by Speer, Flora
“I threw the knife, and it went true and struck him full in the throat. He made no sound and he never stopped smiling at me. He smiled even as he sank down among those who held him, who all turned toward him as if they could not believe what was happening.
“It had all taken only a moment or two, and while the brigands stood diverted from me and unmoving in their amazement, I did as Uncle Oliver had bidden me. I ran, leaving him with those depraved monsters – my uncle, who had always shown me kindness and affection. Coward that I am, I killed him, and then I ran away and left him.”
Arden stood like a man already condemned, his hands dangling loosely at his sides, not meeting Margaret's eyes, or his father's.
“You obeyed a direct order from the man who was your leader during that expedition into the desert,” Royce said in a remarkably calm and steady voice. “That does not make you a coward.”
“I know what I am,” Arden responded, “and what I have done.”
“Do you think you are the only man who has ever turned from impossible odds in the midst of battle?” Royce demanded. Then, speaking more sharply still, “You have not finished the tale. Obviously, you did escape from the brigands, and you reached the Christian camp.”
“How I outran them I do not know,” Arden said. “They could have caught me, had they cared to do so.”
“Perhaps, they thought they would more easily find you the next morning,” Royce suggested.
“Or, perhaps, they simply did not want to bother with me,” Arden said. “I will never know why I was not recaptured. All I remember of that time is thirst, and my eyes burning from the sun, and a bitter, grinding pain where I had been – misused. Tristan told me later that he estimated I had been wandering for two days when he and his men found me, but I think it was less time. Tristan carried me back to the Christian camp, where he found a Saracen physician to tend me.
“There is a strange ending to all of this,” Arden said, “which Tristan only revealed to me a year later, when we were on a ship bound for Aquitaine and he thought I was at last well enough to hear the final details. The bodies of all of Oliver's troop of men were found in the desert, and with them Uncle Oliver and Roger. Apparently, the brigands, for reasons of their own, carried those two bodies back to the scene of battle and left them there, as if they had been killed during the fighting. Perhaps it was their warped tribute to two courageous men.
“Uncle Oliver and Roger are buried in a Christian cemetery, there in the Holy Land, along with the rest of their troop. As far as Tristan or anyone else in the Christian army knows, I was the sole survivor of the battle and the incident in the brigand's camp never took place. But I know the truth,” Arden said to Royce. “Heaven knows the truth, and now, so do you.
“By my own hand I killed my uncle, your brother whom you loved beyond measure. For that crime, my life is forfeit. Father, I have returned to England to submit myself to your justice. I will accept without dispute whatever punishment you feel is due to me.”
Chapter 23
When Arden finished speaking a deep silence permeated the little chapel. Royce looked at his son for a long time, while neither Margaret nor Father Aymon moved or made a sound. In the stillness Margaret imagined she could hear her own heart beating painfully in sympathy with Arden's distress. She was impelled to put her arms around him, while knowing she must not. What happened next was between Arden and his father and she had no right to interfere.
“Tell me what you feel at this moment,” Royce said at last.
“Shame,” Arden replied, his eyes clouded with bitter memories. “Shame that I remain alive while Uncle Oliver and Roger, who were much more worthy men than I, are dead.”
“You cannot know who is worthy and who is not,” Father Aymon spoke up, breaking his long silence, “for all men are of equal value in God's eyes.”
“But I do know it,” Arden said. “Roger was a generous man, honest with everyone he met, kind-hearted, chivalrous toward women, and a brave warrior. Uncle Oliver was the same, and in addition, he was always like a second father to me. How can I be of equal value with them, when I am a murderer?”
“You are certainly guilty of the sin of pride,” declared Father Aymon, speaking with considerable force, “if you think that you, a mere mortal, can know what is in God's mind. You may even be guilty of heresy, though I would have to consult with more scholarly men to be certain of that.”
“As for being kind and chivalrous,” Margaret said to Arden, “you are more so than many men. Consider your gentle treatment of Catherine when she was so sick and unhappy over Tristan's marriage.”
“Consider who told her of Tristan's marriage in the first place,” Arden retorted. “Think of the cold way I've treated Aldis. I haven't been able to look her in the eye, or to stay in the same room with her for more than a moment or two.”
“You have been exceedingly generous to me,” Margaret insisted, undeterred by Arden's protestations of guilt about his sister or his cousin, and determined to make him believe in his own goodness. “You married me to save me from my father.”
“I married you because your father forced me to it, to avoid open warfare,” Arden said.
“I cannot believe you dislike me,” she cried. “If you did, I could not love you so well. Nor would you have taken such care to please me last night, or the night before that. If such sweet tenderness is not chivalry, then what is?”
Her bold statement left Arden looking taken aback, while Father Aymon appeared to be torn between looking properly shocked and hiding a most unseemly amusement at her words. Royce, however, displayed a finely honed anger.
