“Your man, Wace, tells me the weather has
turned so cold that all the melted snow has refrozen into ice on
the roads,” Phelan said to Arden.
“So Sir Wace has also told me,” Arden
responded, “though he also insists the weather will begin to warm
this afternoon. You are welcome to stay at Bowen for another day,
my lord Phelan, until the roads are better.” He did not want Phelan
at Bowen at all, but Arden was constrained by the rules of
hospitality and the cursed man was, after all, his
father-in-law.
“Where is Margaret?” Phelan demanded. “I want
to talk to that stupid wench, to make certain all went as it should
between the two of you last night.”
“You will accept my word on the matter. The
marriage was consummated and, therefore, it is legal. That is all
you need to know.” Arden's voice was colder than the freezing air
outside the manor house. “You will not question Margaret, nor will
you touch her or annoy her in any way.”
“She's my daughter!” Phelan blustered.
“She is my wife,” Arden said in the same cold
voice. “Never doubt that I guard well what belongs to me.”
“Arden, there you are.” Margaret stood at the
foot of the solar stairs. She was dressed as always in her dark
blue gown, with her wimple covering all of her hair, yet there was
a new softness to her face and a warmth in her eyes that Arden
noted at once. He was sure the other men saw it, too.
Knowing he had produced the changes in her,
Arden hid the pang at his heart as best he could. Margaret was
unaware that her father's continued presence at Bowen was giving
her one more day before Arden was forced to destroy her affection,
and her faith in him.
“It's about time you showed yourself, wench,”
Phelan growled at her.
“You will address my wife more respectfully,”
Arden said.
“She's my brat. I'll call her whatever I
want.”
“You may call her 'Margaret,' or 'my lady,'“
Arden told him.
The expression of disbelief on Phelan's face
plainly said what he thought of that requirement. He turned his
back on Arden and spoke to Margaret.
“Eustace wants you to make a potion for his
upset stomach and his headache,” Phelan said.
“I will see what I can find in the stillroom,
and I'll send a man to Eustace with a hot drink,” Margaret
replied.
“As soon as possible,” Phelan ordered, “and
make it something Eustace can keep down. He’s been heaving out his
stomach for hours.” Phelan stalked off to the table that was set
with bread and cheeses and pitchers of ale for the morning
meal.
“A man is to take Eustace his medicine?”
Arden said to Margaret.
“I would never send a woman to Eustace's
room,” Margaret explained. “Thank you for not questioning me about
my decision in front of my father. We have just avoided a quarrel
with him.”
“Since our guests are remaining, we will want
another feast at midday,” Arden noted.
“I'll speak to the cook,” Margaret said, and
headed for the kitchen.
“You will find Isabel and Lady Catherine
there before you,” Tristan told her.
“My lord, you are fortunate in your choice of
wife.” Margaret smiled at him over her shoulder.
“I know it well,” he said. Turning to Arden,
Tristan added, “You are fortunate, too, my friend. You look almost
happy this morning.”
Arden could not deny the quiet sense of
contentment that had awakened him earlier. Nor would he dispute its
cause. But he was compelled to qualify his present ease.
“'Tis but a temporary condition.” Arden's
gaze was on Margaret's slender back. “A brief respite until I
destroy her hopes.”
“You cannot plan to speak to Royce while
Phelan is here,” Tristan exclaimed.
“Not until tomorrow. As soon as Phelan
leaves,” Arden said, making a silent oath to himself that he would
delay no longer than was absolutely necessary.
“Which will give you one more day – and one
more night.”
“Aye.” Arden took his gaze from the kitchen
doorway through which Margaret had disappeared. “In truth, I do not
know whether to curse Eustace for being stupid enough to drink
himself into sickness, or thank him for unwittingly providing me
with a reprieve.”
“I will undertake to see that he does not
drink too much again today,” Tristan promised with a friendly hand
on Arden's shoulder. “Whatever this matter that gnaws at you is, I
know you do not want to drag it out longer than you must.”
“Thank you for not asking me about the
details,” Arden said. “I'll tell you everything soon; I swear I
will, but my father must be the first to hear what I have to
say.”
