by Speer, Flora
“My father is in league with several other barons, with the intention of forcing King Henry to declare Robert of Gloucester legitimate, and then to make him heir to the crown,” she said.
“If what I've heard of Robert is true,” Arden responded, “he is the best of all King Henry's brood of bastard sons. But I find it hard to believe the king would ever agree to such a scheme. Or Robert, either.
“I heard a similar tale while traveling through Aquitaine.” Arden paused as if considering what to say next. After a moment he took a deep breath and went on. “We also heard rumors claiming that the ship carrying Henry's sons on their final voyage was deliberately sabotaged so it would sink. Tristan and I have agreed to tell my father what we have learned, in the belief that he can reach the king quicker than either of us could.”
“That's what Catherine said about my information. She suggested I write to Lord Royce.”
“Ah. I should have guessed as much.” The corners of Arden's finely chiseled mouth turned downward.
“Please.” Margaret reached out a hand and caught Arden's wrist. He stared down at her pale fingers against the dark wool of his tunic sleeve. His other hand moved as if he was going to lay it over hers. He made a fist instead and pulled that hand down to his side.
“Please, what?” he demanded, reverting to his usual harsh tone.
“Be kinder to Catherine. You are breaking her heart. Aldis would welcome a bit more warmth from you, too.”
“I have nothing to say to either of them. Not until I have spoken with my father.”
“If the bad weather continues it will be a long time,” Margaret said.
“So it will. And I wish I were here in the bad weather – alone.” With that, Arden pulled away from Margaret's hand and hurried down the steps, through the archway, and into the entry hall.
* * * * *
By the third day after Arden's homecoming Margaret was thoroughly frustrated. Arden was becoming so closed-in upon himself that he scarcely seemed to be present. Yet every time Margaret looked at him she recalled the night he had come home and the tender way he had embraced her. She recalled the anguish she had detected in him during one unguarded moment in the great hall, and she remembered their quiet conversation in the solar. That soft-spoken, gentle man was so different from the Arden she saw every day. She could not understand the discrepancy, and because she could not, she was convinced there must be something very wrong with him.
Of more immediate concern was the problem of Catherine. Both Margaret and Aldis tried to coax her into eating. She would not, insisting her throat was too sore to allow her to swallow solid food. The most Margaret could accomplish was to convince her to drink a hot herbal brew.
“It will help you to sleep,” Margaret promised.
“I hope it works. I wish I could sleep forever,” Catherine said, lying back upon the pillows when Margaret set down the empty cup.
“Do not say so,” Margaret cried, giving in to her fears. “Oh, Catherine, I wish I knew what to do to help you. After everything you’ve done for me, I will do anything for you.”
“Can you bring Tristan to Bowen and make him eager to love me?” Catherine asked.
“You know such a thing is not in my power,” Margaret said. “Nor is it in your power to change what is in Tristan's heart. All you can do is accept the facts as Arden has told them to you, and then take up the threads of your life and go on.”
“What practical advice you give,” Catherine said with a sigh. “I have loved Tristan of Cliffmore since I was seven years old. I cannot stop loving him now.”
“Perhaps what you have loved,” Margaret suggested, “was a romantic tale such as the troubadours concoct, a tale you invented and then embroidered in your mind as time went on. Tristan left England shortly after your brother did, while you were still quite young. So was he young, and you do not know the man he has become, any more than you know Arden after he has been absent for so long a time.” Margaret finished her speech with a catch at her heart as well as in her voice, knowing the advice she was offering to Catherine was the same advice she ought to be following in regard to Arden.
“Arden does not come to see me,” Catherine said. “He is so changed.” Her voice trailed off on a note of hopelessness.
“Exactly,” Margaret seized on her friend's sad comment to prove her point. “Arden's present anger will abate and then you will have to learn to know your own brother all over again, for he has grown into a man very different from the brother you once knew. The same will be true of Tristan when next you meet him. I suspect life in the Holy Land is so strange and difficult that it changes all who go there.”
“I love Tristan,” Catherine insisted. “I cannot cut him out of my heart.”
“At the very least, you will have to relegate him to a smaller portion of your heart,” Margaret said as firmly as she could. “He has a wife now.”
“I know it. Truly, I do,” Catherine whispered and turned her face toward the wall.
This conversation so distressed Margaret that she decided something must be done to improve Catherine's mood, and it must be done promptly. It was time to approach Arden about his sister's condition and insist he pay attention. Margaret waited until late afternoon, after the midday meal was over. When she heard Arden passing through the solar on his way to the lord's chamber, where he would no doubt spend the rest of the day and the evening in self-imposed isolation, she left Catherine's room and hurried to the solar, only to see the door of the lord's chamber closing.
“Arden, wait.” There was no time for polite manners, or for deferring to his wish to be left alone. Margaret flung herself against the door at the very last moment and wrapped her fingers around the edge of the door as a way of preventing Arden from latching it.
“What is it?” Arden demanded in an impatient tone. His right hand was on the inner side of the door, pushing it shut.
