The Silver Rose

by Jane Feather

  Simon listened in mingled disgust and amusement. On one level he didn’t blame Ranulf. The man was probably fed up to the teeth with entertaining such a greedy throng at what must be exorbitant cost. But to bring his party to such a violently abrupt conclusion was scandalous. The court would buzz with it, and God alone knew what the queen would make of it. It was unlike Ranulf to be so careless of Her Majesty’s disapproval.

  “What the hell’s going on, Simon?” Jack spoke at his shoulder. “Are we leaving?”

  “No,” Simon said. “We aren’t. I’m obliged to attend to my wife, and I can’t stay in this snake pit without someone watching my back.” He limped off, leaving Jack scratching his head in bemusement.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “SO, MY BUD’S with this Lady Kelburn, you say?” Oliver Becket slumped over the table in the Rising Sun tavern in Cambridge. Idly he traced a pattern in the dribble of ale that had spilled from his overfull tankard when the potboy had thumped it down.

  Ranulf regarded his friend with a degree of irritation. He needed Oliver’s attention and clearheaded assistance, and the man appeared to be as drink sodden as Ralph. “Apparently she’s staying with the Kelburn woman for a few days.” His expression grew black. “If she really is breeding, I’m going to have to do something about it. Lucifer! But that bloody-minded girl has completely run out of hand!”

  Oliver nodded sagely. “Can’t have a Hawkesmoor child taking off with her dowry.”

  “No. But I’ll cross that bridge when it comes. While she’s away I intend to get those Arabians out of the stables and settle the Hawkesmoor once and for all. Then we’ll start afresh.”

  “I’ll get rid of that Hawkesmoor bastard for you.” Oliver’s bloodshot eyes glared at the pattern he was making on the stained planking. “That what you want me to do, Ranulf?”

  “No. I’ll take care of that myself. I want you to see to the horses.” Ranulf sipped his claret with a faintly fastidious frown. “I’m staging a party this evening, and while we and the Hawkesmoor and his friends are so occupied, you will raid the stables and get the entire stud off Ravenspeare land.”

  “Oh.” Oliver blinked his eyes heavily. “Much rather do away with the Hawkesmoor, Ranulf.”

  “What did he do to you?” Ranulf leaned forward curiously. Something had occurred between the Hawkesmoor and Oliver to drive the latter from Ravenspeare Castle, but so far Oliver wasn’t telling.

  Oliver flushed and buried his face in his tankard. “Let’s just say I bear the man a grudge.” When he set down the now empty tankard, his eyes had cleared and his voice was less slurred. “What about Ariel?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about my sister. Once she’s been shorn of her horses and her husband, I’ll deal with her. She’ll remember her place again.”

  “Not sure she ever knew it,” Oliver remarked with unusual sagacity. “But if those horses of hers are so valuable, won’t you need her to run the breeding program?”

  “She’ll run it.” Ranulf’s lips thinned. “She’ll run it for me. I intend to keep a stallion and a mare from the stud, as seed for a new strain, and ship the rest off to the Hook of Holland as I did with the mare. My agent’ll find buyers for them there.”

  “Mmm.” Oliver nodded. “And you’ll have Ariel back, widowed, her dowry returned to Ravenspeare . . .”

  “Precisely. And I swear that my sister will never leave Ravenspeare land, if I have to keep her in shackles.” Ranulf refilled his glass from the dusty bottle on the table beside his elbow.

  “No more husbands, then?”

  Ranulf shook his head.

  “So where does that leave me . . . vis-à-vis your sister?”

  “Wherever you wish it to, my friend.”

  “I’ve a score or two to settle with that young woman,” Oliver mused, a nasty glint in his eye.

  “Then you may settle them with my blessing.” Ranulf reached over and punched his friend’s upper arm. “You may have exclusive rights to my sister, Oliver. But first we have to get rid of the Hawkesmoor.”

  “So what’s this party, then?”

  Ranulf’s eyes narrowed. “One of my specials, Oliver.”

  “Oh-ho. That why you’re in town?” Oliver managed to look relatively astute.

  Ranulf merely nodded. “I’ve a little game in mind, and while we’re playing it, the Hawkesmoor will suffer an accident. And this time,” he added with a savage frown, “there’ll be no interference from my busybody little sister.” He drained the contents of his glass, his charcoal eyes spitting remembered anger.

