by Speer, Flora
“Does Arden know about this?” Royce asked.
“A little. We did discuss the rumors I had heard. I never mentioned Braedon. I don't believe Arden was aware of his activities. Arden has his own heavy problem, that he's working through, so he doesn't always take note of what is happening around him.
“But I thought,” Tristan said, “that, just in case something should happen to me along the way from Aquitaine, I ought to make sure Arden did know I was carrying information to you. I knew I could trust him to put Braedon's letter into your hands and to tell you what little I had revealed to him.”
“I see.” Royce had the letter unfolded, but he didn't look at it. He continued to regard Tristan with a growing sense of wonder and discovery – and of curiosity as to what Tristan would say next.
“I have come to a few conclusions about you, Royce,” Tristan informed him, “based on what I knew of you when I was a boy, combined with what I heard at Lord Garmon's castle, and the little – very little, indeed! – that I was able to pry out of Sir Braedon.
“My taste for adventure wasn't entirely satisfied by my years in the Holy Land. If ever you have need of me -” Discreetly, Tristan left the thought unfinished. Instead, he glanced down at the letter in Royce's hand. “Shall I leave you alone with that?”
“No. Stay here,” Royce commanded. “If you leave, someone will certainly approach me, wanting to talk. If you stay, folk will assume we are in a private conversation and wait until later to speak with me.”
When Tristan flashed a knowing grin, Royce lowered his gaze and began to read the letter. It was written in code, but he knew the code well enough to decipher it on the second reading. When he finally began to refold the parchment Tristan watched with raised eyebrows and a questioning expression on his boyish face.
“Well?” Tristan asked. “Is there any substance to the rumors?”
“Braedon reports them in great detail, but adds his personal doubts based on who is spreading the rumors. They will need to be thoroughly investigated before I can carry any of this to King Henry. I will not add to his grief with unfounded stories.”
“I understand. I'll say nothing on the subject, not even to my father, and I'll warn Isabel not to discuss the rumors. Arden won't talk, either. I wish I knew what his problem is, so I could help him,” Tristan said with a frown.
“Leave Arden to me,” Royce said. He was pleased by Tristan's devotion to Arden and by his apparent honesty. But years as King Henry's personal secret agent had taught Royce to be cautious. “Tristan, once we are at Wortham, you and I will talk again. Now, be off with you. Lady Isabel is waiting for you to come and rub her back or her feet.”
“You remember what it's like, do you?” Tristan grinned. “And you aren't going to recruit me on the spot, are you? Well, good night, then.”
“Good night.” Royce responded automatically, his thoughts on the letter he held, which hinted of a vast net of conspiracy, of barons scheming to place their own candidate on the throne of England, once the aging king was gone.
Royce's task, as always, was to guard and protect his friend and liege lord. He had been idle long enough; it was time to return to the work he loved. Smiling slightly, he finished folding the letter and tucked it into his own small leather pouch at his belt.
Chapter 21
“It snowed again last night,” Phelan announced. He stamped into the great hall and planted his fists on his hips, glaring at Arden, who was talking with Tristan. “What the devil are you doing out of bed?”
“The morning is half gone,” Arden observed mildly. He refused to comment on the subject implied by Phelan's question. “I am surprised that you did not rise earlier, my lord, since we all thought you meant to return home today.”
“Did you, now?” Apparently in a truculent mood, Phelan advanced on Arden. “I cannot go anywhere today. Eustace is sick.”
“I am not surprised,” Tristan murmured, too low for Phelan to hear him. “After all the wine he consumed, it will be a wonder if Eustace can sit a horse again within a week.”
“Your man, Wace, tells me the weather has turned so cold that all the melted snow has refrozen into ice on the roads,” Phelan said to Arden.
“So Sir Wace has also told me,” Arden responded, “though he also insists the weather will begin to warm this afternoon. You are welcome to stay at Bowen for another day, my lord Phelan, until the roads are better.” He did not want Phelan at Bowen at all, but Arden was constrained by the rules of hospitality and the cursed man was, after all, his father-in-law.
