So Great A Love

by Speer, Flora

  “I did not expect to find love in a marriage arranged as mine was,” Margaret said, “but I did want to be important to someone and I thought Lord Pendance might need my nursing skills. I hoped that I could bring comfort and perhaps a little joy to my husband's last years, and that he would treat me with kindness in return. I quickly learned how mistaken my good intentions were. I mattered as little to him as I did to my father or brother. Lord Pendance made a business agreement with my father, two unimportant barons joining forces to strengthen themselves, their bargain sealed with a wedding and a transfer of land. It is a common enough story. Father made a similar arrangement when Eustace married.

  “Nevertheless,” Margaret went on, “I did all I could to be a good wife to Lord Pendance. For ten years I managed his household with skill and economy. I accompanied him to court whenever it was his duty to attend the king and while I was there, I behaved with the utmost propriety. In the last months of his long illness I was his constant nurse, and I honestly grieved for him when he was dead.”

  Margaret paused, remembering the cold insolence of the stepson who had always detested her and his unseemly eagerness to be rid of her. She had been glad to leave Pendance Castle the day after her husband was buried, since her presence was no longer wanted there. During her journey from Pendance north to Sutton Castle, she had looked forward to a brief visit with her father and brother over the holy Christmas season. She hoped to make her peace with them, for they had not been on good terms since before her marriage. Then, as soon as the Twelfth Night celebrations were over, Margaret intended to enter a convent. She felt no desire ever to marry again.

  “When I returned to Sutton two weeks ago,” Margaret continued her story, “I learned that my father had already made his own plans without consulting me. As you know, I am to wed Lord Adhemar two days hence, the day after Twelfth Night and only a month after Lord Pendance's death. Lord Adhemar is sixty years old and not in the best of health. Eustace has informed me that, like Lord Pendance, my prospective second husband will require a nurse in his declining years.”

  “And so you sent for me, saying you wanted me to attend you at your wedding,” Catherine finished for her when Margaret paused again. “Now that I am here, you tell me in secret that you will not be wed.”

  “I cannot do it again,” Margaret said. “I cannot spend more years as nurse to an elderly man who does not care for me at all and whose family makes it clear how much they despise me, just so my father and Eustace can take advantage of my husband's connections at court and add to their own lands by the terms of my marriage contract. They promised I would not have to do it a second time. They have reneged on their promise. In fact, they deny ever having sworn such an oath to me. That is why I no longer feel myself bound to obey them, and why I have resolved to thwart their wishes by escaping.”

  Catherine stared hard at Margaret, as if she was trying to understand her friend's real reasons, the ones Margaret could not speak of – the remembered sensation of an old man's claw-like hands pawing at the body of a terrified fourteen-year-old girl, of wet, open-mouthed kisses reeking of the foul stench of rotting teeth. Of course, Lord Pendance had been unable to change either his physical condition or his age, and Margaret had never blamed him for what he could not help. Unlike many husbands, he had not beaten his youthful wife, nor was he ever deliberately cruel to her. Instead, he had been a hard man in the true Norman mold, a nobleman who cared more for lands and power than for any mere woman.

  From her personal experience of her father and brother and her observations of her late mother's life and of the pale, sighing girl who was her sister-in-law, Margaret had expected indifference and lack of consideration from her husband and thus she was not shocked by it. It was, rather, the half century difference in their ages that made it impossible for her to feel anything more than a cool, polite respect for Lord Pendance, and that made her shrink from his unloving embrace.

  The widowed Margaret was determined never again to subject herself to the whims of a man, or to endure the touch of a man's hands on her naked flesh. She longed for the sanctuary of a safe convent, where such issues could not arise.

  There were also other, far more dangerous considerations, though Margaret would not at the moment permit herself to spare a thought for her father's schemes with regard to King Henry, or the reasons why he was so eager to see her married to Lord Adhemar, who knew the king well. There wasn't time for speculation on political matters. She and Catherine had already enjoyed more uninterrupted conversation than Margaret had dared to hope for. If she was to reach her chosen convent, Catherine must agree to Margaret's plan. Spurred by fear and desperation, Margaret was not above making a veiled threat.

