So Great A Love

by Speer, Flora

  Tristan reached the top of the steps and joined his wife. Catherine and Aldis descended to the great hall. The solar emptied. Margaret and Arden remained where they were, gazing into each other's eyes.

  “Margaret,” Arden whispered, cherishing the sound of her name on his lips.

  “Come to bed, my lord.” Margaret's eyes never left his. Slowly she drew him from the solar into the lord's chamber.

  “I have lit the brazier,” she said, “to warm the room in advance, so you will not be chilled.”

  “How could I ever be cold, when you are present?” he asked.

  “I did forget to close the shutters.” She laughed. “Perhaps I was a little nervous.”

  “Why should you be nervous? This is not our first night together.”

  “Last night was for duty, and to make the marriage legal,” she answered. “Tonight is for lovers. I do love you, dear husband.”

  “Ah, Margaret.” He wanted to weep from love and grief. He wanted to throw himself on his knees before her and beg her never to stop loving him.

  He did not deserve anything from his generous and loving wife. Even so, he was willing to take what she offered. The longing to make her part of himself, to absorb some of her goodness into the emptiness of his cold soul, was more than he could bear. For one more night he was able to warm himself at her loving fire. He could give her pleasure and watch her eyes turn soft and misty. He could feel the sweet contractions of her inner body and hear her sighs of completion.

  And on the morrow—

  “Don't think about tomorrow,” she said, as if she could read his thoughts. “Think only of tonight, of the next few hours, of the joy we can give to each other.”

  “Joy.” He all but choked on the word. The very concept of joy was alien to him – or had been, until the advent of Margaret into his life.

  Her fingers worked at the buckle of his belt. He let her unfasten it, let her undress him as if she were his squire. When she was finished and he stood naked before her, with his physical scars revealed and his need for her painfully obvious to both of them, Margaret began to undress herself.

  “Let me.” He brushed her fingers away from the pins that held her wimple in place. “I hate this thing. It hides your glorious hair.”

  “Hides my hair from the gaze of other men,” she said a bit breathlessly. “Married women cover their hair. It is the custom.”

  “I shall buy you a golden hairnet, like the one Isabel wears.” He paused, pins and white linen caught in both hands, while Margaret loosened her thick braids. He would never buy her a gold net for her hair. There was nothing for them beyond this night.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “That was a false promise, and you and I are bound to honesty. You are so beautiful that I long to see you in bright colors and jewels.”

  “Hush.” Her fingers were on his lips, silencing him. Her eyes were sparkling with humor. “From the evidence that has arisen before my very eyes, my lord, I do conclude that the sight you most long for at this moment is your wife, unclothed and in your bed.”

  “Margaret!” He gaped at her, shocked and delighted by her joke, while she slowly lifted her gown and removed it. Her underdress and shift quickly followed. Margaret kicked off her shoes and stood before him clad only in her white stockings which were tied below her knees with plain blue ribbons.

  “You see, I am not embarrassed before you,” she said, and wound her arms around his neck to kiss him.

  She was so tall that their eyes and mouths were at the same level, her small, round breasts rubbed against his chest, and her hips rolled firmly against his hardness. Arden flamed with desire, sure he would be ashes and cinders in another moment. Tall though she was, Margaret was not too heavy for him to lift her into his arms and carry her to his bed. He noticed that she had turned down the covers, so he laid her on fresh linen sheets. He smelled lavender and her complex, flowery perfume.

  She twined her arms and legs around him and gave herself up to love, to blissful sighs and sweet caresses. With difficulty Arden withheld himself until Margaret cried out to him in aching urgency. Then he plunged into Paradise and stayed there as long as he could, rejoicing in Margaret's openly expressed pleasure until his own overtook him and she kissed him just as he erupted into a fountain of red-hot fire.

  Much later she stirred and caressed the tousled head that rested on her bosom. Arden reluctantly awoke from a dream of happiness, only to discover that happiness still lay with him, at least for the moment.

  “You forgot to remove my stockings,” she said with a lazy smile.