“Where is Margaret?” Phelan demanded. “I want to talk to that stupid wench, to make certain all went as it should between the two of you last night.”
“You will accept my word on the matter. The marriage was consummated and, therefore, it is legal. That is all you need to know.” Arden's voice was colder than the freezing air outside the manor house. “You will not question Margaret, nor will you touch her or annoy her in any way.”
“She's my daughter!” Phelan blustered.
“She is my wife,” Arden said in the same cold voice. “Never doubt that I guard well what belongs to me.”
“Arden, there you are.” Margaret stood at the foot of the solar stairs. She was dressed as always in her dark blue gown, with her wimple covering all of her hair, yet there was a new softness to her face and a warmth in her eyes that Arden noted at once. He was sure the other men saw it, too.
Knowing he had produced the changes in her, Arden hid the pang at his heart as best he could. Margaret was unaware that her father's continued presence at Bowen was giving her one more day before Arden was forced to destroy her affection, and her faith in him.
“It's about time you showed yourself, wench,” Phelan growled at her.
“You will address my wife more respectfully,” Arden said.
“She's my brat. I'll call her whatever I want.”
“You may call her 'Margaret,' or 'my lady,'“ Arden told him.
The expression of disbelief on Phelan's face plainly said what he thought of that requirement. He turned his back on Arden and spoke to Margaret.
“Eustace wants you to make a potion for his upset stomach and his headache,” Phelan said.
“I will see what I can find in the stillroom, and I'll send a man to Eustace with a hot drink,” Margaret replied.
“As soon as possible,” Phelan ordered, “and make it something Eustace can keep down. He’s been heaving out his stomach for hours.” Phelan stalked off to the table that was set with bread and cheeses and pitchers of ale for the morning meal.
“A man is to take Eustace his medicine?” Arden said to Margaret.
“I would never send a woman to Eustace's room,” Margaret explained. “Thank you for not questioning me about my decision in front of my father. We have just avoided a quarrel with him.”
“Since our guests are remaining, we will want another feast at midday,” Arden noted.
“I'll speak to the cook,” Margaret said, and headed for the kitchen.
“You will find Isabel and Lady Catherine there before you,” Tristan told her.
“My lord, you are fortunate in your choice of wife.” Margaret smiled at him over her shoulder.
“I know it well,” he said. Turning to Arden, Tristan added, “You are fortunate, too, my friend. You look almost happy this morning.”
Arden could not deny the quiet sense of contentment that had awakened him earlier. Nor would he dispute its cause. But he was compelled to qualify his present ease.
“'Tis but a temporary condition.” Arden's gaze was on Margaret's slender back. “A brief respite until I destroy her hopes.”
“You cannot plan to speak to Royce while Phelan is here,” Tristan exclaimed.
“Not until tomorrow. As soon as Phelan leaves,” Arden said, making a silent oath to himself that he would delay no longer than was absolutely necessary.
“Which will give you one more day – and one more night.”
; “Aye.” Arden took his gaze from the kitchen doorway through which Margaret had disappeared. “In truth, I do not know whether to curse Eustace for being stupid enough to drink himself into sickness, or thank him for unwittingly providing me with a reprieve.”
“I will undertake to see that he does not drink too much again today,” Tristan promised with a friendly hand on Arden's shoulder. “Whatever this matter that gnaws at you is, I know you do not want to drag it out longer than you must.”
“Thank you for not asking me about the details,” Arden said. “I'll tell you everything soon; I swear I will, but my father must be the first to hear what I have to say.”
“And then Margaret second,” Tristan said.
“Aye. Margaret.” Arden could not deny the faint glimmer of hope that had begun to glow in his heart during his night with her. She had not quailed at his dreadful story. She claimed to love him in spite of his great shame. Still, he was not sure he dared to hope she would continue to love him after she knew everything he had done.
