by Sandra Heath
When she couldn’t sleep, some hot milk usually worked. Why shouldn’t she do the same here? It would certainly give her something to do, and might take her mind off the endless circle of worries. After dragging a hairbrush through her hair, she left her apartment.
The kitchens were deserted, but she soon found the pail of milk standing in water in the stone trough under the sink. Soon she had a relaxing hot drink to take back to her room, but as she emerged into the hall, the dining-room door caught her attention. It stood slightly ajar, and the night light on the hall table reached faintly as far as Jenny’s portrait. Marigold hesitated. Had she and Rowan missed something vital the other night? Maybe now, when everything was quiet, she could concentrate more. Catching up her skirt, she went into the room.
The longcase clock ticked slowly as she cradled the glass of hot milk in her hands, and gazed at the painting. “Oh, Jenny, I wish I knew what is wanted of me,” she murmured. “I know my help is needed, and I know I have a power, but that is all I know! How can I save you and Robin if I don’t know what to do?”
Her attention was drawn to a French window that had recently been installed in the wall, between Jenny’s portrait and the one next to it. The sound that made her look was the familiar tapping of tiny bills upon the glass. With a gasp, she put down the milk, and went to pull back the heavy green velvet curtains.
As she opened the window and went out, the little birds flew off without making any more contact. Puzzled, she gazed through the early dawn light after them. Why had they come, only to immediately fly away again? She glanced around. The window opened on to a balustrated terrace that reached along the rear of the house.
There were lawns beyond it, and a path that led past the kitchens and stables toward a ha-ha that separated Rowan’s land from the common. A mist had risen again, although it wasn’t as dense as on the evening she and Rowan had arrived at Avenbury. A few village lights glowed dimly, and she could just make out the oak tree, around which ...
She stared incredulously, for white shapes were making a slow circuit of the oak, as if in a dreamlike country reel. The stones were dancing! But then she realized it wasn’t the stones. People were dancing, people like specters in cowled white robes!
Her heart quickened uneasily. Who were they? Jenny’s portrait flashed into her mind. Druids? No, that couldn’t be, for there weren’t any druids now. Or were there? The likeness of Aquila Randol, so very like his descendant, Falk, slipped into her mind as well. Aquila and Falk, Randol and Arnold. The same letters, same bloodline ... The fear she’d felt at Romans returned, and she wanted to hurry back to the safety of the house, but knew she couldn’t. Robin and Jenny had deliberately drawn her out here, and she was as determined to help them as she was to help Rowan. Slowly she walked toward the steps at the far end of the terrace, then down the path, where she began to hurry toward the ha-ha.
But the nearer she drew to it, the more conscious she became of how very exposed the common was. The first breaking of the new day on the eastern horizon lent such an eerie luminosity to the mist, that instead of concealing her, it seemed to make her more observable. Her only chance of not being seen was a small clump of brambles about twenty yards beyond the ha-ha.
She climbed down the wooden steps against the retaining wall, went cautiously up out of the dip at the bottom, then peeped toward the oak again. The white figures were still moving in a slow circle, and did not seem to have noticed her, so she bent low to run to the brambles. Once there, she lay on the grass to peep out from beneath the thorny canopy.
The strange dance continued, and now that she was closer, she was sure she could hear a low murmuring sound. Were they talking? No, it was rhythmic and repetitive chanting, male voices saying the same few words over and over again. There were thirteen men altogether. A coven? Did druids have covens? No, that was witches, who didn’t wear white robes!
Marigold studied the only figure carrying a staff. There was more than just the staff to mark him as the leader of the gathering, for there was a crown of mistletoe around his cowled head, and every now and then she glimpsed the gleam of a golden torque at his throat. She wondered if it was Falk, aping the rites and ceremonies performed by his forebear.