“And then Margaret second,” Tristan said.
“Aye. Margaret.” Arden could not deny the
faint glimmer of hope that had begun to glow in his heart during
his night with her. She had not quailed at his dreadful story. She
claimed to love him in spite of his great shame. Still, he was not
sure he dared to hope she would continue to love him after she knew
everything he had done.
“And Aldis,” Tristan said. “It must have been
difficult for you to find her here.”
“Indeed.” The cold began to close in around
Arden again, dimming his brief contentment.
Then Margaret returned to the great hall with
Catherine and Isabel, the three of them laughing together. She
looked across the room to Arden and her smile deepened. Happiness
was on her face for all to see, and Arden knew he was the cause of
it.
He would also be the one to destroy her
present gladness – unless Margaret's love was deep enough and
strong enough to forgive the terrible sin he had committed.
* * * * *
Eustace was sufficiently recovered to attend
the midday meal. In fact, he looked so healthy that Arden suspected
his morning illness was a sham. Suspicion deepened as Arden watched
both Eustace and Phelan consuming large quantities of wine – far
more, Arden reckoned, than men with stomachs still queasy from the
previous day's wine would care to drink.
After the ladies excused themselves, Eustace
continued to drink in defiance of Tristan's polite suggestions that
he consider his digestion. When Phelan began to discuss politics,
Arden thought he understood why the two had wanted to remain at
Bowen for an extra day. What Phelan said plainly laid out one of
his reasons for allowing Margaret to marry the son of Royce of
Wortham. Phelan was not going to miss the opportunity to improve
his stature in the king's eyes.
“My lords,” Phelan said, looking from Arden
to Royce to Tristan, “I hope you realize that together we can have
a mighty influence on King Henry.”
“Can we?” said Arden, holding on to his
temper with some difficulty. “I must inform you, my lord, that I am
indifferent to court intrigues. Other, more important, matters
occupy my attention.”
“There are no more important matters,” Phelan
asserted.
“What sort of influence do you mean?” Tristan
asked Phelan. He gave Arden a wink that Phelan did not see and
continued, “Arden and I have been away from England for ten years
and we know little of what has happened during the time we were
gone. We did hear the sad news of the drowning of Henry's two sons
in the sinking of
The White Ship.”
“That's the problem, right there,” Phelan
said, leaning forward to talk to Tristan.
Arden sat back in his chair to give Phelan a
clearer view of Tristan. He silently thanked his friend for taking
over the burden of conversation. Arden was content to listen, and
he noticed how his father was paying close attention to what Phelan
said. Long ago Royce had taught his son that careful listening was
the quickest path to knowledge, for many men loved to talk more
than they should, especially after drinking a bit too much wine.
Recalling that particular lesson of his youth, Arden did not doubt
that any information his father deemed important would quickly find
its way to King Henry's attention.
“The trouble is,” Phelan said to Tristan,
“with the deaths of those two young men, Henry has no legitimate
heirs left. It's too bad his remaining sons are all bastards. He
must name a successor soon, for he is growing older by the day, and
he isn't in the best of health.”
“I see,” Tristan said. He cast a quick look
at Royce before he continued, still speaking to Phelan. “Thank you
for informing me. I hadn't realized how urgent the situation is. Am
I right in assuming that you have chosen your preferred candidate
for our next king?”
“Oh, aye,” said Phelan. “I've an idea or two
tucked away up here.” He tapped his head with one finger.
“Dare I ask who you have in mind?” Tristan
said.
“You may ask,” Phelan responded. “However, I
have no intention of answering you. I'll keep my own council.
Unless, of course, you and Arden and my lord Royce should agree to
become my allies and help me to convince Henry that my choice of
heir is the only right one.”
“I apologize,” Tristan said. “I should not
have pressed you for information you are not free to divulge.” He
lapsed into silence without mentioning any of the rumors he and
Arden had heard while in Aquitaine.
“Well then, Royce, Arden,” Phelan said,
turning his attention from Tristan, “I ask you as new members of my
family, who ought to be dedicated to supporting each other. Will
you assist me in convincing Henry to make a prompt and wise
choice?”