“And Aldis,” Tristan said. “It must have been difficult for you to find her here.”
“Indeed.” The cold began to close in around Arden again, dimming his brief contentment.
Then Margaret returned to the great hall with Catherine and Isabel, the three of them laughing together. She looked across the room to Arden and her smile deepened. Happiness was on her face for all to see, and Arden knew he was the cause of it.
He would also be the one to destroy her present gladness – unless Margaret's love was deep enough and strong enough to forgive the terrible sin he had committed.
* * * * *
Eustace was sufficiently recovered to attend the midday meal. In fact, he looked so healthy that Arden suspected his morning illness was a sham. Suspicion deepened as Arden watched both Eustace and Phelan consuming large quantities of wine – far more, Arden reckoned, than men with stomachs still queasy from the previous day's wine would care to drink.
After the ladies excused themselves, Eustace continued to drink in defiance of Tristan's polite suggestions that he consider his digestion. When Phelan began to discuss politics, Arden thought he understood why the two had wanted to remain at Bowen for an extra day. What Phelan said plainly laid out one of his reasons for allowing Margaret to marry the son of Royce of Wortham. Phelan was not going to miss the opportunity to improve his stature in the king's eyes.
“My lords,” Phelan said, looking from Arden to Royce to Tristan, “I hope you realize that together we can have a mighty influence on King Henry.”
“Can we?” said Arden, holding on to his temper with some difficulty. “I must inform you, my lord, that I am indifferent to court intrigues. Other, more important, matters occupy my attention.”
“There are no more important matters,” Phelan asserted.
“What sort of influence do you mean?” Tristan asked Phelan. He gave Arden a wink that Phelan did not see and continued, “Arden and I have been away from England for ten years and we know little of what has happened during the time we were gone. We did hear the sad news of the drowning of Henry's two sons in the sinking of The White Ship.”
“That's the problem, right there,” Phelan said, leaning forward to talk to Tristan.
Arden sat back in his chair to give Phelan a clearer view of Tristan. He silently thanked his friend for taking over the burden of conversation. Arden was content to listen, and he noticed how his father was paying close attention to what Phelan said. Long ago Royce had taught his son that careful listening was the quickest path to knowledge, for many men loved to talk more than they should, especially after drinking a bit too much wine. Recalling that particular lesson of his youth, Arden did not doubt that any information his father deemed important would quickly find its way to King Henry's attention.
“The trouble is,” Phelan said to Tristan, “with the deaths of those two young men, Henry has no legitimate heirs left. It's too bad his remaining sons are all bastards. He must name a successor soon, for he is growing older by the day, and he isn't in the best of health.”
“I see,” Tristan said. He cast a quick look at Royce before he continued, still speaking to Phelan. “Thank you for informing me. I hadn't realized how urgent the situation is. Am I right in assuming that you have chosen your preferred candidate for our next king?”
“Oh, aye,” said Phelan. “I've an idea or two tucked away up here.” He tapped his head with one finger.
“Dare I ask who you have in mind?” Tristan said.
“You may ask,” Phelan responded. “However, I have no intention of answering you. I'll keep my own council. Unless, of course, you and Arden and my lord Royce should agree to become my allies and help me to convince Henry that my choice of heir is the only right one.”
“I apologize,” Tristan said. “I should not have pressed you for information you are not free to divulge.” He lapsed into silence without mentioning any of the rumors he and Arden had heard while in Aquitaine.
“Well then, Royce, Arden,” Phelan said, turning his attention from Tristan, “I ask you as new members of my family, who ought to be dedicated to supporting each other. Will you assist me in convincing Henry to make a prompt and wise choice?”
It did not escape Arden's notice that Phelan put Royce first when he made his request. Margaret was not wrong about her father's intention to use Royce's connection with the king.
“I have already told you that I am not interested in politics,” Arden said, trying for hospitality's sake to hide his disgust with the man. He was determined not to begin a feud with Margaret's father.