“It's about Catherine.” Seeing the undisguised irritation on his face at the mention of his sister's name, Margaret quickly withdrew her fingers from the door edge. Instead, she splayed both hands flat on her side of the door, holding it open against Arden's superior strength. She knew he was the stronger and could easily have slammed the door in her face. She was relieved and a little surprised when he did not. Perhaps his sister's name carried more weight with him than she had expected after his recent treatment of her, though his next words did not suggest any tenderness toward Catherine.
“Is she still sulking?” Arden asked, the too-frequent frown appearing on his brow.
“Catherine does not sulk. She has been ill, as you would know if you ever troubled yourself to inquire about her,” Margaret retorted with a flare of her own temper. She found it upsetting that Arden could so easily provoke her into dropping her self-control. Telling herself to be patient with him, she said in a softer tone, “Catherine is desperately unhappy and her unhappiness has made her illness worse. Her heart is broken; she has not eaten since you told her about Tristan's marriage.”
“That sounds like sulking to me,” Arden said. “Leave her alone and she will recover soon enough.”
“How can you be so uncaring?” Margaret cried. “You loved your sister once, and made no secret of it. From the way you greeted her the other day, I think you still do love her.”
“My feelings for Catherine are not your concern,” he said.
“They most certainly are!” Margaret exclaimed. “Catherine is my dearest friend, and I fear for her health. If she continues as she has been doing for the last few days she will suffer a relapse and, good as my nursing skills are, I will not be able to cure her affliction, for it is caused in part by your indifference. Arden, surely you do not want your sister's death on your conscience?”
He looked at her in silence for so long that Margaret began to tremble under the impact of his pale gaze. Arden's eyes were no longer icy. They seared Margaret's very soul with heat, and with a bottomless pain she could not begin to comprehend. She had seen the sa
me startling pain once before, when he had faced her in the great hall after sending Catherine away in tears.
It occurred to her that the anger Arden had displayed since discovering his sister and cousin and Margaret all at Bowen was not really meant for them, nor were they in any way the cause of his wrath. There was something else, some canker of the soul, eating at him. The words with which he finally broke the drawn-out stillness between them proved as much to Margaret.
“I have enough on my conscience,” Arden said, “without adding Catherine's death to the terrible weight.” Pulling the door wide open he asked, “Do you wish to come in, or shall we talk in the solar?”
“I think the solar would be better,” she answered, not wanting to risk the enclosed intimacy of his bedchamber, or the distraction of the memories that sight of the huge, curtained bed would certainly invoke.
Chapter 10
“You are right, of course. The solar would be a better place to talk.” Arden strode to the solar fireplace and tossed a new log onto the flames that Margaret insisted must be kept burning, in case Catherine should decide to leave her room and come there. Dusting off his hands, he glanced out the window, to where the wind blew granules of snow through the darkening air. Night came early in January, and though there were a few breaks to be seen in the clouds, Sir Wace was predicting that more snow would fall by morning.
With a sigh of frustration for the weather, and for human frailties, Arden gave his full attention to the slender woman who stood so quietly before him. Save for her hands and face she was completely covered by her white linen wimple and her dark blue gown. Even so, the image of Margaret unclothed persisted in his mind, tantalizing him with the memory of the sweet curves of her breasts and of her long, graceful legs. He was astonished to discover within himself a faint resurgence of physical longing for her. He counteracted the unwanted weakness of his flesh with a cold stare and an equally cold question.
“Well, Lady Margaret, what is it you wish to say to me?”
“The other day you expressed surprise at learning that Catherine is unmarried,” Margaret began. “Though she is only a year younger than I and well past the age for marriage, she has never wed because she has been waiting for Tristan to return to her. Something he said or did all those years ago at Cliffmore Castle led her to believe Tristan wanted her. In her letters to me over the years, Catherine repeatedly mentioned opportunities she has had to marry. For Tristan's sake she has rejected every man who asked for her. She has been allowed to do so because, unlike my father, Royce of Wortham is not a man to force his daughter unwilling into marriage,” Margaret ended her explanation on a slightly bitter note.
“I suppose Tristan didn't know how she felt,” Arden said. “Or, if he knew, he may have deemed her affection only a young girl's fondness that would change when she grew older. Tristan is an honorable man. He cannot have said anything definite to her, for he would never forswear his pledged word. Furthermore, I am certain he would not speak to Catherine on so important a matter without obtaining our father's permission first, and I know he never did. Lady Margaret, I can only conclude that Tristan had no idea how Catherine felt about him in those days.”
“Is the man blind?” Margaret cried. “Couldn't he see her heart in her eyes each time she looked at him? Couldn't he see what Catherine is worth, how loyal and warmhearted and good she is?”
“I am grateful to know my sister has a friend so true and loving.” The heat of Margaret's speech warmed Arden's heart a little, so he was able to regard her with something approaching friendliness. He even managed a faint, rare upward curve of his mouth. The moment quickly passed and Arden felt himself returning to his usual cold and remote demeanor. He said exactly what he was thinking as he gazed at her pure, oval face. “For the foolishness they teach to women, all troubadours should be burned at the stake. The romantic love they sing about does not exist. It is only an illusion.”
