by Speer, Flora
“Arden, that was not gentle,” Margaret said in stern reproof.
“Sometimes,” he responded, “a swift blow with a sharp blade is a kinder cut than a sawing motion made with a dull knife.”
“You were not amputating a limb!” Margaret cried.
“Was I not? I do remember how she doted on Tristan all those years ago. But it was a young girl's dream and best killed quickly. It should have died before this.”
“It was a deep and lasting love that lodged itself in a maiden's faithful heart,” Margaret said to him. “If you still owned a heart, you would understand.”
Disgusted by Arden's coldness toward his sister's pain, Margaret turned her full attention to Catherine. She immediately wished she had done so sooner. Catherine stood with her head bowed, like a flower drooping on its stem after being stricken by an icy blast of winter air. Her arms dangled at her sides, as if she would never find the strength to use them again. Her shoulders slumped. Just as Margaret reached her and put a supporting arm about her waist, Catherine's knees buckled.
“Arden,” Margaret cried, “help me!”
Arden was on his way down the steps to the great hall. At Margaret's urgent call he spun around.
“Cat!” Arden saw what was happening and rushed to Catherine's side, to catch her before she crumpled to the floor.
“Carry her to her room,” Margaret ordered, pointing the way. “Lay her on the bed. Aldis! Where are you? Come and help us!”
Arden dumped Catherine onto her bed and turned toward the door, looking like a man desperately seeking an escape route. Margaret assumed he wanted to leave the room as quickly as possible, which was what even the boldest men often did when confronted with sickness. Then Aldis came running and Arden halted in his tracks, staring at the girl with an expression of utter horror.
“Arden!” Aldis exclaimed, smiling at him. “You've come home at last. Are my father and brother with you?”
“No.” Arden's answer to her eager questions was little more than a choked groan.
“Aldis,” Margaret said, interrupting whatever Aldis was about to say next, “Catherine is ill. We will need a pitcher of warm water and some clean cloths to wash her face. And ask Cook if there is any lavender water in the stillroom.”
“Yes, of course,” Aldis responded. “I'll see to it at once. Arden, we will talk later. I have so much to ask you.” She hurried away.
“Oh, dear God in heaven, why should Aldis be here?” Arden whispered. “Why didn’t you or Catherine tell me?” He went to the door and placed one hand on the frame as if using it to keep himself upright.
For the next few moments Margaret was too concerned about Catherine to attend to Arden’s complaint. She busied herself undressing her friend, though she did glance at Arden once or twice. He seemed to be taking long, deep breaths. By the time Catherine was tucked under two warm quilts and Margaret could give her attention to Arden once more, he was standing at the foot of the bed. His face was coldly composed, shut tight against any display of emotion or any further questions.
“I can see that Catherine is in capable hands,” Arden said. He shook his head as he regarded his sister. “She is making a great deal of fuss over something that is beyond changing,” he added scornfully.
Outraged by his lack of human warmth toward the sister who loved him, Margaret took a purposeful step forward as if to challenge his coldness. She was far too angry with him to care about being polite.
“You may have helped to rescue the Holy Land from the Infidel,” she declared, “and, for all I know, you left a trail of mistresses from here to Jerusalem and back to England again, but after witnessing your behavior toward both Catherine and Aldis, I can tell you this: you know nothing at all about women. Furthermore, where women are concerned, you are an abject coward!”
If his eyes were cold before, they turned even paler and more icy at her insulting words. Margaret caught her breath, knowing she had gone too far and fearing he would hit her. Instead, he curled his lip in a disdainful sneer and struck at her with her own weapon. He used words.
“I marvel that your father was able to find one man willing to bear the sharpness of your shrewish tongue,” he said, “let alone convince a second poor fool to take you on in marriage.”
Before Margaret could say anything more he was gone. She heard his footsteps hastening across the solar and down the stairs to the great hall, where the men of Bowen greeted him with noisy delight at their lord's homecoming.