The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Falk had commenced moves to purloin Rowan’s title and property, and at Romans had openly warned her that her marriage was doomed to be brief. He’d admitted to fully believing in the curse, boasted of his incredible abilities, and hadn’t even bothered to deny that it was Jenny he soon meant to marry. What more proof was required? Of course it was Falk, and he was here to repeat the ritual of midsummer’s day, 1534, and to carry out Aquila Randol’s vows of revenge!
Marigold felt chilled to the marrow as she gazed at what was happening by the oak. Who were his accomplices, she wondered? They were clearly the guests he expected at Romans, and maybe one was Alauda. When chanting, the voices all sounded male, but that did not mean there weren’t women among them.
As she watched, the figures halted, fell silent, and bowed their cowled heads toward the oak. Falk stepped forward and held up his arms, brandishing in one hand the staff, and in the other something small that she couldn’t make out. Then he moved to the tree, and used the staff, which was topped with a bronze sickle, to slice off a little of the mistletoe, after which he struck the tree trunk three times.
Two other figures then approached him, and one lit a flame from a tinderbox, while the other held out something wrapped in a white cloth. He took the offering and placed it on the grass with the mistletoe, then he accepted the flame and held it to the offering.
Marigold prayed it wasn’t anything alive, for she knew that the druids were famed for their sacrifices, some of which had been human. But there was no sound as both mistletoe and white cloth caught fire.
She craned forward, and in the process caught her arm on the brambles. The pain made her gasp, and the thorns tore at the delicate pink muslin of her fashionable London wrap. Dismayed, she disentangled herself, and rubbed her arm. She was sure she hadn’t made much noise, but suddenly a huge black crow swooped noisily down from nowhere. Flapping and cawing, it snatched at her with its talons, and she tried desperately to fend it off.
Her hair and clothes became more and more caught up in the brambles, and soon she was hopelessly ensnared. The figures had all turned toward the disturbance, and to her terror, they began to advance, but then a pistol was fired nearby. The crow shrieked and fell to the grass with a wounded left wing, but managed to haul itself into the air again and fly unevenly away. To her relief, the figures took to their heels in the direction of the road. Then there were hoofbeats as they escaped on horses they had left tethered there.
Shaken, she cast desperately around for the owner of the pistol, but then a door opened at the nearest cottage, and someone with a gruff voice held a lantern aloft and shouted. “What’s going on out ‘ere! Who fired? Show yourself, or I’ll ‘ave all ‘is lordship’s men on you!”
“It is his lordship, Hazell, I dropped my pistol. All’s well. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” It was Rowan who answered, and she saw him emerging from the dip of the ha-ha, tucking the pistol into his coat. She felt suddenly close to tears.
“Very well, my lord,” the gruff voice replied.
Lights now appeared at other village windows as awakened villagers peered out to see what was happening, and Beech emerged from the kitchen garden of Avenbury Park with a lantern and a shotgun. Rowan turned toward him. “There’s nothing wrong, Beech, I was a little clumsy with my pistol, that’s all.” The butler bowed, and withdrew, looking very different in his nightshirt, with his luxuriant hair down past his shoulders.
When all was quiet again, Rowan hurried over to Marigold, and began to gently free her from the unkind hold of the brambles. She was ice-cold with shock, her face was scratched, and her robe now more torn than ever. Tears pricked her eyes as she sat up, and out of nowhere she thought what her mother would say rig
ht now. Marigold Marchmont, you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward! She felt an odd urge to laugh, but then Rowan suddenly gripped her shoulders and shook her.
“What in God’s name are you doing out here?”
“I—I saw them from the house, and came to see.”
“It was a stupid thing to do!” he snapped.
“I didn’t think. I thought I was safe here by the brambles.”
“Well, you weren’t. If I saw you running from the ha-ha, so might they have. As it was that damned crow gave you away. What if I hadn’t been close by?”
“Why were you near, Rowan?” The question had an edge.
“I was returning to the house and saw what was going on by the oak.”
