Marigold's Marriages

by Sandra Heath

Marigold shielded the candle’s guttering flame with her hand. “I don’t really know. Sir Francis awoke me, and that’s all I can say. Oh, Bysshe, I can’t believe I actually went to sleep. On this of all nights! I’ll never forgive myself if Falk wins because I was so weak!”

  “You aren’t weak, Lady Avenbury, you’re the strongest, most determined lady I know. You went to sleep because you’re exhausted, and no one can blame you for that,” Bysshe said reassuringly, and Perry added a thin shriek, as if agreeing.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they were surprised when Sir Francis waddled toward the kitchens, but they soon discovered what he wanted them to see. The kitchens themselves were deserted, but there was something very odd in the walled garden outside. The full moon was up, and another summer mist had arisen, threading softly between the branches of a small clump of trees—beech, spindle, whitebeam, and hazel—that hadn’t been there before, and curled up asleep at the foot of these trees, were various maids and footmen whose names did not suggest anything into which they could be changed.

  It was clear to Marigold that Falk had somehow lured the servants outside in order to transfix them before the coming ceremony. Those who weren’t here must have already gone to their beds, and were now deep in a very unnatural sleep indeed.

  Marigold gazed uneasily around. The mist swirled, and the light of the moon was quite bright enough for her to see the village through the wicket gate at the far end of the garden. There weren’t any candlelit windows, and looming above some of the cottages she saw other strange new trees. The whole of Avenbury, except for Bysshe and herself, was now under Falk’s spell.

  Perry made an unhappy noise, and Bysshe drew a long, rather shaky breath. “There is a frightful fiend, is there not, my lady? He has two names, Falk Arnold and Aquila Randol, and I think he’s very close behind us indeed.”

  Sir Francis gave another peremptory quack, and turned to waddle back into the house. They followed without a word as he led them across the hall to the dining room, where he fluttered up onto the table. Perry’s fear in the kitchen garden was forgotten now as his falcon instincts swept to the fore. He had always been very partial to roast duck, and now didn’t take his amber eyes off the plump drake, clearly assessing how best to pounce. As the mallard edged nervously away, Bysshe shook Perry. “Stop it, you’re not really a peregrine, you know!”

  Marigold placed the candle on the table. “So what now, Sir Francis?” she murmured resignedly, for it did not seem possible that anything could be done at this stage in the proceedings.

  Muttering anew, the drake fluttered down from the far side of the table, waddled down the room a little way, then launched himself up at the portrait of the first Lady Avenbury and her small son. He rapped his bill against it, fluttered back to the floor again, then he repeated the exercise. After that he turned to stare at Marigold, as if to say “Now do you see?”

  Mystified, Marigold and Bysshe went over to the painting. Bysshe shrugged. “Why on earth is he in such a state about this one? Surely it’s the other that’s important?”

  Marigold gazed at the portrait, and then her lips parted. What had Jenny said? The painting! The painting! Look at it, Marigold, look at it! The truth is there! She gasped, and clutched Bysshe’s arm. “We’ve been looking at the wrong picture! This is the one Jenny meant!” She could have wept with annoyance at herself. How stupid to assume Jenny was referring to her own portrait.

  Forgetting Perry, Sir Francis hopped excitedly up and down, and treated them to a positive explosion of quacks. Had he tried, he couldn’t have shown more delight.

  Bysshe gasped at the painting. “But what on earth is there to see in this one? It’s just a likeness of a sixteenth-century widow and her baby.”

  “I know, but there has to be something. Concentrate Bysshe. You too, Perry, and if you spot anything, just make a fuss like Sir Francis.” Perry nodded, and made a grunting noise.

  As Marigold racked her brains about what Rowan had told her about the first Lady Avenbury, his exact words suddenly came to her from the blue. She, her husband, and the baby all succumbed to the plague. Lord Avenbury died first, and she was said to have been so grief-stricken at his death that her baby son was born prematurely. They only survived him by one month, before they too fell victim to the pestilence. The truth positively stared her in the face. “Oh, you foolish drake, why didn’t you indicate this before?”