Chapter 9
With Catherine still keeping to her bedchamber it was Margaret who saw to it that the high table was covered with a clean linen cloth in honor of Arden's presence, then set with silver spoons and cups, and with wooden trenchers to hold the slices of hollowed-out bread into which the spicy meat stew was to be ladled. The weather being unsuitable for hunting, the cook was forced to rely on preserved foods from the storerooms to round out the menu, though she did sacrifice a few birds from the dovecote, which were spitted and roasted over the kitchen fire.
When midday came Aldis was so eager to speak with Arden that she ran down the steps and hurried across the hall to where he stood by the fire. Margaret followed more slowly with a reluctant Catherine, but she could hear the conversation.
“Where is my father?” Aldis asked of Arden. “Did he return to England with you? And what of my brother?”
There followed an oddly tense pause until Arden responded in a low voice, “I left Uncle Oliver and Roger behind, in the Holy Land.”
“I did so hope they were following you with Sir Tristan's party.” Aldis sounded disappointed. There was another tense and awkward silence before she spoke again. “When you left them, were they in good health?”
By this time Margaret and Catherine were in the great hall and Margaret could clearly see Arden's grim, pale face.
“Cousin Aldis,” Arden said in the harsh voice that Margaret was beginning to know too well, “do not harangue me with your woman's questions, nor ply me with your tears. I have endured enough of both for one day. I have nothing more to say to you.”
“But, I only wanted -” Aldis broke off speaking when Arden turned his back and stalked away from her, to take his place at the high table.
“Be seated,” Arden said, making an abrupt gesture that included everyone in the hall.
With the lord of the manor returned after a long absence, it should have been a happy gathering for his homecoming meal. That it was not was due in large part to Arden, who sat in the lord's chair glowering at the company, speaking only to Sir Wace and then only when the seneschal asked a direct question. Where the ladies were concerned, Arden's treatment of his sister bordered on rudeness. Catherine's proper place was at Arden's left hand and Margaret, their guest, should have been seated at Arden's right. Instead, he made Sir Wace sit next to him. Catherine was beside Margaret, as far from Arden as she could be while still sitting at the high table, and Aldis was relegated to the other end of the table, where she was too distant for conversation or for questions.
“Arden may never speak to me again,” Catherine whispered to Margaret. She did not touch the food set before her and she tasted only a few sips of wine. Catherine's eyes were fevered and over-bright and they shone with tears. Still, she lifted her chin and pulled back her shoulders, not allowing her hurt feelings to be seen by the men-at-arms or the servants.
“In time, Arden's anger will soften,” Margaret said, though she wasn't as certain as she sounded. She believed there was more to Arden's cold disregard of his sister's feelings than mere irritation at finding her where he did not expect her to be, or even anger at learning why she was at Bowen. In his first, unguarded embrace of Catherine and his startled cry of, “Cat!” when he realized she was fainting, Margaret had seen proof that Arden loved the girl. But from the way he was treating her now, Margaret did not think Catherine would believe he cared. Arden's behavior toward Aldis was even more incomprehensible to Margaret.
The meal that should have bee
n a festive feast did not last long. Perhaps reacting to the tense atmosphere, and in striking contrast to their usual tendency to linger in the hall, the men-at-arms, squires, and servants all found excuses why they ought to be elsewhere as soon as they finished eating. Before long there was no one left but the three women and two men who sat at the high table.
“Well,” Sir Wace said, clearing his throat and rising, “I have duties to attend to, if you will excuse me, my lord Arden.” He waited, but Arden did not respond. With an expressive shrug of his shoulders Wace stepped down from the dais and followed the last of his men from the hall.
Arden gave no indication of noticing the sudden clearing of a hall that ordinarily was filled with activity. He remained at the high table, staring into his silver cup as if he would find in the dregs of his wine the answers to questions he could not speak aloud.
It was Catherine who finally intruded into the silence surrounding Arden. She left her seat and went to him, to kneel at his side.