“Returning from where?” she asked, looking accusingly at him.
“Does it matter?” he replied, helping her to her feet.
“Yes, Rowan, it does.”
“You know what I’ve been doing. I’ve just spent a very uncomfortable night with some of my keepers, lying in wait for poachers who didn’t turn up. As I returned my horse to the stables, I saw those fools cavorting in white vestments!”
“You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?” she replied, brushing grass and bramble leaves from her ruined wrap, and then inspecting the scratches on her arms and legs.
“Yes, I do expect it. I’m not in the habit of lying to you, Marigold.” He took off his coat and placed it around her shoulders.
She struggled to keep control of herself, but her emotions were all awry and suddenly she couldn’t hold back anymore. “Nor are you exactly in the habit of confiding, instead you judiciously omit to tell me things of a delicate nature! You’ve been with Alauda, haven’t you?”
He was startled. “Alauda?”
“Don’t play the innocent, Rowan. I know she’s joining Falk at Romans. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought it would upset you unnecessarily.”
“How thoughtful.”
Her acidity angered him. “And how, pray, do you know about who is at Romans?”
“I rode that way yesterday, and saw you meeting Falk in the orchard.”
“Did you indeed? Well, that is a fact that you omitted to mention, is it not?” he pointed out tersely.
“Because I realized you weren’t going to say anything!” she retorted resentfully.
“My sole reason was consideration of your feelings. As to Alauda, I haven’t seen her or been in contact with her since the night at Vauxhall. Now, you either accept my word, or you don’t.”
Marigold looked away. What of the note that was concealed in the cherry tree? Wasn’t that to be termed contact? A crushing response blistered on her lips, but she forced it back.
He tried to temper his anger. “Alauda isn’t at Romans yet, Marigold,” he said in a more conciliatory tone.
“Really? Well Falk told me she was arriving yesterday.”
His lips parted. “You actually spoke to him?”
“Yes.”
“And if he says something, ergo it is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. By God, Marigold, your talent at prosecution would pass muster in a court of law!”
“If I’m cross-examining you, sirrah, it is with good cause! For instance, how can you be so very sure Alauda isn’t at Romans?” she cried.
“The implication being that I am au fait with her movements?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re wrong, my lady. All I know is she isn’t at Romans and therefore she must be somewhere else. And how do I know? Because I have had a man watching Romans ever since I discovered who my new tenant is! At sundown last night, Falk was still alone in the house. Will that suffice?”
“Well, clearly at least twelve guests have arrived since then,” she replied. “The figure with the staff was Falk, I’m sure of it. Just as in the portrait.”
“I think you are right, but I have no idea if Alauda was also there. Marigold, I will not discuss her further. Have I made myself clear?”
“Oh, perfectly.”
“God be praised. Now, before we return to the house, I want to see what our white-garbed friends were burning, but you are to stay here.”
“Stay here? But—”
Furiously he overruled her protest. “By all the saints, madam, you test my patience and the old words to the full. How does it go? The blithe and thrifty marigold for obedience? As far as I can see, you may well be blithe and thrifty on occasion, but obedient you are not. Now, do as I tell you!”
The outburst startled her into silence, and she remained where she was as he walked away toward the oak. She pulled his coat more closely around her shoulders. It was warm from his body, and smelled of costmary. She watched as he crouched by the curl of smoke that still rose from the grass. Then he stood to stomp whatever it was with his boot, and began to return. He was still some yards away when more hoofbeats broke the dawn, a single horse this time, being ridden at a headlong gallop through the village. There was sufficient light for Marigold to catch a shadowy glimpse of the rider urging his mount toward the lodge. He had disappeared into the mist again by the time Rowan reached her.
“Who could that have been?” she asked as the hoofbeats died away.
“Heaven alone knows,” he replied.
She looked at him. “What was being burned by the oak?”
“Just leaves of some sort.”
“Mistletoe, yes, I saw it being cut, but what was in the cloth?”