  Sir Francis puffed his feathers indignantly, and gave her a look that suggested he’d done more than enough. Bysshe looked at him, and then at Marigold. “What are you saying, my lady? Have you seen something?”

  “Yes, Bysshe, I have. Rowan isn’t the thirteenth Lord Avenbury, he’s the fourteenth, as is shown quite clearly in this painting.”

  “Eh?” Bysshe’s jaw dropped. Perry blinked, and gave a startled squeak.

  Marigold told them both what Rowan had said about this second portrait, then she went on. “Don’t you see? If the baby boy died one month after his father, for that month he was the second Lord Avenbury! The baby has been forgotten because according to all the records, the first Lord Avenbury was succeeded by his younger brother. It’s like—well, it’s like saying Edward IV was succeeded by his brother, Richard III, when everyone knows one of the princes in the Tower was actually Edward V for a while. Do you see? It’s so obvious. I can’t understand how we didn’t spot it before!”

  Bysshe pursed his lips. “We wouldn’t have spotted it at all. It would never have occurred to me to think of the line of succession.”

  Marigold wanted to laugh aloud, “Oh, it’s all so clear now. Rowan’s father was the thirteenth and supposedly last lord, yet Rowan succeeded him to become the fourteenth. What price Aquila Randol’s famous malediction now?”

  Bysshe’s eyes began to brighten, but then he lowered them again. “Even so, Falk still has the anguinum, and we know how great his power is as a result,” he reminded her.

  “Falk believes the anguinum is infallible, but it isn’t. Remember how proof of my first marriage has survived after all?”

  “Yes, that’s true, but...”

  “What if we were to interrupt the midsummer rites, as the first Lord Avenbury did? What if Falk were to realize his precious anguinum isn’t quite what it’s supposed to be? What if Rowan were told he is the fourteenth lord? Would Falk still be able to compel him against his will? You heard what Falk said. Perry is particularly susceptible because of shared blood, and presumably the other druids are receptive because they’re devotees, but Rowan is neither of those things. Falk has to control him in order to make his horrid wheel turn, but if Rowan knows what we now know, he will strike free!” As she spoke the clock began to strike. Dawn was now only half an hour away.

  Perry gave an unhappy squawk, and Bysshe exhaled heavily.

  “All right, let’s say we do it, but how can we even approach Lord Avenbury? Falk and his cronies will have left Romans by now, and the first we will even see of Lord Avenbury is when he is brought to the oak.”

  “If the confrontation has to be beneath the oak itself, then so be it,” Marigold said quietly.

  “But, my lady, Falk threatened to leave Perry like this forever if we tried anything.”

  “If sufficient disruption is caused, I doubt that Falk’s first thought will be of Perry. At least, that is what I must hope.” She reached out to stroke Perry’s head. “Please understand, Perry. I can’t let Falk win, I just can’t.”

  As Perry nuzzled her hand and nodded, Sir Francis quacked approvingly.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Marigold went to open the French window onto the terrace, and as she did so, Sir Francis suddenly flew past her and away into the half-light of predawn. Bysshe went outside with her, and they gazed through the swirls of gossamer mist toward the common. The faint silver glow of approaching day had now begun to creep above the eastern horizon, and the uncanny new trees still adorned the village and kitchen garden. Magic and wickedness tingled in the air, and the sixteenth centu
ry suddenly seemed very close, as indeed did prehistory itself.

  Marigold shook off her fears, and looked at Bysshe and Perry. “Come on, we must go to the oak. I want to be there when Falk and his cohorts arrive.”

  Bysshe was alarmed. “Actually at the tree?”

  “As close as possible, yes.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little too dangerous? I mean, maybe Falk’s anguinum isn’t infallible, but he still has some nasty abilities.”

  “What do you think we should do then?”

  “You and Lord Avenbury hid in those brambles the night you scared the life out of Perry and me. I think we should hide there now, so we can gauge everything before acting.”

  She gave a wry little smile. “Before acting upon what, that’s the question. I’ve been swept along with new hope because of what we now know from the painting, but I still haven’t thought of exactly how I’m going to engineer anything.”