  “I'll do it now.” He slid slowly down the slim length of her until he reached her rounded, pink knees. Untying the ribbon garters took no time at all. It took longer to roll the stockings over her shapely calves, her delicate ankles, and her slender, graceful feet. After the first stocking was gone, dropped carelessly on the floor beside their bed, there was still the second stocking to attend to. And when both stockings lay on the floor, Arden discovered that he was ready – no, frantically eager – to enter Paradise again. And so was Margaret.

  It was only one night, one tender interlude before confession and punishment separated him from her. As night softened into morning, Arden held his sleeping wife in his arms while he stared out the window over which she had not closed the shutters. He watched the sky turn from dark blue to pearly pink, and saw the morning star gleaming above, and knew its promise was not for him.

  Chapter 22

  By mid morning Phelan and Eustace were gone from Bowen. They left quietly, escorted to the gate by Sir Wace, who assured them they would reach Sutton before the good weather broke. Phelan was pale and complained of a severe headache, while Eustace's face displayed a slightly greenish tint. Both of them grumbled about the glare of the sunlight on the snow and the unwonted brightness of the clear blue sky above, which, according to them, had never before been so painful to the eyes of men. The squires and men-at-arms who left with them were similarly downcast.

  The guests were waved on their way by Margaret, Arden, and Royce.

  “Perhaps the next time they attend a wedding,” said Royce, watching them ride through the gate and away from Bowen with an expression of pure relief on his handsome face, “they will recall this occasion and not drink so deeply of their host's wine.” He bestowed a cheerful smile on his new daughter-in-law.

  “I would not care to make a wager on that,” Margaret told him with an answering smile. “They never do seem to learn. I am sorry my father tried to pull you into his attempts to influence King Henry. It was a misuse of our new relationship.”

  “When I see King Henry next month, I will warn him about Phelan,” Royce said, “and I'll suggest that he ought to be watched in case he continues to try to devise other clever schemes.”

  “You are not responsible for your father's treacherous ambitions,” Arden said to Margaret. “Phelan and Eustace are no longer your concern.” He was standing so close beside her in the entry hall that his hand brushed against her skirt when he moved.

  Margaret relished his nearness. The previous two nights with him had more than fulfilled every dream of tenderness that she had ever cherished. Were it not for the interview Arden intended to conduct with his father as soon as possible and her concerns about the results of their conversation, she would have been a remarkably happy bride.

  She had many reasons to be contented. She was already fond of Royce, if somewhat in awe of him; Catherine was now her sister as well as her closest friend; Aldis and Isabel were fast proving to be friends almost as dear as Catherine; and Margaret had forgiven Tristan his youthful indifference to Catherine and was convinced that he would soon become a friend, too. Margaret loved Bowen and the people who lived and worked there. She would be happy to live at Bowen for the rest of her life.

  Most of all, important above all else, she loved Arden, and she believed he was beginning to care for her. The knowledge that he trusted her enough to confide in her gave her as much pleasure as
his passionate lovemaking. Arden's revelation of his deepest secrets increased the intimacy between them, bringing them closer, binding them together in a new way. Margaret vowed never to betray his trust.

  When Arden quickly stepped forward to intercept Royce on his way back to the great hall, Margaret felt as if a cloud was passing between her and the sun, obscuring the brightness of her newfound contentment. She knew something of what was going to happen and she dreaded it for Arden's sake. Sustained by her sense of partnership with him, she was determined to stay with him throughout the confrontation with his father.

  “We must find a place to talk where we will be private and uninterrupted,” Arden said to Royce.

  “Where?” Royce asked. “At this hour servants will be about, working at their morning chores, even in the lord's chamber.”

  “We could go to the chapel.” Margaret suggested. “Few people go there. If we close and latch the door we will be undisturbed.”

  “We?” Royce asked, looking at her with his eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “I will not be left out of your conversation,” Margaret declared.

  “Margaret,” Arden began in a tone that told her he was going to refuse her desire to remain with him.