“Dear brother,” she said, “I cannot bear your anger. We have been separated for so many years and I have missed you sorely. I want to be close to you again, as we once were. Please say you forgive me.”
“You will have to ask our father's forgiveness for what you have done. I have none to give you,” Arden said, not lifting his gaze from the winecup. He continued in a low voice drenched in scorn, “You began by committing a foolhardy act that may draw our father into bloody warfare with a fellow baron. Next, you came to Bowen without Father's knowledge or permission, bringing with you Cousin Aldis, who should never have been involved in your thoughtless deeds and, most reprehensible of all, you are sheltering a woman who is a fugitive from her lawful guardians. Finally, you weep and wail over the marriage of a man who scarcely knows you exist. Don't look to me for forgiveness.”
Catherine knelt motionless, her eyes searching Arden's averted face. Clearly not finding what she sought from his hard-set profile, she stood, steadying herself with a hand on the back of the lord's chair. Arden did not move. Slowly Catherine stepped from the dais and walked out of the hall, her head bowed, her long skirts dragging after her. Aldis sent a frightened glance in Arden's direction before she followed Catherine.
The sight of Catherine so forlorn and of Aldis afraid tugged at Margaret's heart until her temper surged far beyond her ability to keep it in check.
“What has happened to you?” she scolded Arden. “The boy I once knew would never be so cruel. But you are no longer that boy,” she added before Arden could say it for himself.
“You should have told me at once that Aldis was with you,” Arden muttered, still contemplating his winecup.
“Do you want to destroy both of those girls?” Margaret demanded. “Or are you trying to make them hate you?”
In response to her impassioned whisper Arden lifted his gaze from the winecup, to look at Catherine's drooping, departing figure, with Aldis' arm at her waist offering fragile support. Then Arden transferred his gaze to Margaret. What she saw in his unguarded eyes terrified her. Never had she seen such pain and grief, or such aching loss. The openness of Arden's gaze lasted for only an instant, before a veil dropped somewhere behind those ice-blue eyes, as he closed himself off from human contact. In that one moment Margaret recognized the lost and lonely soul who hid behind Arden's stern defenses.
And she knew that he knew what she had seen in him. Arden might in time forgive his sister her misdeeds and he might even answer all of Aldis' questions about her menfolk, but Margaret was not sure he would ever forgive her for what she had just learned about him.
* * * * *
Margaret found Catherine in her bedchamber, standing by the window with a listless air. Though Aldis was drawing back the shutters, Margaret did not think either girl was aware of the white world that lay outside the manor walls.
“He despises me,” Catherine said when Margaret put an arm around her.
“I do not think so,” Margaret responded. “I am so sorry our friendship has brought you to this unhappy state. I should never have invited you to Sutton Castle, and never asked for your help. It was wrong of me to involve you.”
“I do not regret a single thing I have done,” Catherine said with a brief resurgence of her usual spirit. “I would gladly do it all again. Nor do I think my father will blame me, once I have explained my reasons to him, for he is a kind-hearted and understanding man. Not like Arden. I think Arden is using what I did at Sutton Castle as an excuse to keep me at a distance, perhaps for the rest of our lives. There is such a terrible coldness surrounding him. And Tristan, too, is lost to me forever.”
Catherine's voice broke on a sob. When she drew in a breath she began to cough and could not stop until, at Margaret's urgent request, Aldis ran into the solar and brought back a cup of wine. This Catherine drank, and the coughing eased.
“My chest hurts. I don't feel at all well,” Catherine said, wiping at her streaming eyes. She went to her bed and sat upon it. “I think I will try to sleep for a while.”
“Perhaps that would be best. While you rest, I will investigate the stillroom to see if I can find any horehound that I can use to make a syrup for your cough.” Together, Margaret and Aldis helped Catherine to undress and tucked her into bed. Catherine lay quietly with her face turned away from the windows.
“I think she's asleep,” Aldis whispered after a while. “I will stay with her if you want to see what's available in the stillroom.”