  “Understand me well, Cat,” she said, for the second time shamelessly employing her friend's affectionate name from their youth. “I am determined upon the course I will take. Nothing will deter me from it. I will escape, whether you agree to help me, or whether I am forced by your refusal to act on my own.”

  “A noblewoman cannot travel alone,” Catherine said, displaying some impatience that Margaret should have considered such a foolish idea. “You will put yourself into great danger if you try.”

  “Better to face danger, and perhaps the blessing of a quick death in the winter cold, than to suffer more years of misery,” Margaret said, knowing as she spoke the words that they were no less than the truth. She would rather die than marry Lord Adhemar.

  “Do not say so! Your scheme is risky and your motives would be considered unacceptable by any man who heard you state them,” Catherine exclaimed. Tears glittered in her eyes and her lips trembled. She took a deep breath as if to pull herself together and banish weak tears. “Only I, who knew your very heart when we were children together, could possibly appreciate the terrible anguish of the soul that must have led you to so bitter a decision.”

  “Then help me. Lend to me the man-at-arms I will need for my escort,” Margaret responded. She stood by the sundial, immobile in spite of the freezing wind while Catherine appeared to be deep in thought. Finally, Catherine stirred and shook herself.

  “I am too frozen to think at all, and certainly too cold to think sensibly about what you have asked of me,” she said. “Give me a little time to consider what you have proposed, after I am warmer. We will talk again later.”

  “Of course,” Margaret said at once, for Catherine's request was just what she was expecting. “I shouldn't have kept you shivering here for so long, but this is the safest place for us to talk. Poor Cat, you will catch a chill. Go and warm yourself by the fire in the great hall. I'll join you in a few moments.” When she leaned forward to kiss Catherine on the cheek, the touch of her friend's cold flesh filled her with guilt.

  Margaret had known little affection in her life. Her mother died giving birth to a stillborn child when Margaret was seven years old, whereupon her father, wanting to be rid of the daughter he considered little more than a nuisance, sent Margaret to be fostered at Cliffmore Castle as soon as he could make the arrangements.

  On her first night at Cliffmore, in a room shared by four girls, Margaret had not been able to prevent the tears of loss and loneliness from overflowing. While two of her roommates ignored the sound of sobs coming from beneath the covers of Margaret's narrow bed, Catherine of Wortham crept to her side, took Margaret into her childish arms, and tried to ease her grief with the promise of friendship.

  They had been friends ever since and Margaret could not avoid a sharp pang of remorse for what she was asking of their friendship. Every objection that Catherine voiced, Margaret had already considered and discarded. Caught in the throes of bitter rage against the father and brother who so carelessly ignored their solemn promises and her feelings, Margaret knew there was no choice left to her but to run away. Once she was safely out of Sutton Castle she would be able to think more sensibly about the unwelcome knowledge her brother's wife had revealed. Someone would have to be told, but who, or how, Margaret could not yet decide.


  Taking care lest her expression give away any hint of her tumultuous feelings, Margaret watched the shivering Catherine hurry across the garden toward the door that led into the castle, where roaring fires and hot, spiced wine awaited the arriving wedding guests. Beneath her calm exterior, Margaret's courage was close to failing her.

  “Oh, Cat,” she whispered when her friend was gone, “dearest Cat, please say you will help me escape. For, if you will not, who will?”

  Chapter 2

  In the great hall of Sutton Castle, with its dozens of dusty, unraveling tapestries hung in overlapping rows upon the damp walls, with all of the gold-washed candlesticks, pitchers, and basins that Phelan the baron of Sutton owned making a tawdry display on each and every table, the midday banquet to welcome the newly arrived bridegroom was in progress. The first of many courses had been served and eaten and Lord Phelan was waiting with some impatience for the next course before he bothered to look at his daughter long enough to note her attire.