  “We are no longer two separate individuals,” she said, conscious of a faint warming in her cheeks. “After the last two nights, we are one flesh, Arden, and what affects you, affects me equally. I will not allow you to thrust me aside as if I am of no consequence to you.”

  “You will not allow me?” Arden repeated with a sidelong glance at Royce, who was watching them with an air of unconcealed amusement. Arden frowned and Margaret lifted her chin in resolution, facing her husband without fear.

  “I know that I am of consequence to you,” she said. “Do not rebuff me, Arden.”

  “Ah, Margaret.” Arden shook his head. Then, with a sigh, he waved a hand toward the rear of the entry hall and the open chapel door as if to usher her inside. “You will regret this.”

  “I do not think so,” she told him, “for I do not regret a single word that you or I have said to each other since we were married. I regret nothing, Arden,” she said, emphasizing her last words.

  Arden threw her a quick, inscrutable glance just before he reached the chapel door. To her relief he did not argue further. When the three of them entered the chapel they discovered Father Aymon was there.

  “I have just finished my prayers,” the priest said, rising from his knees. “Unless you have need of my presence, I will leave you alone.”

  “Please don't go.” Arden put up a hand to stop him. “Father Aymon, what I have to say is in the nature of a confession that is difficult for me to make, and I would prefer to tell the story only once. You will understand why after you have heard all of it.”

  “This is most unusual,” Father Aymon said. “Are you certain you would not prefer to speak to me in the privacy of the confessional?”

  “Please stay and listen,” Arden insisted, “and when I have finished, impose on me whatever penance you think is justified beyond the punishment my father will lay upon me in earthly justice, for my sins are grave ones.”

  “As you wish, my son.” Father Aymon bowed his head in consent.

  “Arden,” Royce said, frowning a little, his bright cheerfulness beginning to be dimmed by his son's words to the priest, “exactly what is it you wish to say to me?”

  Seeing Royce grow stern, Margaret moved nearer to Arden. She did not touch him, though she yearned to take his hand and offer words of love and support. She did not think he would like that, not before the other two men, so she decided her best course was to trust him to know, after her acceptance of his revelations on their marriage night and her offering of love during the night just passed, that she would stand with him through any further confession, however awful it might be. She was rewarded by a quick and surprisingly warm look from him, before he turned his full attention to his father.

  “First,” Arden said to Royce, “I must give you the news that Uncle Oliver and my Cousin Roger are dead in the Holy Land.”

  “I thought it must be so,” Royce said, “since they did not return with you and neither you nor Tristan have mentioned their names until this moment. From her cheerful demeanor, I assume Aldis doesn't know.”

  “Not yet.” Arden winced visibly at mention of Aldis. Then, with a gesture of one hand that seemed to brush aside all thought of his cousin, he returned to the subject of his male relatives. “Second, I wish to confess my guilt in the deaths of my uncle and cousin.”

  Royce did not respond to this statement. He only stared at his son with a face gone as hard and cold as Arden's. There was no humor and no charm left in Royce.

  “Third,” Arden went on relentlessly, “I am willing to turn Bowen over to you without dispute. I cannot think you will want me to continue to hold it after today.”

  Margaret gasped at this statement. Regardless of what Arden's reaction might be, she was compelled to reach out to him, to take upon herself some part of the unhappiness she was certain he was feeling. She knew Arden loved Bowen and thought of the manor as his home. Giving it up would be incredibly painful for him. He gave no indication of noticing when she laid her hand upon his arm. He stood unmoving, his gaze fixed on his father's face.

  “Methinks your wife does not approve of your decision,” Royce said, looking at Margaret.

  “I will agree with whatever Arden wants,” she responded at once.

  “Admirable loyalty.” Royce turned his cold gaze from Margaret to his son. “Explain yourself,” he ordered.

  “Margaret,” Arden said to her, “I have told you how my uncle, my cousin, and I were captured by desert brigands, and how they forcibly defiled us. I am sorry to say you must hear it again. I have to tell my father the whole of it.”

