by Jane Feather
Her train of thought was abruptly cut off as Simon loosed his bird and the peregrine soared into the vast blueness above the flat landscape on the trail of a minute speck, so high up and so tiny, Ariel wondered how Simon could possibly have sighted it. He must have amazingly acute eyesight and incredibly rapid reflexes. He must have thrown Traveler upward before the bird had even realized what he was supposed to be after.
But now the peregrine was closing in on its prey. The hawking party all watched, eyes squinting against the sun, as the drama played out far above them. The bird ducked, swerved, soared, and the peregrine followed every movement almost lazily, playing with its prey, it seemed to the watchers. And then Traveler struck, one plummeting dive, claws outstretched, curved beak dark against the sky, and the smaller bird was snatched from the air.
The peregrine rose in the air as if taking a victory flight for the watchers so far below. He caught a rising current of warm air and drifted languidly with it, mocking the heavy earthbound beings on the riverbank.
Simon walked his horse out in front of the party. He sat still, gazing upward, his left gloved arm lifted to receive the falcon.
“Do you have a reward for Traveler?” Ariel spoke quietly in the tense and yet reverent hush.
“Aye.” Simon didn’t take his eyes from his bird, but unclipped a leather pouch from his belt.
The peregrine finally ceased his play on the current and flew with long, leisurely flaps of his wings back down to the river. He flew low along the water, his catch securely gripped in his beak, circled once, soared up, and landed neatly on Simon’s upheld glove.
Simon gently took the small kestrel from Traveler’s beak and slipped it in the game bag on his saddle. The hawk watched with his bright eye as with two fingers Simon extracted a bleeding piece of chicken liver from the pouch. He held the meat up to the hawk perched on his upraised arm. . . .
Ariel caught the deadly swoop of dark wings out of the corner of her eye before the chattering scream of Ranulf’s gyrfalcon filled the air. It dived for the meat between Simon’s fingers, claws outstretched to rend and tear, directly in front of Simon’s face.
Ariel slashed at the bird with her riding crop, catching it across the back. Its screaming cry shivered in the air. Deflected from its path, it turned on her, with red eye and vicious beak open. She slashed at it again wildly, and it landed on the roan’s neck, tearing with its claws at the mane and hide. The mare shrieked in pain, reared high, and Ariel flew from her back over the riverbank. The ice cracked beneath her as she fell heavily onto the fragile surface of the river and the freezing water engulfed her.
A silver streak darted from Simon’s hand. The roan mare’s anguished shrieks suddenly stopped. The gyrfalcon fell to the ground, Simon’s small knife sticking out of its gray breast. The horse shivered and whimpered, blood pouring from the tears in her neck.
Simon cursed at the lost minutes as he secured the peregrine’s jesses before handing the bird to his groom. He swung from his horse but others had reached the water before he could.
Jack waded through the ice toward Ariel, who was standing waist deep, her face white with shock, her eyes dazed. Jack held out his hand and for a second she didn’t take it, then she grabbed it and allowed herself to be half dragged to the riverbank. Her green broadcloth habit, black with water, clung to her legs, hampering her movements.
Oliver bent to seize her free hand, to haul her up the incline of the riverbank. Simon thrust him aside, took hold of Ariel’s hand, and yanked her up the bank. “Dear God, we have to get you out of these clothes, come with—”
She jerked out of his hold before he could finish, flinging Jack’s restraining hand aside, and stumbled to the bleeding roan. She gazed at the wounds and then turned on Ranulf, who was still mounted, watching the proceedings with an air almost of amusement.
“You swine!” she hissed, stepping toward him, her eyes dark burning holes in her deathly white face, her mouth wrenched, her face a mask of hatred. “I will kill you for this, Ranulf. You had better lock your door at night, because so help me, I will—”
“Ariel!” Simon grabbed her shoulders, shocking her into silence, twisting her around her to face him. “This is not the time for that. You have to get out of those clothes and—”
“Don’t you tell me what to do,” she raged at him, unseeing in her blind hurt and fury. “Can you imagine what would have happened to your face? Look at my horse! Look at what’s happened to her, damn your eyes. She took what was meant for you! Don’t you understand that? Your face is ruined now, but just imagine what you would look like then?”
