by Speer, Flora
“Yes, of course,” Margaret agreed quietly, bowing to a change in circumstances that she had known all along was inevitable. She had hoped the change would not come so quickly, that she and Arden would have more time together shut away from their real lives. Margaret's practical nature urged her to accept reality. At the same time, a newly awakened portion of her heart sought frantically for a way to avoid what she no longer wanted. Her inner discordance sounded in her voice, making her next words husky and slightly unsteady. “Soon you will have to deal with the world, Arden, while I will have to deal with Mother Church and, when he finds me, with my father.”
* * * * *
Refusing to weep over Arden's decision to end an affair that had barely begun, keeping her head high and her voice calm, Margaret went about her morning chores. Suddenly, it became a matter of pride to her to take a few minutes to return to her bedchamber, there to put on her wimple. With steady hands she bound up her hair, pinned on the narrow linen strip that wrapped from her chin to her crown, and the second strip that wound from her forehead to the back of her head. Having secured the fresh linen wimple to these strips by more straight pins and with the cloth properly folded to cover her hair and her ears, Margaret resumed the dignified mien of a noble widow.
While she slid the last pin securely into place, using the image of her face in the small, cloudy mirror that hung on the wall of her bedchamber as a guide, she decided that leaving her hair uncovered had been a serious mistake. With a loose braid and no tight head-covering, she had felt entirely too free to follow her own inclinations. She must not allow such untrammeled freedom to occur again. She understood the world to which she belonged, the world of a Norman noblewoman. For a little while she had broken loose from that world's restrictions, but her time of freedom was coming to an end. Setting her lips firmly to keep them from trembling, she left her room.
Catherine's health was so much improved that she insisted on demonstrating the fact by descending to the great hall for the midday meal. Her presence was a diversion that Margaret welcomed. Gladly she handed the chatelaine's keys back to her friend and sat down as a guest at the high table between Arden and Sir Wace. Arden and Catherine began a friendly argument about chess, with Catherine promising to demolish Arden's most clever defense during the evening game. Upon hearing Catherine's bold claims, Sir Wace laughed and made a suggestion or two to Arden on how to forestall his sister's game. Even Aldis, who was usually silent in Arden's presence, dared to offer a few humorous remarks.
They were almost finished with the meal, with everyone at the high table either in a good mood or pretending to cheerfulness, when a man-at-arms appeared at the entry. He came striding across the hall toward the dais, skirting the benches set at the two long, lower tables where the men-at-arms and squires and servants ate.
“My lord,” the man-at-arms called out, bowing to Arden, “we have visitors. A nobleman, a lady, a long baggage train, and at least a dozen guards are at the gate. Will this be the party you told us to expect?”
“If it is Sir Tristan of Cliffmore, then he is the noble I mentioned,” Arden answered. He motioned to his former traveling companions at a lower table. “Guy, Michael, you know where the carts are to be stored and where the men-at-arms and the carters are to be housed. See to their comfort. I will greet Sir Tristan and his lady in the courtyard. Go back to the gate and bid our guests enter,” he added to the man who had announced the arrival.
“I will join you if I may,” Sir Wace said, rising from his seat when Arden stood.
“They will be hungry,” Arden said to Catherine.
“We have plenty of food,” Margaret answered him. She was on her feet, too, with her arm around Catherine, who was trembling and looking as if she might cry. “The guest rooms are ready, my lord. You need not be ashamed of the hospitality you offer.”
Arden met Margaret's eyes with a quick, probing look. He glanced at Catherine's bowed head and frowned. Then he looked back at Margaret. She experienced the oddest feeling that he was no happier than his sister to have his friends arrive.
“Go,” Margaret said to him. “All will be well, my lord. I promise.”
“What you mean,” Arden said with wry assurance, “is that whatever is left in your charge will be well handled.” On that, he turned on his heel and hastened after Sir Wace.
“Oh, Catherine,” Aldis whispered, “I am so sorry.”