  Clad in a dark blue woolen gown made with a high neck and long, full sleeves, and with her white linen wimple completely covering her hair, Margaret was standing near the screens passage, directing the servants.

  They were not happy to be directed by Margaret. Since her homecoming she had made several attempts to have them clean the castle, using the blessed Christmas season and her upcoming wedding as excuses to put the staff to work, for she could not bear the dirt or the untidiness she found at Sutton.

  The staff was accustomed to a more relaxed style of housekeeping, so every order Margaret issued was promptly reported to and countermanded by Lord Phelan's current mistress, a wool merchant's daughter from Flanders by the name of Ermengarde. It was only because Ermengarde preferred to sit at the high table with her lover that Margaret was permitted to organize the feast. She did so with a wry twist to her mouth, knowing she, and not Ermengarde, should have been the lady honored at this day's banquet. It did not disturb Margaret in the least that she was not in a seat of honor. She only wished she could forgo the feast – and the wedding – entirely.

  “Margaret!” Lord Phelan roared over the murmur of conversation and the clatter of dishes. “Come here!”

  “Yes, Father.” Dismissing the servant to whom she was speaking, Margaret hastened to the dais where the high table was, to stand before it looking up at her parent. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “There certainly is!” Lord Phelan leaned across the table to shout at her. “God's Holy Teeth, you stupid wench, what are you wearing?”

  “Proper clothing for a widow,” Margaret replied. “This is my usual attire.”

  “You are no longer a widow,” her father reminded her. “You are a bride. Where is the red silk dress that Lord Adhemar sent to you?”

  “I chose to wear this dress instead.” Margaret could feel the eyes of those sitting at the lower tables, and of the servants carrying platters and bowls of food, all of them staring at her back, which was turned to them. The guests who sat facing her at the high table also stared at her.

  Margaret had not been considered important enough to be summoned to greet her prospective bridegroom when he arrived. Her opinion of him mattered not at all to the men who were arranging her future without consulting her, for she was but a pawn in the game of power they played. She was merely expected to keep quiet if she had any objections, and to do her duty as her male relatives saw it. So far as Margaret knew, Lord Adhemar was not interested in her appearance or in discovering what kind of person she was. All the men cared about was the land and the chests of plate and jewels they would exchange when the marriage contract was signed, the alliance between two families that would be to their advantage in years to come – and their wicked schemes that bordered on treason.

  “Have you deliberately chosen to insult our guest?” Phelan demanded.

  “No, my lord,” Margaret responded in a quiet voice. Gazing at her father, she wished with all her heart that he was an honest man who loved her, or at least valued her as a person. He did not love her; he never had, and her practical nature usually prevented her from feeling sorry for herself over a fact that could not be changed. But on this occasion she blinked back tears of humiliation and wounded pride that Catherine should be present to observe how little Margaret counted in her family. While her father glared at her and let her wait for his next remarks, Margaret turned her attention from him to the guests sitting before her.

  There were fourteen people occupying the places of honor at the long high table, and one vacant seat. Lord Phelan was in the lord's chair at the center of the table. The gray-haired man with the harsh, heavily lined face, who sat at her father's right hand was the bridegroom, Lord Adhemar. The place between Adhemar and Eustace was vacant, for it was where Margaret was intended to sit. Next to Eustace was Catherine and on Catherine's left was Lord Adhemar's chaplain. Margaret knew who he was by his robes. He was the only person in the hall who was wearing clerical garb and there was no resident priest at Sutton Castle.

  Sitting on the chaplain's other hand at the far end of the table was Eustace's pale and timorous wife. Gertrude met Margaret's cool gaze for only an instant before breaking the contact to stare down at her trencher in a way that told Margaret her sister-in-law was feeling guilty for talking too much on the previous day.

  On Lord Phelan's left sat Ermengarde, resplendent in pale blue silk with entirely too many necklaces and bracelets draped about her voluptuous figure. Next were four noblemen and three ladies, all folk who had come to Sutton with Lord Adhemar and who were, presumably, either his relatives or his close friends.