“Ariel.” He spoke her name quietly, but his fingers gripped her chin hard. “Ariel.” He repeated her name in the same tone, and his fingers gripped tighter until finally she felt them pressing into her skin, forcing her to acknowledge him. Finally she heard his voice, saw his eyes, heard what she had just said.
She dashed a hand across her eyes as if to clear her vision. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean . . .”
“I don’t want to hear another word,” he said roughly now, releasing his grip. “You’re going to catch your death, girl!” He began to unbutton her jacket. People moved for ward, offering advice, assistance, but he ignored them, dragging the water-logged coat from Ariel’s body. Her white shirt beneath was also soaked, but he couldn’t strip that from her before all eyes.
He took off his cloak and wrapped it tightly around her. She was shivering now, her teeth chattering, her lips blue. “Jack, pass her up to me.” He mounted the piebald and leaned down to take Ariel as Jack lifted her in his arms and swung her upward.
Simon settled her on the saddle in front of him, enfolding her in his arms. His lips were set in a thin line as he felt the uncontrollable shivers convulsing the slender frame. He kicked the piebald’s flanks and the animal broke into a gallop, heading back to Ravenspeare Castle on the horizon.
Jack Chauncey bent and pulled the knife from the breast of the gyrfalcon, then he picked up the once magnificent bird by its feet and hurled it into the rushes like a dirty rag. He remounted and took the bridle of the trembling, injured mare. He glanced once toward the lords of Ravenspeare, then followed Simon, leading the roan. The rest of the cadre fell in behind him.
The piebald galloped over the drawbridge and into the castle. Simon bellowed for assistance as he drew rein and the animal came to a panting halt. Servants ran from the Great Hall.
“One of you take Lady Ariel.” He handed her down to the brawny footman who stepped forward with alacrity. “Carry her to her chamber.” He dismounted and followed the servant into the castle, limping as rapidly as he could, cursing his inability to carry his wife himself.
“Set her in the rocker by the fire. Send up that maidservant, what’s her name, Doris. Have someone bring up hot water and a bathtub and replenish the log basket. And bring a warming pan, oh, and hot bricks for the bed.” He rapped out orders as he threw more logs onto the fire, bellowing over his shoulder, “Hurry, man!”
The servant put his burden into the rocker and ran from the room. Ariel huddled in the cloak. Her soaked clothes were plastered to her skin, and her hair dripped down the back of her neck. She couldn’t feel her hands or feet. The cold was in the marrow of her bones, as if the river ice had penetrated her skin.
Simon dragged off her boots and stockings. Her feet were the dead white of parchment. He took them between his hands, chafing them desperately.
“Oh, sir, what’s ’appened?” Doris came running into the room with a warming pan. “Sam’l says summat’s the matter with Lady Ariel.”
“She fell in the river. Help me get her clothes off.”
Doris thrust the warming pan under the covers on the bed and hurried to help. “Oh, lord, sir, Lady Ariel gets powerful bad when she takes cold,” she said, tearing the buttons on Ariel’s shirt in her haste to get it off her. “Weak chest she’s got, and once she gets the cough and the wheezes, she’s bad for weeks.”
“Don’t talk r
ot, Doris,” Ariel remonstrated through violently chattering teeth. “I’ll be fine once I’m warm again.”
Two maids arrived laboring under a copper hip bath and several jugs of steaming water. “We’ll fetch up more water directly, m’lady,” the younger of the two said with a bobbing curtsy.
“An’ Mistress Gertrude’s warmin’ ’ot bricks, ma’am,” the other chimed in, pouring the water into the tub.
Simon and Doris between them had managed to get Ariel’s clothes off. Simon noticed grimly that her skin was angrily reddened with the cold. He’d seen men chilled like that in the bitter winter battles, after slogging through frozen mud and icy streams. And he knew what frostbite and ague could do.
“Get in the water, sweetheart.” He pushed her toward the tub.