It did not escape Arden's notice that Phelan
put Royce first when he made his request. Margaret was not wrong
about her father's intention to use Royce's connection with the
king.
“I have already told you that I am not
interested in politics,” Arden said, trying for hospitality's sake
to hide his disgust with the man. He was determined not to begin a
feud with Margaret's father.
“If the king asks for my advice, I will speak
my opinion honestly,” Royce said. “Until that day, I will not
discuss the subject. Nor will I protest his decision, whatever it
may be.”
“You are all fools, to miss the chance to
assert yourselves when you have the opportunity to advance in
life,” Phelan said. He rose, a bit unsteadily. “Other men are not
so foolish. We will talk again, my lord.”
“You may talk as freely as you wish,” Royce
said, very quietly, “and I will listen to what you say, but I will
not discuss any of King Henry's affairs with you.”
Either Phelan did not hear him, or he
discounted Royce's declaration. Phelan caught Eustace by the back
of his tunic and lifted his son off the bench where he was
sitting.
“Come on, boy,” Phelan said. “It's time you
were in bed. And me, too.”
“I have given orders for everyone in your
party to be awakened at dawn,” Arden told him. “The ride back to
Sutton Castle is a long one. You will want to leave early.”
Phelan looked as if he was about to protest
the arrangements that would evict him and his son from Bowen before
he was ready to go. Perhaps he took note of the cold gleam in
Arden's eyes, for he shrugged and helped Eustace from the hall
without bidding the other men goodnight.
“There goes a crafty and dangerous man,”
Tristan said. “I do believe the time is fast approaching when it
will be necessary to put a stop to Phelan's scheming. I am only
sorry I wasn't able to pry more information out of him.” Tristan
grinned like a mischievous boy.
“When we were in Aquitaine,” Arden said to
his father, deliberately sober in tone and expression, as suited
the subject on which he was reporting, “Tristan and I heard rumors
that
The White Ship
was sabotaged.”
“Did you?” Royce gave him a long, measuring
look. “From what I know of the event, I am inclined to believe it
was sheer incompetence that ran the ship aground on that reef.
Still, I thank you for telling me about the rumors; I will
investigate and see if there's any truth to them. Is that what you
wanted to speak about in private?”
“No,” Arden responded. “As soon as Phelan and
Eustace leave tomorrow, I want to hold a longer conversation with
you.” He met his father's eyes squarely.
“Later tomorrow morning, then?” Royce
asked.
“Agreed.” Arden rose from the table. “If you
will excuse me, my lord.” He did not wait for Royce's response. For
the next few hours Arden did not want to think about his father, or
about what would happen on the morrow. What he wanted, what he
craved more than air, or shelter from the cold, or life itself, was
Margaret. She was shelter, sustenance, light and air – and the only
hope he held in his empty heart.
He found her in the solar with his sister and
the other ladies. She saw him mounting the steps and smiled at him.
There was no slyness in her smile, no knowing look in her eyes, yet
Margaret's entire expression, the way she held her slender body,
the graceful movements of her hands, all constituted the most
alluring, sensual appearance that Arden had ever observed in any
woman.
Margaret's allure was not blatant, it was
subtle. Knowing the beauty that lay beneath her sober clothing,
aware of the fire and passion concealed within her lovely body, and
the warmth and breadth of the honest love in her heart, Arden was
rocked by an emotion that threatened to consume him.
Were he not a man duty-bound to make a
dreadful confession and to offer his life in return for the sins he
had committed – were he free to do so, Arden would have made a
public confession then and there of his love for Margaret.
He was not a man free to love. He had no
right to accept the love she gave to him. Still, when Margaret left
the other women to come to him, holding out her hands, Arden took
them in his and kissed her soft, white fingers, and looked deep
into her silvery eyes, and rejoiced in the love he saw shining
there.
“Once we saw Phelan taking his son off to
bed,” Isabel said from across the room, “we knew the other men
would not be far behind. Here comes Tristan now.”