At her suggestion, Margaret tiptoed away.
Catherine did not join the men of Bowen at the evening meal, nor did she appear in the hall the next morning. The chill she had sustained during the ride from Sutton to Bowen rapidly worsened into a congestion of the lungs.
Margaret prepared and administered the horehound mixture, which alleviated Catherine's cough somewhat, but Catherine's spirits were brought low by Arden's coldness toward her and by the news about Tristan's marriage. She declared herself too ill to get out of bed, saying she wanted only to be left alone. Just as her brother had done, Catherine was withdrawing to protect her wounded spirit. At the moment it appeared there was nothing Margaret could do for either of them. Telling Aldis to keep a close watch on Catherine and to let her know if she needed anything, Margaret left her friend to rest. She thought Aldis was glad of an excuse to stay away from the great hall and out of reach of Arden's cold indifference to her questions.
For the next two days Margaret acted as chatelaine of Bowen Manor while Catherine kept to her chamber with Aldis constantly at her side. Not that there was much for Margaret to do beyond making suggestions to the cook and the maidservants about preparations for the eventual arrival of Sir Tristan and his lady. Margaret was used to running a much larger establishment, so she had plenty of free time.
Unfortunately, there was no one for her to spend her time with. Catherine refused to rise from her bed or to carry on an extended conversation. Aldis would not leave Catherine. Sir Wace treated Margaret kindly but he was a busy man and did not have time to spare for female concerns. As for Michael the squire, he had retreated from his initial friendliness into silence, perhaps feeling that in revealing the news of Tristan's marriage, he had said too much.
Arden barely acknowledged Margaret's presence in the hall at meals, he never mentioned his sister or his cousin, and Margaret knew for a fact that he did not visit Catherine. A portion of each day he spent with Sir Wace, discussing the upkeep of the manor, but the majority of the time Arden kept to himself, usually in the lord's chamber.
Left to entertain herself, Margaret decided the time was right for her to compose the letter she intended to send to Lord Royce. As soon as the snow stopped and the roads were passable Sir Wace was bound to send a report to Wortham Castle, and Catherine's note to her father explaining her presence at Bowen would go with the report. Margaret wanted her own letter to be included in the packet.
She located pen, ink and parchment in the kitchen, where the cook kept writing supplies for recording inve
ntories of the storerooms. Promising to return the materials she did not use, Margaret carried the supplies to the solar. She pulled the table close to the fireplace for warmth and sat down to work.
An hour later she was staring at the salutation at the top of the otherwise blank page when she sensed Arden standing behind her, bending so close she could feel his warmth.
“Why are you writing to my father?” he asked. “Do you know him?”
“We have never met.”
“Then why a letter to him?”
“I was about to betray my father,” Margaret said with a sigh. “I fully intended to reveal his recent activities to Lord Royce. But I have been sitting here for the longest time trying to decide exactly what to say, only to discover that I cannot write the words. He has never loved me, but still, he is my parent. I cannot betray him after all.”
“I know something of betrayal,” Arden murmured.
“I owe an apology to Lord Royce, and to you also, for involving Catherine and Aldis in my escape from Sutton. Perhaps that is what I should write,” Margaret continued. “It was for my sake that Catherine was exposed to the cold and dampness for so long that she became ill, and for my sake she now endures your displeasure.”
“I know about guilt, too.” Arden's hand briefly rested on Margaret's shoulder, as if he wanted to comfort her.
Margaret wished she dared to lean back and lay her head on his chest. She yearned even more to stand up and turn around, into his embrace. She ached to feel Arden's arms enfolding her.
Arden was apparently indifferent to their closeness. He straightened, releasing Margaret from the bond of his warmth and easing her unseemly desire to a small degree.
“What, exactly, is your father doing that makes you believe speaking of it will be a betrayal?” Arden asked.
For a moment or two Margaret considered how to answer his question, before she decided only the truth would suffice. She wanted no more lies.