  Then he continued, with a small dismissive shake of his head, “But while we’re busy in the Great Hall, Oliver, you will be busy in the stables. Nine o’clock tonight. You’ll drive the animals to the livery stables in Huntingdon. They’re primed to receive ’em. My men will take them from there to the shipyard in Harwich in the morning.”

  Oliver grunted. “Poor compensation for missing one of your special parties, Ranulf.”

  “Never mind, you’ll have my sister soon enough to make up for it.” Ranulf pushed back his chair with a scrape on the sawdust-littered floor. “There are men on guard around the stables. Make sure you come prepared to deal with them. Fortunately you won’t have to contend with those damn dogs. They’ve gone with Ariel on retreat.”

  Oliver’s grin was wolfish. “I claim the right to collect the widow from the Kelburn woman . . . comfort her in her bereavement.”

  Ranulf laughed. “We’ll see. I’m off now to choose the toys for my party this evening.”

  “You sure the Hawkesmoor and his friends will play? Your little games aren’t likely to appeal to that stiff-necked clan of Puritans.”

  “They’ll play,” Ranulf said confidently. “They’ll play because they’ll think they might be able to influence the proceedings for the good. They won’t be able to stand aside, turning a blind eye to the plight of my pretty toys.”

  “Oh, what a reader of men’s souls you are, Ranulf.” Oliver chuckled and snapped his fingers at a passing potboy, gesturing to his empty tankard.

  “You won’t be able to do your part if you’re befuddled, man.”

  Oliver chuckled again. “Don’t worry, Ranulf. I’m a past master at sobering up when the need arises.”

  Ranulf knew that this was true, so he merely raised a hand in salute and went on his way to a small house on the far side of Midsummer Meadow where he could pick and choose the toys for his special party.

  Simon rode down the narrow track to the drainage cut. The reed-thatched cottage stood on a knoll above the dike. Even when he reached the gate, he hadn’t decided exactly how he was going to deal with the situation. Arguing with Ariel would accomplish nothing. Neither did he see much profit in taking the caveman route. Hauling her off by her hair, while it had a certain appeal in his present mood, would cast him in the role of villain, and he’d had enough of that from Ariel.

  Even when he dismounted, tethered the piebald to the fence, and started up the path, he hadn’t formed his opening words.

  But his feet took him up the narrow path running between orderly rows of winter cabbages and root vegetables. At the door he hesitated. Then he raised his hand and knocked.

  Almost immediately the door was opened. Sarah stood on the threshold, a coarse apron wrapped around her gaunt frame. Her hands were stained with some kind of greenish dye, and she wiped them on her apron as she regarded him gravely.

  “Good morning.” The conventional greeting spoke itself. Her expression didn’t change, but she stepped back, holding the door wider in invitation. He felt a stab of relief. She knew why he had come and she was not denying him entrance.

  Simon stepped into the square room. He knew immediately that Ariel wasn’t there. “You’re alone?”

  Sarah nodded again and closed the door. She gestured to the settle by the fire and went to lift off a cauldron of green bubbling water from the swinging hook above the flame.

  Simon reached to help her with the heavy pot. �
��Is that dye?”

  She smiled and set the cauldron down away from the fire. He watched as she prodded the contents with a pair of wooden tongs, then lifted up a length of woven cloth to the light. Simon glanced interrogatively to the spinning wheel and loom in the corner of the cottage and again she smiled. The cloth was all her own work.

  It was astonishing, he thought, how she managed to communicate. It was almost as if she threw her thoughts at him. He remembered again the uncanny moments in Ariel’s bedchamber when she had touched his face. She had that same look in her eye now, questing and yet full of a deep knowledge.

  Something flickered at the periphery of his vision and he turned his head to the table. Slowly he rose from the settle and went over. He picked up Ariel’s bracelet, holding it in the palm of his hand. Absently he rubbed his thigh, which had been aching like the devil since Ariel’s departure had brought an end to her ministrations.

  “She is with you, then?”

  Sarah nodded and fetched down a bottle from a shelf above the range. She uncorked it and poured a glass of some dark liquid, which she handed to Simon.