“I think you should be ashamed,” he said to Arden. “Ashamed of yourself for thinking I would not understand and forgive my beloved son. After what was done to you and Roger, can you believe your captors would have granted Oliver a quick and painless death? I remember how you loved your uncle, how you honored him, even when you were a small child. I cannot believe there was any malice in what you did. It was an act of mercy. From what you have said, it is clear to me that you saved Oliver from unspeakable horror, from agony beyond bearing, and that he knew it and forgave you. More, he thanked you for his quick death. You said he smiled at you.
“Arden,” Royce continued, speaking now in a softer voice and clasping his son by both shoulders, “surely, you know I would never reject you, or demand your life in return for my brother's? I think you need to make peace with yourself, not with me.”
“Whether you condemn me to death or not, I have decided that I must give up Bowen,” Arden said. “All I ask of you is that you protect and care for Margaret, as you promised in the marriage contract. She has just cause to seek a divorce from me. She did not know she was wedding a confessed murderer.”
“I will not end our marriage!” Margaret exclaimed. “I love you.”
“Ah, you stubborn boy.” Royce responded to Arden's renunciation of home and wife by giving him a hard shake. “You have just shown me what punishment I ought to lay on you. I refuse to let you give up Bowen. Nor will I allow you to put your wife aside. You are to keep this manor, which your dear mother wanted you to have, and you are to live here, with Margaret, and you are to treat her well, for she deserves your deepest affection.
“What say you, Father Aymon?” Royce asked, releasing Arden's shoulders and turning to the priest. “Is the punishment I've imposed on my son a just one?”
“It is,” said Father Aymon. “However, it is not strict enough. Arden, I want you on your knees at once.”
Instantly, without protest, Arden knelt on the stone floor and bowed his head.
“You, young man, are entirely too proud,” Father Aymon told him. “Your apparent humility, your expressed guilt, and your overwrought expressions of penitence, are in themselves all forms of pride. You seem to believe that you alone in all of Christendom are capable of committing heinous sins and that no one else could possibly be as wicked as you are. Therefore, I advise you to listen to your wife
, who appears to know you better than you know yourself.”
“Margaret?” Arden said, looking up at her.
“Furthermore,” Father Aymon told him, placing one hand on Arden's head to push it back into a position of acceptable humility once again, “if you spend the rest of your life consumed by ceaseless guilt you will render meaningless the deaths of two brave and honest men. Here is the penance I set for you. This chapel where we stand is small and dark and entirely without ornament. It is obvious to me that it has been sadly neglected during the years when you were absent. Therefore, in memory of your uncle and cousin, and as a sign of your true repentance, you are to build a new and larger chapel, which is to stand outside the manor house and is to be properly decorated, including several stained glass windows. Perhaps you can locate a suitable relic to install in it. You are also to build next to the chapel a house where a parish priest can live.”
“But, Father Aymon,” Arden protested, “Bowen Manor is not large enough to warrant a parish priest. Not enough people live here.”
“Then you must see to it that people do come to settle here,” Father Aymon said. “You have more than enough land. Build a village, encourage your domestic staff and your men-at-arms to marry and raise families; it will do much to improve their moral state. As for a priest, I will speak to the bishop for you. When he has heard your story, I do not doubt that you will quickly be supplied with a suitable man to direct your spiritual life, for it does require direction.”
“Excellent,” said Royce. “Father Aymon, I heartily agree with all you have said.”
“Arden, will you do what the Church requires of you in this matter?” Father Aymon asked.
Arden was silent, thinking. It seemed impossible that after years of bearing so heavy a guilt, of keeping himself apart from friendship and affection, his crushing burden was to be so easily removed. He shook his head, preparing to say no, to insist he deserved a sterner sentence. But when he moved his head he saw from the corner of his eye the hem of Margaret's gown.
Margaret. She knew his darkest secrets and loved him in spite of them. Margaret had promised to love him forever. It occurred to Arden that so great a love, held in a heart as true and faithful as hers, deserved lifelong recompense. The masculine pride for which Father Aymon had reproached him told Arden that only he could give Margaret what she needed for her happiness. She had redeemed him from bleak despair and made him into a true man again. In return he owed her his complete devotion.
From somewhere deep inside himself Arden recognized joy unfurling, warming him, melting the last of the icy barriers around his heart.
“Arden,” Father Aymon said in an exasperated tone, “I am waiting.”
“Yes, Father, I will do as you require,” Arden answered. “I swear it on all I hold dear.” On Margaret’s honest heart. On my love for her.
“In that case, you are absolved of sin in the death of your uncle. Your intention was not evil; rather, it was to save from unspeakable brutality a man whom you dearly loved. In truth, it was a deed you would never have committed except under the most extreme circumstances, and I believe you have suffered enough for what you did. You may rise now, Arden.” Father Aymon took his hand from Arden's head.
“Is that all?” Arden asked, still not quite ready to believe his long torment was over. “All that's to be required of me is to build a larger chapel and to live at Bowen with my wife?”
“Unless you are too proud to accept your father's forgiveness,” Father Aymon said, “or the consolation and understanding of the Church.”
“No,” Arden responded in a husky voice, “I am not too proud.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Father Aymon said. “Your life was spared for a reason, Arden. Do not waste your remaining years in denying that fact, or in questioning Heaven's purpose.”