“I’ll get chilblains!” Ariel protested. “I can’t plunge icy skin into hot water.”
“On this occasion you can and you must.” Simon lifted her off her feet and deposited her in the tub. Ariel yelled as the hot water seared her. “Chilblains are better than the ague,” he declared. “Sit down, for God’s sake.”
Ariel would have refused if she’d had the strength of body and will. She knew she was right and Simon was wrong, but she hadn’t the energy to resist as he pushed her down into the water. But despite the heat that warmed her skin, she couldn’t stop shivering. She was cold deep inside and a tub of hot water made no impression on that inner freeze.
Simon hid his concern as he knelt before the tub and scrubbed her with a washcloth, desperately trying with friction to get some heat back into her. The maids were thrusting hot bricks wrapped in flannel into the bed. Doris was drying Ariel’s hair in a thick towel. Steam rose from the tub, the fire was built to bonfire proportions, and sweat dripped from everyone in the room but Ariel, who continued to shiver.
Both Simon and Doris dried her. “She needs a nightgown or chamber robe,” Simon instructed. Doris produced a thick woolen chamber robe.
“I hate that robe. It makes me itch,” Ariel protested through chattering teeth. But no one took any notice of her, and in a very few minutes she was in bed, quilts piled up high on top of her, hot bricks pressed against her body. But still she shivered, and there was an ominously hectic flush on her cheeks.
Simon laid a hand on her forehead. “You can physic others, Ariel; what should we get for you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. It will pass once I warm up. I wasn’t in the water that long.”
“Long enough,” he said shortly. “There must be something . . .” He stopped when he saw that her eyes were closed and she seemed to be sleeping.
A tap on the door announced Jack Chauncey, who stood in the doorway. “I thought maybe Lady Hawkesmoor would like to know that her mare is back in the stables. Her groom is taking care of her. He said I was to tell Lady Ariel that the wounds were cleaning up nicely, but he would use a paste of saltwort to guard against corruption.”
“Tell him to cauterize the wounds first.” Ariel’s voice was a thin croak. “With a sulphur match. It has to be done, the hawk’s claws are filled with poisonous matter.” She muttered something that sounded to her listeners like a string of curses from a shipping wharf, but her voice was lost in a bout of hollow coughing.
“I retrieved your knife, Simon,” Jack said a touch awkwardly, seeing his friend’s grim visage as he lifted Ariel’s head and propped more pillows beneath. “I know how much it means to you.” He held out the knife.
Simon turned from the bed and took it with a nod of thanks. Jack had wiped the blade, but there remained a few dried rusty drops of the falcon’s blood. It had been his father’s knife. He thrust it into the sheath in his father’s wide belt with the jeweled buckle.
Ariel turned her head on the high pillows. The coughing had ceased but her face was both white and flushed and her eyes were heavy under swollen lids. “Jack, will you remember to tell Edgar about the sulphur?”
“Of course, Lady Ariel.”
Her chuckle was a faint thread. “Must we be so formal, sir?”
Jack smiled. “Not if you don’t wish it, Ariel.”
“I don’t,” she said, then turned her head away, and the men watched her desperate fight to keep the cough from breaking loose. It was a fight she lost.
“I’ll tell Ravenspeare that you’ll not be joining the party tonight,” Jack said unnecessarily as he left the room.
Simon waited until Ariel was quieter, then he said, “Tell me what I can do for you, sweetheart. If you can help others, you know how to help yourself.”
“Ephedra . . . but I don’t have any.”
He placed his hand on her brow. Her skin burned against his palm. “Then where will I get some?” he asked patiently.
“Sarah, but she—” The rest of the sentence was lost in a renewed attack of coughing.
“I’ve brought some ’ot flannels for Lady Ariel’s chest, m’lord.” Doris entered the room without bothering to knock. “They’re soaked in camphor. She uses ’em for chest ailments. Cured Mistress Gertrude like a charm last Easter.”
She proffered her strong-smelling cloths. “Shall I put ’em on, sir?”
“Yes . . . yes, if you think they’ll help.” Simon drew back the quilts and opened Ariel’s robe, exposing her creamy breasts and the taut frame of her rib cage. Her flushed skin was raised in a rash.