  She lowered her eyes thoughtfully. What would cause uproar, and halt Falk in his tracks? He was now sure that her ability didn’t stand a chance against his own, but what if he were tricked into thinking it did after all present a threat? He’d called her bluff when she pretended to have an anguinum in her pocket, but what if she actually appeared to possess one?

  Her eyes began to gleam a little. That day at Castell Arnold she’d thought it was a red billiard ball that dropped to the floor. In the uncertain light of first dawn, might not such a billiard ball look convincing? She turned briskly to Bysshe, “Give Perry to me, then run to the billiard room and bring a red ball.”

  “A red—? You surely don’t mean to pretend that you have an anguinum as well!” Bysshe was appalled, and Perry gave a horrified shriek.

  Marigold looked at them. “Have you a better plan? Think about it. Falk is bound to be cautious if he believes I can match him, amulet for amulet.”

  “And he may turn you into a marigold to be eaten in a salad!”

  “Very well, I’ll get the ball myself.” Gathering her skirts, she ran along the terrace to the adjacent billiard room, selected the ball she wanted, then came out again.

  Bysshe looked anxiously at her. “Please don’t do this, Lady Avenbury, for heaven alone knows what Falk may be able to do to you.”

  “My mind is made up. True, I may fail and provoke Falk into something dreadful, but what is more dreadful than the present situation? Why should I believe that Falk will ever return Perry to his normal self? It simply isn’t in his interest to have a rival heir around, so Perry will be left as he is. Rowan, whom I love more than life itself, is about to be a sacrifice, and what of poor Robin and Jenny? They sought my help, and are relying on me to do something. I am the only one with anything to lose, for I have decided that you and Perry are to stay here at the house.”

  “No!” cried Bysshe.

  “Oh, yes, Master Shelley. If I allow you to assist me, Falk will have a grudge against you as well, and I cannot permit that.”

  Before Bysshe could reply, Robin suddenly flew onto Marigold’s shoulder. He chirruped urgently, and she knew he was trying to tell her that Falk and his entourage were approaching. After giving Bysshe a look that brooked no disobedience, she hurried away, toward the path and ha-ha. Robin flew with her, chirruping constantly. She clutched the red billiard ball tightly, and her mind raced as she tried to decide how to set about the task in hand.

  The fates of her husband, son, and friends were in her keeping, and for them she was about to attempt the greatest and most dangerous of bluffs. Please don’t let her fail. Falk mustn’t be allowed to make the wheel turn, he mustn’t!

  On reaching the brambles, she paused to listen. Sounds carried through the dawn, horses being ridden slowly, and male voices chanting. Remembering how the druids’ suspicions had been drawn to the brambles before, she glanced around for another hiding place. Suddenly she noticed an isolated standing stone she hadn’t seen before. It was almost hidden in a knot of young sycamore trees about fifty yards to her right, and as she ran toward it, the hooves and chanting sounded ever more near.

  Once there, she pressed back a little breathlessly among the foliage, and Robin alighted on a branch next to her. Marigold was careful not to touch the stone, not yet anyway, for now that she was here, her sixth sense came to her aid again. She knew that when the right moment came, she would know what to do. Her hand tightened over the billiard ball.

  The sky was changing color rapidly now as night gave way to day, and the brilliance illuminating the east heralded the imminence of sunrise. It should have been an ordinary midsummer morning, but there was nothing ordinary about what was happening here in the depths of Wiltshire. The faint blue lights of the will-o’-the-wisp hovered above the moat again, and in the distance she heard a vixen screaming.

  The sounds along the road from the village were quite loud now, and she watched through the sycamore leaves as an eerie cavalcade came into view. The white-clad druids were like phantoms as she counted them. There were fifteen altogether with Rowan and Alauda. How vulnerable and unaware he still seemed as he reached across to take the hand of the mistress who was luring him to his fate.

  Tears stung Marigold’s eyes as the riders halted, and dismounted. One of them carried Jenny in her cage. Falk’s cowl fell back, revealing the glint of golden torque at his throat, and the crown of mistletoe on his bald head. He held the sickle-headed staff, and went up to Alauda, who had diamonds in her raven hair, and wore a black silk cloak that hid her clothes. She took Rowan’s hand and gave it solemnly to her brother. Rowan seemed a little puzzled, but he made no protest as Falk led him to the head of the column the others had now formed.