“If the king asks for my advice, I will speak my opinion honestly,” Royce said. “Until that day, I will not discuss the subject. Nor will I protest his decision, whatever it may be.”
“You are all fools, to miss the chance to assert yourselves when you have the opportunity to advance in life,” Phelan said. He rose, a bit unsteadily. “Other men are not so foolish. We will talk again, my lord.”
“You may talk as freely as you wish,” Royce said, very quietly, “and I will listen to what you say, but I will not discuss any of King Henry's affairs with you.”
Either Phelan did not hear him, or he discounted Royce's declaration. Phelan caught Eustace by the back of his tunic and lifted his son off the bench where he was sitting.
“Come on, boy,” Phelan said. “It's time you were in bed. And me, too.”
“I have given orders for everyone in your party to be awakened at dawn,” Arden told him. “The ride back to Sutton Castle is a long one. You will want to leave early.”
Phelan looked as if he was about to protest the arrangements that would evict him and his son from Bowen before he was ready to go. Perhaps he took note of the cold gleam in Arden's eyes, for he shrugged and helped Eustace from the hall without bidding the other men goodnight.
“There goes a crafty and dangerous man,” Tristan said. “I do believe the time is fast approaching when it will be necessary to put a stop to Phelan's scheming. I am only sorry I wasn't able to pry more information out of him.” Tristan grinned like a mischievous boy.
“When we were in Aquitaine,” Arden said to his father, deliberately sober in tone and expression, as suited the subject on which he was reporting, “Tristan and I heard rumors that The White Ship was sabotaged.”
“Did you?” Royce gave him a long, measuring look. “From what I know of the event, I am inclined to believe it was sheer incompetence that ran the ship aground on that reef. Still, I thank you for telling me about the rumors; I will investigate and see if there's any truth to them. Is that what you wanted to speak about in private?”
“No,” Arden responded. “As soon as Phelan and Eustace leave tomorrow, I want to hold a longer conversation with you.” He met his father's eyes squarely.
“Later tomorrow morning, then?” Royce asked.
“Agreed.” Arden rose from the table. “If you will excuse me, my lord.” He did not wait for Royce's response. F
or the next few hours Arden did not want to think about his father, or about what would happen on the morrow. What he wanted, what he craved more than air, or shelter from the cold, or life itself, was Margaret. She was shelter, sustenance, light and air – and the only hope he held in his empty heart.
He found her in the solar with his sister and the other ladies. She saw him mounting the steps and smiled at him. There was no slyness in her smile, no knowing look in her eyes, yet Margaret's entire expression, the way she held her slender body, the graceful movements of her hands, all constituted the most alluring, sensual appearance that Arden had ever observed in any woman.
Margaret's allure was not blatant, it was subtle. Knowing the beauty that lay beneath her sober clothing, aware of the fire and passion concealed within her lovely body, and the warmth and breadth of the honest love in her heart, Arden was rocked by an emotion that threatened to consume him.
Were he not a man duty-bound to make a dreadful confession and to offer his life in return for the sins he had committed – were he free to do so, Arden would have made a public confession then and there of his love for Margaret.
He was not a man free to love. He had no right to accept the love she gave to him. Still, when Margaret left the other women to come to him, holding out her hands, Arden took them in his and kissed her soft, white fingers, and looked deep into her silvery eyes, and rejoiced in the love he saw shining there.
“Once we saw Phelan taking his son off to bed,” Isabel said from across the room, “we knew the other men would not be far behind. Here comes Tristan now.”
“I should go to the hall and direct the servants in clearing up after the meal,” Margaret murmured, her gaze still meeting Arden's.
“I'll see to it,” Catherine offered. “It will give me a few moments alone with my father. I can see he's still at the table. If I don't stop him, he will eat all of the almond pudding again tonight.”
“I'll go with you,” Aldis offered, giving Arden a wide berth as she headed for the stairs.