“I’ve just told you. Leaves.”
“More leaves? What sort?”
“It was all ashes, and no one thought to leave an explanatory note,” he replied sarcastically.
She flushed a little. “Rowan, about Falk—”
“I don’t intend to embark upon that again,” he interrupted shortly.
“But I have to tell you something.”
“It can keep. Marigold, I’m tired and becoming rather cold, and I don’t think you should remain outside any longer either. Mrs. Spindle and the rest of the kitchen staff will be awake by now because it’s baking day. She keeps a medicine store and will have something ideal for administering to your scratches. Come on.”
He caught her hand, and led her back toward the ha-ha. From there they went directly to the kitchens, where lights now shone as the staff went about their duties. The smell of toast and fried bacon swept out as he opened the door and ushered Marigold inside.
Chapter Twenty-two
In the kitchens, Rowan and Marigold were greeted by a very odd scene, although later she had to concede that it was hardly more startling than the sight she herself must have presented, with Rowan’s coat around her shoulders, her scratches, and badly torn wrap.
Beech and Mrs. Spindle were bending attentively over an ashen-faced young man whose teeth chattered audibly. Several wide-eyed maids stood nearby, and one of them squeaked in alarm as Rowan opened the door without warning.
Mrs. Spindle was startled as well, and dropped the cup of sweet tea she was holding to the young man’s lips. It fell with a crash that echoed like a report through the otherwise silent kitchens. Everyone stared at Marigold, who could only imagine what they all thought had been going on outside!
Rowan looked curiously at them all. “What’s afoot here? Who’s this?” he demanded, nodding at the young man.
The latter scrambled nervously to his feet. He was small and weedy, with damp, spiky hair and drab brown clothes. He was breathing heavily, and his teeth continued to chatter as he gave his name. “I—I’m S-Spiky Blackth-thorn, s-sir.”
“That conveys nothing to me,” Rowan replied.
Beech cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but he is a messenger, and he had something of a fright on the highway when he was almost ridden down by a large group of riders in white robes. He believes they were ghosts.”
“Not ghosts, I assure you,” Rowan replied.
“N-not ghosts?” Spiky repeated.
�
��Definitely not. Just some fools in fancy dress.”
Spiky breathed out with relief. “Cor, that’s a relief,” he muttered, swallowing as he tried to pull himself together.
Rowan looked at him. “You have a message?”
“Oh, yes. It’s for Lady Avenbury.” Spiky searched in the leather pouch that hung from his belt.
“For me?” Marigold was surprised.
“Here it is, my lady,” Spiky said, holding out a rather creased letter.
She took it, and immediately recognized Perry’s writing. Oh, no, what had happened? Had he and Bysshe misbehaved beyond redemption? Quickly she broke the seal. It was dated at Eton the previous evening.
“Dearest Mama.
I was right, it is the chicken pox! Bysshe and I have both been struck down, and Dr. Bethel says that as soon as arrangements can be made, we are to be sent home to recuperate. The thing is, Bysshe’s family are in Ireland, and their house shut up for the summer. So can he please come with me to Avenbury Park? He would dearly like to, and he would be excellent company for me. We promise faithfully not to get in your way, or Lord Avenbury’s.
Your loving son, Perry.
P.S. Please say it is all right.
P.P.S. Did I tell you you were the prettiest bride that ever was?
P.P.P.S. Sir Francis has gone at last. Horrah!”
That afternoon Marigold slowly retraced her steps toward the ha-ha. The sun was high, and the peacocks called on the lawns. She wore a cherry-and-white gingham gown that was tightened beneath her breasts by a little drawstring, and her red-gold hair was twisted up on top of her head, with several ringlets tumbling over her left shoulder. Mrs. Spindle’s balm—marigold, naturally—had soothed the bramble scratches, but it would take a great deal more than that to soothe emotions that were stretched to infinity with wretchedness.