“I wish they had not come today,” Catherine murmured, resting her head on Margaret's shoulder. “I wish we could have one more day and evening of peace and comfort, with Arden eager to spend time with me. Just one more pleasant chess game,” she ended on a sigh.
Margaret could see that between an unhappy host and a youthful hostess who was unwilling to have the arriving guests there at all, it was going to be up to her to provide suitable hospitality. She also decided it would be no favor to Catherine to allow her to shirk her responsibilities. Nor could Aldis be permitted to flee from Arden, however much his refusal to discuss her father and brother hurt her feelings.
“First, we must greet them with every appearance of pleasure,” Margaret said, speaking to Catherine and Aldis both, rehearsing the immediate duties of those who welcomed guests. “Next, we will offer hot water so they can bathe. And then, food for all.”
“He is here,” Catherine said in a low voice. “Tristan has come.”
“Yes, and you must conduct yourself as your father would expect of you,” Margaret retorted, allowing a sharper note to creep into her tone. “Offer your brother's best hospitality, and with everything you do and every word you speak, remember who you are.”
“I will try,” Catherine said. Taking a deep breath she pulled away from Margaret's sheltering arms. Then, in a voice that was almost normal, she asked, “Where are the serving women? We have orders to give.”
“Tell me what you want me do,” Aldis said to Catherine. “Margaret is right; we have duties to perform.”
By the time Arden and the seneschal conducted Sir Tristan and his lady into the great hall the high table was cleared of dirty dishes, a fresh cloth had been laid, and the table was reset for the guests. At the lower tables places were made for the company that was arriving with Tristan and, in the kitchen, food was being reheated, meat sliced, and fresh ale or wine was being poured into clean pitchers. As soon as the guests were seated the food would be served, with little to suggest that their food was left over from an earlier meal.
Leaving Aldis to finish the final instructions to the servants Margaret put her arm around Catherine's waist and urged her forward to greet Tristan, who entered the hall with Arden. To Margaret's eyes, Tristan was not much changed in the years since she had last seen him. He was perhaps a little taller and a bit broader in the shoulders, but still blond, blue-eyed, and handsome in a pink-cheeked, boyish way.
“You will remember my sister, Catherine,” Arden said to Tristan, “and her friend, Lady Margaret, both of whom were also at Cliffmore while we were fostered there.”
“No,” said Tristan. A faint frown marred his placid brow. “I am sorry to say I do not recall ever knowing either of these charming ladies. However, I am delighted to meet them now.” He bent over Catherine's extended hand with perfect politeness and no particular warmth.
Margaret saw Catherine's face go white, saw her eyes grow huge and fill with tears. It was bad enough for Catherine to love and not have her love returned, but to learn that Tristan did not even remember her was a blow that no degree of affection could survive without anguish. For the unhappiness he was causing to her friend, however unwittingly, Margaret yearned to slap Tristan's handsome face.
“I have no doubt,” Margaret said with cold dignity as Tristan dropped Catherine's hand and took hers, to bow over it in turn, “that to you, important squire to your father that you were, Lady Catherine and I were no more than silly little girls. I do assure you, Sir Tristan, both of us remember you.”
“I am honored to know that you do after so many years,” said Tristan. Some
thing in his eyes in the instant before he turned back to Arden made Margaret wonder just how much Tristan did recall about the group of half a dozen girls whom his mother had undertaken to train into acceptable chatelaines, as his father trained the boys under his care to become knights. Margaret considered the possibility that she had misjudged Tristan, that he did remember Catherine and her girlish affection and was trying to smooth over a potentially awkward situation by pretending he had forgotten.
During these introductions Sir Wace remained near the door, removing Lady Isabel's cloak and helping her with her gloves. Now he led her forward and Margaret and Catherine saw Tristan's wife for the first time. She was short, the top of her head barely reaching to Tristan's shoulder. She had a sweet, pretty face, intelligent brown eyes, and honey-gold hair gathered into a golden mesh coif. By her fine green woolen gown and the jewels she wore, Lady Isabel was well dowered.