  “I can bear the telling, for I know you were not to blame,” Margaret said, fastening her fingers more firmly around his arm, to lend him her support.

  In quick, terse sentences Arden recounted his terrible adventure. Royce's face grew darker with each word Arden spoke, while Father Aymon, after a murmur of horrified distress, clasped his hands and bent his head as if in prayer. Yet Margaret was certain that, true to his calling, the priest was listening to every detail Arden revealed.

  “All of this Margaret has known since the night of our marriage,” Arden said to his father, having finished the first part of his story, “but I have not told her how I escaped, or how my uncle and cousin died. That tale I felt I should keep for your ears first.”

  “Say on, then,” Royce commanded in a flinty voice. “I am listening.”

  “Our captors spared Uncle Oliver from the filthy misuse to which they put Roger and me,” Arden said, “perhaps because he was decades older than we and, therefore, not so alluring to their vile natures. But they tied him to a stake driven into the sand and they made him watch what was done to Roger and me. When it was over and I was finally able to lift my face from the sand where they had held it, I saw the tears running down Uncle Oliver's face – he, who never wept!

  “Then it was time for our captors to eat and Roger and I were tossed aside like refuse and left alone. Unlike Uncle Oliver, we were not bound. Perhaps the brigands thought we were too sick at heart or too injured to flee, or perhaps they simply knew there was no place for us to go. At any rate, they ate their evening meal, and they drank the wine they ought not to consume if they were true Saracens, and for the moment they paid no more attention to us.

  “While the brigands were thus occupied, Roger and I were able to talk without being overheard. We were in agreement that there was surely more torment of the same kind to come before they finally killed us, and so we decided to attempt an escape. Better to die like men, we thought, than by long, slow torture, by painful humiliation, until our spirits as well as our bodies suffered complete degradation.

  “Moving by stealth, Roger got his hands on a scimitar and on a long, narrow knife. We agreed that I would take the
knife and creep to my uncle, who was still bound to the stake, that I would cut his ropes and help Uncle Oliver out of the camp, carrying him on my back if necessary. Meanwhile Roger, who was not as strong as I but possessed great skill with weapons of all kinds, would use the scimitar to hold off the brigands until we had won free. We thought no further than that, than just getting away from an intolerable captivity.

  “Of course the scheme could not succeed,” Arden continued, “and had our wits not been muddled by thirst and hunger and all we had endured, we would have known there was no chance for us. Even so, looking back on that hour, I believe we would have attempted it no matter how harsh the odds.”

  “What else can brave men do in such a dire situation,” Royce asked, “but try to escape, or else seek an honorable death?”

  “Brave? Honorable?” said Arden with a bitter laugh. “Not I, as you shall hear. I cut Uncle Oliver free of his ropes and we started for the edge of the camp. Almost immediately the brigands saw what we were trying to do. Uncle Oliver was pulled out of my arms, recaptured by those grinning thieves, who wanted to steal everything from us – dignity, honor, life itself.

  “'Go! Go!'“ Uncle Oliver called to us. “'Save yourselves!' Roger would not leave his father and ran back to help him. For his brave act, he was killed. I saw him die. I knew then that all hope of escape was lost, and in that instant rage possessed me, a red-misted fury I have never known before or since, until the day before yesterday, when Eustace mocked me and said I was no man. I fought as best I could with only the stolen knife for weapon. And still my uncle lived and called out to me to flee, to save myself, for he was surely a dead man.

  “Suddenly, I broke away from the brigands and found myself standing a little apart from them, on a slight rise in the ground, staring downward, directly into Uncle Oliver's eyes. The bloody knife was still clutched in my hand.

  “Uncle Oliver knew I was skilled at throwing knives. He often enjoyed watching me practice, and he was proud of how frequently I hit the mark, dead center. I saw him glance at the knife I held, and then he looked into my eyes again. He nodded to me and he smiled. Held as he was, with his arms outstretched in the grip of those cursed knaves who were joking about cutting away his manhood, still he smiled at me. And it seemed to me that I knew what he wanted me to do.