  No representatives of Margaret's family were present except for her father, her brother, and Eustace's fear-ridden wife. No aunts, uncles, or cousins were there to witness the marriage, perhaps because of the hasty nature of the arrangements Phelan had made. Save for Catherine, there was no one present in the great hall whom Margaret could call her friend.

  Margaret had glimpsed her intended bridegroom upon his arrival and she was not impressed with him. She took this opportunity to have a closer look at him from a distance of just a few feet. She noted the sour twist to Lord Adhemar's thin lips, the unhealthy color to his complexion, and the irritated way in which he glowered at her. Margaret shuddered at the thought of belonging to the man, of going into his household, and into his bed. Nevertheless, she recalled the lessons she had learned as the wife of Lord Pendance and stepmother to his contentious son. It was always wiser not to show fear. She inclined her head to Lord Adhemar and smiled at him. In response, he frowned at her.

  “I am honored to meet you at last, my lord,” Margaret said boldly. She was fully aware of the implied insult in her words, to her father for not introducing her properly immediately upon Adhemar's arrival at Sutton Castle, and to both men for the way they had ignored her since.

  “Did you not like the red dress?” Lord Adhemar said to her.

  “It is a beautiful dress,” Margaret responded, making a polite curtsey. In fact, she thought the dress was garish and over-decorated, but it was not wise to let anyone know her true opinion of so expensive a gift. “I thank you for it, my lord Adhemar, and for the kind thought that prompted the giving.” There, that ought to soothe his ruffled feelings, though she doubted if kind thoughts were the true reason for the present.

  “If you like it so much, why are you not wearing it?” demanded Lord Adhemar.

  “Because, sir, it is exactly one month ago today that Lord Pendance died. It seemed to me that you would approve of a wife who wishes to show respect and reverence to her late husband's memory upon so solemn an anniversary.”

  “Very proper,” murmured Lord Adhemar's chaplain, nodding his approval of Margaret's sentiments. For his trouble, he received a baleful glare from Lord Adhemar.

  “Do not trifle with me, wench,” Lord Adhemar said, returning his attention to Margaret. “Are you daring to suggest that I will soon follow your first husband into the ground?”

  �
�Indeed not, my lord. I would never wish such a thing,” Margaret responded. “But I do believe a wife ought to honor her lord and master, even when he is no longer present.” It cost her much to quell her spirit enough to speak the servile words, but Margaret could see by her father's reddening face that he was working himself into a high temper, and Eustace also looked angry. Eustace's wife was even paler than usual and was trembling in her seat. For Gertrude's sake, as well as for Margaret's own, a bit of judicious placating seemed to be a good idea.

  “If you wish it, my lord,” Margaret said to Adhemar, “I will be happy to wear the red dress tomorrow, for the Twelfth Night celebrations.” She did not add her opinion that the dress was suitable only for that one uproarious night, when the social order of the castle was turned upside down and the servants pretended to rule. It occurred to her that the dress could be a useful ingredient in her plan of escape. While she was considering the idea, her father spoke to Adhemar.

  “I trust,” said Phelan, “that you will prove a sterner husband than Lord Pendance was. Margaret was raised to be obedient, but clearly she has been allowed too much freedom during the years of her first marriage.”

  “I do believe I will enjoy taming her proud spirit,” Lord Adhemar said. With a look in Margaret's direction that boded ill for her future, he commanded her, “Lady Margaret, come and sit beside me.”

  “My lord,” Margaret objected, “the servants need direction.”

  “It's you who need direction,” Lord Adhemar said. “Will you honor the dead husband while neglecting the living one? Come here at once!”

  “At once,” Phelan reiterated his guest's command, “or by God, Margaret, I'll beat you right here before all the guests!”

  “Do as our father says, wench,” Eustace shouted, “or I'll hold you while he administers the beating you so richly deserve!” He slammed his wine goblet down on the table so hard that red droplets stained the white linen cloth. Poor Gertrude, seated three places away from him, flinched as if fearful that he would hit her.