She was also, rather obviously, pregnant.
Margaret heard Catherine's gasp of dismay, she saw Arden's wary glance at Catherine, and she was torn between the demands of good manners and her love for her friend. However, to Margaret's great relief, Catherine found within herself the strength she needed. She put out her hands and welcomed Lady Isabel to Bowen.
“I hope we will be good friends,” Isabel said to Catherine, “since your brother and my dear Tristan have been close companions for so many years.”
They all sat at the high table while Tristan and Isabel ate and it seemed natural enough for Arden, Tristan, and Sir Wace to choose seats together so they could talk more easily of manly subjects, while the ladies gathered in their own group.
Isabel spoke freely and without reserve, as if Catherine and Margaret were already the dear friends she claimed that she wanted them to be. She was from Aquitaine, which explained the charming accent with which she spoke Norman French. Tristan's wife was blessed with an open, sunny manner, and Margaret could understand how her husband had grown to love her.
“Of course,” said Isabel, her brown eyes sparkling mischievously, “my large dowry helped Tristan to decide he wanted to marry me. For his part, my father was pleased to know a powerful nobleman would hold his lands after he is gone, for I am his only child, you see, and Tristan's father is well known to my father. Altogether, it was a perfect match. Is it not fortunate that Tristan and I should learn to care for each other so soon after we were married?”
“Fortunate, indeed,” said Margaret when Catherine did not respond at once. She could not dislike Isabel, who was innocent of any desire to inflict pain on Catherine. Isabel was guilty only of loving the handsome husband her father had chosen for her.
The weary travelers went early to bed and Catherine, no longer constrained to act as hostess, fled to her own chamber soon afterward. Aldis followed close on her cousin's heels.
“I should go to Catherine,” Margaret said, taking a step toward the stairway.
“Let her have a little time alone, to sort out her thoughts,” Arden said. He caught at Margaret's arm to stop her, keeping her with him in the great hall. “After today Catherine can no longer deny, even in her dreams, that Tristan is lost to her. She knows now that he never was hers. There is nothing you or I can say to erase the pain caused by acceptance of a hard truth.”
“I could remind her that I love her,” Margaret said, thinking that everything Arden said about Catherine applied to her, too. Just as Catherine needed her affection in a difficult time, so Margaret needed Catherine's love, for Margaret also had lost the man on whom her heart was set.
“Catherine knows already how well you care for her.” Arden dropped her arm. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood gazing into the fireplace, where flames crackled and snapped. “According to Tristan, the roads are slow but fit for travel. If they were not, he never would have set out with Isabel. Tristan says that only along the track between the ancient road and Bowen was the going difficult. Even that pathway is open now, after so many carts and men on horseback have passed along it.”
“I see.” Margaret's heart lay like heavy lead within her bosom. Arden would not meet her eyes. He kept staring into the fire. In his unwillingness to look directly at her she found the answer to her unasked question. “If you will lend to me a single man-at-arms to act as my escort, I will be gone from Bowen early tomorrow morning and cause you no more trouble. If my father stops here you will be able to declare honestly that I am not at Bowen,” she said.
Arden's jaw tightened. He took a deep breath. Still he did not look at her.
“Not tomorrow,” he said after a tense little silence. “It would be unseemly for you to depart as soon as Tristan and his wife arrive, as if you resent their presence.”
“What would you have me do, then?” Margaret demanded in exasperation. “Shall I go, or stay?” She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted Arden to put his arms around her, to take her into the lord's chamber and latch the door tight and make love to her. She wanted him to make her his completely, and say he cared about her, as she cared for him. She knew it would never happen. Arden did not believe in love. Even if he did, the hidden part of his nature would prevent him from loving with all of his heart. And all of his heart was exactly what Margaret wanted from him.
