of her strength while she attempted to pull him away from her
brother. “Eustace isn't worth it. Don't destroy yourself for
him.”
Royce's hand came down on Arden's other
shoulder, the fingers gripping hard.
“Let him go,” Royce said. “Margaret is right;
he isn't worth the trouble his death would cause you.”
Together, Margaret and Royce held on to Arden
until he had mastered his anger and released Eustace from his
deadly grip.
“I will do no further harm to Eustace,” Arden
said in a harsh voice. Deliberately, he made himself relax and
Margaret and Royce stepped back from him.
“Get out of my sight,” Arden growled at
Eustace. In spite of his reddened neck Eustace went unrepentant and
smirking to stand behind his father.
“Arden,” Royce said, laying a gentler hand on
his son's shoulder now that the danger was past, “will you listen
to what I have to say?”
“I will listen.” Arden stood between Margaret
and his father, holding himself erect and perfectly still, praying
he wouldn't loose control again, and recalling with horror what had
happened the last time such a furious rage had come upon him. As
for what Margaret must think of him for very nearly killing her
brother, it could be no worse than what Arden thought of himself.
And then he wondered why it was Margaret's opinion that so
concerned him, and only secondarily his father's. “Say what you
wish, my lord,” Arden said to Royce.
“These two men are vicious,” Royce said in a
low voice. Indicating Lord Phelan and Eustace with a quick wave of
one hand, he went on, “Their treacherous characters are a large
part of the reason why Lord Adhemar broke off his arrangement with
Phelan to marry Margaret, and went home instead. Adhemar told me he
wanted nothing more to do with Phelan and his crude whelp. Now
Phelan has seized upon the chance of making what he imagines will
be an alliance more to his advantage than the first one with
Adhemar. Lady Margaret, forgive me for speaking so bluntly about
your relatives, but it's the truth as I see it.”
“There's naught to forgive,” Margaret
responded. “I regret to say that I see the same truth.”
“I also perceive some feeling between you and
Arden,” Royce said to her. “At the very least, there is liking and
respect.”
“That is also true,” Margaret said, looking
Royce right in the eyes, trusting him completely, though she
scarcely knew him.
“You seem to me to be a sensible woman,”
Royce said. “Is it possible that, under the right circumstances,
you would be willing to give up your plan to enter a convent?”
“Such a decision would depend upon the
circumstances.” Margaret's cautious response elicited a faint smile
from Royce and brought her a surprised look from Arden, as if he
could not believe after her impassioned declaration that she would
not marry him, she could be convinced to change her mind.
“Arden,” Royce said, “I think you ought to do
as Phelan wants, and wed this admirable lady.”
“I cannot wed.” Arden repeated the words he
had spoken twice before. His face and voice were both hard, as if
he were made of stone. It was how his heart felt, rock-hard in his
chest and cold as ice. He could not explain his refusal, not in the
great hall with Phelan and his son watching and listening to
everything that transpired. Not even to ease the forlorn look in
Margaret's eyes could he tell his father what the real reasons
were. Later, Royce would know all, and refuse to see or speak to
his son, ever again. Margaret, too, would turn from him in appalled
disgust. Arden was shaken by how painful the realization was that
now there were two souls whose reactions mattered so much to
him.
“Arden, are you already married?” Royce asked
in a sympathetic tone far different from Phelan's rantings.
“No, Father, I am not,” Arden answered.
“Have you taken an oath of celibacy?” Royce
asked.
“No,” Arden said, feeling as if a rope were
being drawn ever tighter about his neck.
“And you have not joined a religious order?”
Royce persisted with a kindly-meant determination that nearly
destroyed Arden.
“No.” It was all Arden could do to get the
single syllable past his lips.
“None of the obstructions that Lord Phelan
has suggested exist?” Royce asked.
“No.” Arden thought he would choke to death.
He longed to stalk out of the great hall before anything more
terrible happened than had already occurred. He tried to move, only
to discover he was incapable of taking a single step. He was doomed
to remain where he was, accepting his father's gentle
interrogation, aching for the pain he was causing Margaret, and
helpless to stop the steady march of events toward a conclusion he
could not prevent.
“In that case,” Royce said, “I can see no
reason why you cannot marry Margaret. In fact, you are honor-bound
to do so, and as soon as possible.”
Arden tried to speak, to interrupt the flow
of his father's words, and found he could not.
“I have a priest in the company that came
with me from Wortham,” Royce said. “We can discuss the marriage
contract this afternoon and agree with Phelan upon the terms.
Father Aymon can write out the necessary copies tonight, and we'll
have the wedding tomorrow morning. There is a piece of land near
Sutton that I hold in fief directly from the king. It is a drain on
me because it's so far from Wortham and there's no suitable
residence built on it. It is fertile land; I am sure Phelan would
like to have it, and Henry will understand when I explain to him
why I have transferred it. Let me use the property to buy
Margaret's freedom from her oppressive father. Arden, what say you
to these suggestions?”
“You do not understand.” Arden could only
croak the words past the dryness of his throat. The familiar cold
withdrawal enveloped him, reaching ever deeper into his heart,
allowing him to show no gratitude, either for his father's
generosity, or for Royce's concern for Margaret's welfare. Arden
could see no point in continuing a pointless discussion. “Father,
before this goes any further, we must talk in private. There are
things I have to tell you that will make a serious difference in
the way you regard—”
“Well?” Phelan approached, interrupting them.
“Is this private conference over? Shall I take my disobedient
daughter home and let her give birth to her bastard brat there at
Sutton?”
“There is no bastard!” Arden shouted at
him.
“I'll have the raising of it,” Phelan said,
unmoved by Arden's outburst. “Eustace can stand as godfather to the
little bastard.”
“The man is mad!” Arden said to his
father.
“Marry Margaret,” Royce told him.
“Not until I talk to you in private,” Arden
said in rising desperation.
“We will talk later, after our guests have
left, which, I promise you, will be as soon after the wedding as
possible,” Royce said.
“Decide now,” Phelan insisted, confronting
Arden with a nasty look and an air of triumphant determination.
Obviously, he was certain he was going to get what he wanted.
“Right now. You agree to marry Margaret, or I'll take her back to
Sutton this very afternoon. When I have her to myself, I can
promise you, she'll pay for what she's done. And then I'll return
with all my fighting men and make you pay, too, my noble Lord
Arden.”