“And do not imagine that you have been given an easy penance,” Royce told his son. “I remember well what it is like to live with a spirited woman, who is determined to love you no matter what you do, and it strikes me that Margaret is much like your dear mother in character.”
“Margaret,” Arden said, looking deep into her eyes, “is my heart's consolation and has been since the first night I returned to Bowen.”
“If that is so, perhaps you ought to renew your pledge to her, here and now,” Royce suggested.
“Only if it is what she wants. Margaret,” Arden said, “after hearing all of my story, can you forgive me?” Deep in his heart he knew what her response would be. Still, he needed to hear her say it aloud, before witnesses.
“That is not the question you ought to ask,” she said. “The Church has forgiven you, for you are truly penitent, and your father has forgiven you. But can you forgive yourself?”
“With your love to strengthen me, I believe I can,” he told her.
“You have my love. Surely, you know it by now. Arden, there is nothing for me to forgive. What you did, you did out of love and pity for your uncle. You are the most loving person, man or woman, that I have ever known.”
“Ah, Margaret, my dear heart.” He was nearly overcome by the warm light he saw in her eyes.
“Will you do as your father has suggested, and renew your vows to me?” she asked.
Margaret put out her hand. With his heart rejoicing, Arden took her slim fingers into his and led her to stand before the altar.
“My dear wife,” he said, “you have loved me through my coldness and bitterness and, yes, through my stubborn pride that would have shut out both you and love, together. Margaret, I do pledge my heart to you, to love you on earth until I die, and in Heaven for all eternity. What was spoken between us in this chapel two days ago was a ritual intended to keep you safe. What I say today is meant to keep you in my heart, by my side, in my arms, for the rest of our lives.
“I love you, Margaret.” Arden reached to brush the happy tears off her cheek. And then, knowing full well how an honest vow ought to be sealed, he drew her closer and placed his lips on hers.
“Arden,” said Father Aymon, “now that you have confessed, accepted your penance, and received absolution from both your Heavenly Father and your earthly parent, I would like to celebrate the Holy Mass, and include in it appropriate prayers for the souls of Sir Oliver and Sir Roger, in addition to prayers for you and Lady Margaret. It has been several months since I was last here at Bowen, and I have been busy listening to confessions ever since I arrived, so for the present at least, most of the population of Bowen is in an acceptable spiritual state.”
“A Mass does seem appropriate,” said Royce. “Shall we say, in one hour?”
“Yes,” said Arden. He was gazing so steadfastly into Margaret's glowing eyes that neither his father nor the priest could be certain whether he was responding to their questions or to another, deeply personal query that Margaret had made in silence and that only he was able to hear.
* * * * *
“Aldis will have to be told,” Royce said as he, Margaret and Arden left the chapel.
“I know it,” Arden responded. He took a deep breath, squaring his broad shoulders. “I will do it now. It's a morning for confessions.”
“Let me do it,” Royce said.
“It is my duty,” Arden responded, “one I will not consign to anyone else.”
“Let your father and me go with you,” Margaret begged. “We can help to comfort Aldis – and Catherine, who must also be told.”
They found the two young women in the bedchamber they shared. Aldis took a step backward when she first saw Arden entering. He knew his face was grim and realized he must be as gentle as possible.
“I have come to tell you about your father and Roger,” he began.
“They are dead, aren't they?” Aldis whispered, the color fleeing from her cheeks. “I guessed as much when you refused to speak of them.”
“I could not,” Arden answered. “It seemed to me only right that I should tell my father first.” No need to explain why he had felt that way.
&
nbsp; “I understand. I do. Uncle Royce is head of our family, after all.” Aldis drew a shaky breath. “How did they die?”
Seeing the tears rising in her innocent eyes, hearing the trust in her voice, Arden knew the dreadful details were not fit for her maiden's ears. There was a kinder way than bald truth.
“They died in the same battle, and both died bravely,” he said. It was no lie, only a softening of the horror, and he was glad to spare her that much.
“I would expect no less of them,” Aldis said. “How strange it is; I haven't seen either of them for more than ten years, so I've quite grown used to being without them, yet—”
She put out a trembling hand and Arden took it. Her head was on his chest when the first tears came. Arden let her weep, and let his own tears mingle with hers, until Royce laid a hand on her shoulder.
“You will always have a home at Wortham,” Royce said. “I am still your guardian, as Oliver arranged before he left England.”
“Aldis.” Catherine was in tears herself, but she put out her arms and Aldis went to her cousin, to the love and sympathy Catherine was offering.
“She'll be all right. I'll stay with her,” Catherine said over Aldis’ bent head. “Arden, thank you for telling her the truth at last. Her grief will heal in time, especially now that she knows you don't hate her.”
“Never,” Arden said. “She is my dear kinswoman.”
“That was well done,” Royce said when he, Arden, and Margaret were outside the bedchamber again. “Catherine will see to her, and I'll watch over her after we return to Wortham.” Royce walked away, heading for his own bedchamber.