“Get the robe off me!” Ariel demanded fretfully, her hand fluttering over her chest.
“Find her another robe, Doris. This is irritating her skin.”
Doris carefully laid the aromatic flannel over Ariel’s chest before fetching a wrapper of fine lawn from the dresser. “This isn’t as warm, m’lord, but like as not it’ll trouble ’er ladyship less.”
Simon lifted Ariel from the bed as Doris eased off the woolen robe.
“I can do it myself.” Ariel flapped at them as she tried to push her arms into the sleeves of the lawn wrapper. But another fit of coughing overtook her and she left them to it. The camphor-soaked flannel seemed to bring her some ease when she was finally lying back again, and her eyes closed.
“She’ll get the ague and the lung fever agin, m’lord. You mark my words,” Doris said doomfully.
“When did she last have it?”
“Oh, not since she was about ten or eleven. But I don’t rightly know, m’lord. Nearly died of it she did, then. If it ’adn’t been for daft dumb Sarah, she’d—”
“Lady Ariel just said this woman Sarah has some medicine,” Simon interrupted, silencing Doris with an impatient hand gesture. “Where is she to be found?”
“We could send fer ’er, sir, but I don’t rightly know as ’ow she’ll come.” Doris said. “But per’aps blind Jenny could come on ’er own if we send Edgar to fetch ’er.”
“Why wouldn’t the woman come if she’s a friend of Lady Ariel’s?” Simon demanded harshly.
Doris shook her head. “Oh, she’d go through fire an’ water for Lady Ariel, but powerful afraid of Ravenspeare she is. Lady Ariel won’t never ask ’er to come ’ere.”
“Well, Lady Ariel isn’t asking her. I am. Tell me where to find her.”
Doris looked doubtful. “Best to send Edgar, m’lord. You’d need to drive the gig, and then the lane to the cut is powerful rutted, an’ with this ice an’ all.”
“It needs a man steady on his feet. I understand you.” His eyes were as bleak as his voice. “Then send Edgar with all speed. And tell him to bring the daughter too.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Doris, with a scared look, dropped a curtsy and raced from the room.
Simon returned to his vigil beside the bed, his eyes darkening as he stroked back the hair that clung damp with sweat to the broad brow.
Chapter Fourteen
SARAH SAT AT her loom beside the hearth, her fingers never ceasing their busy threading and weaving, as Edgar explained his errand, his voice uncharacteristically hurried. Sarah’s fingers worked like automatons, her expression was serene, but behind her eyes the maelstrom raged.
“How bad is she, Edgar?”
“Eh, Miss Jenny, Doris says the cough’s already in ’er lungs, she thinks.” Edgar pulled at his cap in his hands. “’Is lordship of ’Awkesmoor is beside ’isself, Doris says.”
The man who had come in peace, Sarah thought. Ariel had laughed bitterly when she’d first told of the Hawkesmoor’s absurd ambition—to bring an end to the blood feud between their families. She had laughed bitterly and in complete disbelief, convinced that mere greed had prompted the man to instigate such an unnatural connection. But then Sarah sensed that Ariel’s attitude had changed, that she now believed the earl of Hawkesmoor had genuinely if unrealistically wished with this marriage to heal the wounds of history.
And Sarah could have told her that Hawkesmoors, for all their passion and driving ambitions, were always more interested in love than in hate. And Geoffrey’s son would be no exception.
“How long’s it been since Ariel fell in the water?” Jenny asked.
Edgar frowned. “Two hours, per’aps.”
Jenny nodded briskly. “That’s good. The fever may not yet have taken a grip.” She began to move around the small room as deftly as if she were sighted, gathering things together. “Ephedra, Mother?”
Sarah nodded, and although Jenny couldn’t see the gesture, she clearly sensed it. She kept up a running commentary of what she was putting together, “Slippery elm bark, coltsfoot, ground ivy, horehound, chamomile,” and Sarah, listening intently, affirmed each selection in a silence that spoke as clearly as words to her daughter.