She had been right to think of love as an impractical emotion. She was learning first-hand exactly how impractical it was – and how dangerous. She knew now that she had disastrously misjudged her ability to help Arden without falling into a morass of passionate desire. She was deeply, irredeemably in love with him, and that love had altered her opinions about everything she wanted or hoped for from life.
“Tristan thinks Isabel ought to rest here for a day before traveling on to Wortham Castle,” Arden said. “On the day after tomorrow we will all leave Bowen. At that time I will provide a suitable escort for you, a man who will see you safely to whatever convent you wish.”
“What about Catherine?” Margaret asked.
“Catherine will travel to Wortham with the rest of us,” Arden said. “It is time she went home again, to face our father's wrath. And I, myself, am long overdue for a meeting with my father,” he ended on a note that made Margaret look sharply at him.
“Arden, I do not want Catherine punished for daring to help me escape a marriage I did not desire,” she said. “I do not know your father; please tell me he won't be severe with Catherine. If there is a chance that Lord Royce will treat her harshly, I am willing to stop at Wortham to plead her cause with him, to explain to him that any mistakes she has made were committed at my instigation.”
“There is no need for so desperate a step,” Arden said in a way that convinced Margaret the last thing he wanted was her presence at Wortham Castle. “Our father is not likely to beat Catherine, or to lock her in her room with no food, if that is what you fear.”
“It was,” Margaret said. “It's exactly what my father would do.”
“Once our father has heard what I have to tell him,” Arden said, “Catherine's misdeeds in your behalf will fade from his thoughts entirely.”
“I cannot believe you have done anything terribly reprehensible,” Margaret said, stepping nearer to him. Boldly she placed one hand on his shoulder, hoping to make him look directly at her.
With an indrawn breath, as if her touch had scorched him, Arden moved away and turned his back on her.
“You ought to leave me now,” he said. By his tone, the words were clearly meant to be an order.
“You forbid me to comfort Catherine,” Margaret said with a catch in her voice that was almost a full-fledged sob, “and now you refuse to let me comfort you. Of what use am I to my friends?”
“My lady, the use to which I would put you is indeed a reprehensible one,” Arden said, throwing her own word back at her. “It is a use you would soon regret. We've had this out before. I will not dishonor you more than I have already done. Since you wish to comfort me, then leave me this one, small comfort. Leave me alone.”
She stared at him, too sick at
heart to argue with him further. Still he refused to look into her eyes.
“Goodnight, then,” she whispered.
As she passed Arden on her way to the solar stairs and her own chamber, she was unable to stop herself from touching his back. It was a light, quick caress, intended to convey the comfort he claimed he would not allow, which she was, nevertheless, yearning to provide. She did not miss the shudder that went through Arden's strong frame when her fingers moved upon the wool of his tunic.
His single, involuntary movement told Margaret all she needed to know. Arden wanted her. Her unhappiness vanished as if by magic, and she left the great hall with a smile curving her lips. However much Arden tried to deny the truth, whatever the dark secrets that kept him from claiming her, Margaret knew his desire was real. And as long as Arden wanted her, there was hope.
* * * * *
It seemed there was hope in other directions, too. Defying Arden's instructions to leave Catherine to herself, Margaret stopped at her friend's door before going to her own bedchamber. Aldis answered Margaret's soft knock, waved her inside, and then left Margaret and Catherine alone.
Catherine stood by the narrow window with one hand on the shutter, pausing in the act of closing it. She was looking out into the darkness, to the cold and starry night.
“Catherine.” Margaret went to her. Catherine turned from the window and Margaret saw how her eyes brimmed with tears.
“Oh, Margaret.” Catherine's voice was choked. Margaret held out her arms and Catherine went into them, to lay her head on her dearest friend's shoulder and there weep for a time.
“I wish I knew of something to say or do,” Margaret began after a while.
“What a fool I have been,” Catherine interrupted her. With a tearful little laugh she lifted her damp face from Margaret's shoulder. “What a silly, heedless girl, to devote all my hopes and plans for the future to a man who long ago forgot my very existence.”