  Alauda remained by the horses as the druids advanced in slow single file toward the oak. Their heads were bowed, and they were still chanting, for all the world like monks going to prayer. Each man’s identity was concealed by his cowl, but Marigold knew Mr. Crowe by the broken black wing protruding from his sleeve, and she now guessed that it was Lord Toby who carried Jenny’s cage, for who else would carry the bride but the one who had captured her?

  Robin fluttered down onto Marigold’s shoulder, making sad little noises as he watched his beloved being borne toward a destiny she dreaded. Marigold shared the bird’s unhappiness, for she too was watching her beloved. Rowan walked as if in a dream, and on reaching the oak did not resist as two of the druids tied him to its trunk, he even extended his hands for his wrists to be bound. Marigold tasted the salt of her tears. Oh, Rowan, Rowan ...

  A square of white cloth was laid on the grass at Rowan’s feet, and Lord Toby hung Jenny’s cage from the lowest branch. Then Falk stood facing Rowan, staff in one hand, anguinum in the other. His followers formed a chanting circle around the oak, as he gazed up at the mistletoe among the oak leaves, waiting for the sun. The sky was brightening by the second now, and the mist swirled as if alive, then at last the first rays broke over the horizon to fall directly upon the mistletoe.

  Falk reached up to strike a spray of the magical mistletoe with the bronze sickle on his staff. The heavy golden leaves tumbled onto the square of cloth, and Falk raised the anguinum, which now glowed bright red in his hand. Strange words fell from his lips, the ancient Celtic tongue of bygone druids.

  The air crackled with energy, and Rowan cried out as at last he realized what was happening. Suddenly Jenny’s golden cage shattered, and the faint image of a young woman in Tudor dress began to appear next to Rowan. Robin made a soft whimpering noise as Jennifer Avenbury returned to the human shape she had last known in 1534. She was very beautiful indeed, but the sound of her weeping carried with painful clarity above the endless chanting.

  Then something even more incredible happened. The circling druids started to float around the oak as if weightless, and the standing stones of Avenbury, small and large, hauled themselves from the earth to dance! It was like something conjured by the great wizard whose name her first husband had shared, but it was happening here in the nineteenth century! Each stone was spinning
like a dervish, and the air seemed to roar with sound. This was the turning of the wheel.

  Marigold pressed back in fear as the stone by which she was hiding uprooted itself as well. Then in a flash she knew the moment had come, and she reached out to touch it before it too joined the dance of giants. A dazzling light blinded her for a second, and an intense heat leapt through her fingers. She felt the billiard ball burning in her hand, and she looked to see that it was now scarlet glass that glowed like Falk’s anguinum. It had become an anguinum! There was no need to bluff now, for she really could match Falk! Holding it high, she emerged from hiding.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Rowan gazed helplessly at Marigold as she entered the terrible arena. He thought to protect her by remaining silent, but Alauda saw the red light in her hand, and screamed a warning to her brother. Falk made a swift movement with his anguinum, and Jenny seemed to freeze, then he turned sharply to face Marigold. His expression changed dramatically as he realized what she held up for him to see. Swiftly he used his own, and jagged shafts of lightning passed between the two. A wind rose from nowhere, billowing Marigold’s clothes and making her red-gold hair stream across her face.

  The wild dance continued, but everything now became silent, so that Marigold and Falk might have been entirely alone, and when he spoke, it was as if he were right next to her instead of many yards away. “Anguinum or not, you still cannot beat me, Marigold.”

  “You think not? Look, Falk, how many do you see?” She felt almost elated as she summoned not one, but three fetches of Rowan. Silver and radiant, they appeared outside the spinning circle of small blue stones, and Falk stepped back involuntarily.

  Marigold was exultant. “I have already beaten you, Falk, for I know something that will shatter your dreams. You’ve miscalculated, Falk. Rowan is the fourteenth lord, not the thirteenth!”

  He was very still. “You’re lying!” he said then, but she was sure the supernatural dance began to slow a little.