“You may be right,” Margaret said. “Never having loved or been loved, I do not know. If love between men and women does exist, I think it must be a most impractical emotion and possibly quite dangerous, to judge from Catherine's condition. Arden, I don't think you ought to blame the troubadours and their songs for your sister's suffering. If you must blame someone, blame Tristan.
“We must think of a way to cheer Catherine, to rouse her out of her deep despair, for she cannot continue as she is,” Margaret went on, apparently coming to the reason why she had intercepted Arden in the first place.
“Catherine will have to learn to accept what she cannot change,” Arden said. “It is a hard lesson, but one we all must learn eventually.”
“We could help her. We could make acceptance easier for her,” Margaret said. “I believe this is a task we ought to approach together, though I know full well you do not like me.”
“Not like you?” Arden said softly, startled by the remark. “Is that what you think, Lady Margaret?”
He gazed into her beguiling silver-gray eyes, so filled with worry for his sister, and he wished he could see them hold half so much solicitude for him. He had no right to the concern of any honest woman, yet Arden found himself wishing to see Margaret looking upon him with kindness.
“You have made it clear, you do not want me at Bowen Manor,” she said in answer to his questions. “I do appreciate how inconvenient it is to have me here.”
“Do you?” he murmured, watching with fascination the way her lips formed each word. When she was thinking about something other than her distaste for him and her desire to enter a convent, Margaret's mouth was not nearly as severe as it appeared at first glance. Her lower lip had a tender curve to it, and her teeth were white and even.
To his dismay, Arden discovered that he wanted to run his tongue along the curve of Margaret's lip, to ease slowly past her teeth, into the honeyed depths of her mouth. He wanted to hear her gasp of surprise, followed by her soft, acquiescing moan as she opened to him. From her innocent reaction when he had caressed her naked body, he did not think any man had ever put his tongue into Margaret's mouth. Arden wished he had taken advantage of the opportunity when it was available to him. He had not kissed Margaret on the mouth during the brief episode in his bed. Looking at her sweet lips, he regretted that he had not.
God's Holy Teeth! The woman was on her way to a convent! Were it not for the terrible weather, she would already be safely cloistered and out of his reach.
Moreover, in the days when Arden had taken women as freely as any other young knight did, before he had resolutely put sexual passion aside as part of the penance he laid upon himself in punishment for the sins he had committed, he had always preferred short, buxom wenches with big breasts that overflowed his hands during the preliminaries, and that provided soft pillows in the aftermath of lust. And he liked females with well-rounded hips and thighs that opened readily to receive him.
Margaret was too thin and so tall that her eyes were almost level with his. She was much too proud and independent for his taste. How could any man want a woman who dared to defy parental authority as she was doing? Bedding Margaret would be like riding a bony, plodding nag, who refused to obey her master's commands.
So Arden told himself, trusting in the crude image to cool the sudden heat flaring in the lower depths of his body. How odd, then, that the picture he saw in his mind was not of a skinny, awkward nun, but the alluring shape of a slender, gently curved nymph with skin like cream and hair like smooth silk...and small, upthrusting breasts that fit perfectly into his hands. He could almost feel the imprint of her hardened nipples against his palms.
He was forced to turn his back to Margaret and stare out the window for a time, until his uncontrollable male reaction to the mental image of her naked in his bed had eased.
His bed sheets still held a faint remnant of her perfume. He could have asked for them to be changed, but he had not done so, preferring to treat the arousal the fragrance brought him each night as a form of penance. He had been successful in fig
hting his desire for this over-aged, would-be nun. Until now.
Arden was shocked and shamed by the strength of a longing that could find no acceptable outlet. He told himself what he was feeling was a memory from his youth, a fragment of what once had been, from a life that no longer existed. A woman's body was not for him. Never again.
“Arden, please.” Margaret laid a hand on his arm, seeming not to notice the shudder of desire that went through him at her touch. “I beg you, set aside your dislike of me so we can devise some way to hearten Catherine and bring her out of her despair. If she is cheerful, she will more easily throw off the chest congestion that has kept her coughing for days.”
“Catherine is foolish to care so deeply for a member of the opposite sex. Noble folk ought to have more control over their emotions,” Arden said, fully aware of the irony that he, who was having the greatest difficulty in controlling his own emotional impulses, should speak such words. “Still, I do not like to see my sister ill and unhappy.”
“Do you mean you will work with me?” Margaret asked, her eyes lighting and a hopeful smile beginning to appear on her delicious lips.
“It depends on what you are about to suggest,” Arden answered. He made himself look away from her in hope of escaping the temptation to place his mouth on hers. It would do no good if he did kiss her, and she would only be hurt by his action. Nor could he allow himself the weakness of tender emotion. Any hint of softness, any loosening of the tight bonds he kept upon his feelings, would undo him. All that was left to him were the illusions of pride and of honor, both of which would be destroyed soon enough, once he met his father. All the same, he was duty-bound to do what was right for his sister.
“While I believe Catherine's unhappiness is in large part caused by the loss of Tristan,” Margaret said, “your openly expressed anger at her was a blow to the heart.”