  It had a strong medicinal smell, reminding him of some of Ariel’s less pleasant tasting potions, but he drank it anyway. He was in the house of a trio of leechwomen, and presumably Sarah was aware of his discomfort. She was aware of so many things.

  Simon sat down on the settle again, then stretched out his leg to the fire as he poured the bracelet from hand to hand, watching the glow of the ruby nestling within the furled silver petals of the rose, the deep fire-shot green of the emerald swan.

  “I have come to fetch her,” he said, his eyes still on the bracelet. “Her place is with me. She cannot run away from that.” Now he looked up, across at Sarah, who was seated on a low stool on the other side of the fire.

  Her eyes seemed to look right into him.

  “I would like her to come back of her own accord . . . because she wants to . . . but . . .” He paused, returning his attention to the bracelet. “But whether she wants to or not, she must come back.”

  Sarah watched him play with the bracelet as he talked. And she remembered again how the child had played with it for hours, babbling his baby talk, sucking the charm, cutting his teeth on the fine gold links. The man was frowning down at the jewel as he tossed it from hand to hand, running his fingers sensuously over the curve of the serpent’s head, the smooth roundness of the pearl apple.

  “Will you support me in this, ma’am?” He looked up sharply, his sea blue eyes both candid and determined.

  Sarah rose from her stool. She came over to him and bent to take his face between her worn hands. She looked deep into his eyes and a strange shiver ran down Simon’s spine. Her fingers moved over his face as they had done once before, gently tracing the scar, the etched lines of suffering, the crow’s-feet, the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.

  He sat still, mesmerized by her touch, by her all-seeing gaze. “Do you have the sight?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I feel that you know so much about me.”

  Sarah smiled and shook her head. Slowly she released his face and then took his hands, running a finger over his palms, turning them over to play with his knuckles as if she was learning him in some way. Learning him almost like a lover, he thought with another shiver.

  Then she released his hands and moved back to her stool, where she sat very still, looking at him with that same intensity. But he felt only warmth and strength flowing from her.

  “Am I right about Ariel?” he asked into the silence. “I believe you know her almost as a mother. Am I right to insist that she comes back?” He steepled his fingers and regarded Sarah ruefully. “She has a touch of the wild about her, and I don’t want to destroy it. I want her to trust me enough to know that I won’t hurt her.”

  Sarah’s face was again grave. To his deep disappointment he could read no answer in her eyes, and she gave nothing away in her quiet stillness.

  “Since she’s not here, then I’ll come back later.” Simon rose to his feet. It was only when he was standing that he realized that the ache in his thigh had faded and his leg was moving more easily. These leechwomen had powerful medicines.

  Sarah remained seated, her haunted blue eyes bright as they watched him.

  He replaced the bracelet on the table, not hiding his disappointment at her lack of reaction. “I can’t read your silence, ma’am.”

  Suddenly she rose and walked over to a narrow ladder leading up into the loft. She gestured that he should go up. Puzzled but obedient, Simon climbed with difficulty up the rickety narrow rungs and hauled himself into the small loft area. Ariel’s presence was in the air, so strong he could almost imagine she had left her spirit behind. Her nightgown was thrown over the end of the simple straw-filled pallet where she slept. Her hairbrushes were on a wooden chest, and a pair of shoes had been cast carelessly into a corner.

  His heart seemed to jump in his breast and his blood was pounding in his head. On the pillow stood the bone horse, glowing in the light from the round unshuttered window. He limped the two steps necessary to reach the pallet and picked up the horse.

  A smile curved his mouth as a deep and glorious certainty slowly infused his blood. He was a blind, stupid fool. He had understood himself no better than he had understood Ariel. Gently he placed the carving back on the pillow.

  He negotiated his way back down the ladder. Sarah was waiting for him, standing immobile by the table.

  She smiled.

  “You knew what I didn’t know myself,” he said wonderingly. “It never occurred to me that I could love another woman other than Helene . . . let alone a Ravenspeare. And I don’t suppose it ever occurred to Ariel that she too could love against all the forces of history and reason.”

  Sarah’s smile didn’t waver. She came toward him and, taking his hands, kissed his cheek. He pressed his lips to her soft, parchmentlike cheek and inhaled her scent and was filled with an immeasurable sense of comfort.

  “I’ll return later, ma’am.”

  Sarah picked up the bracelet as the door closed behind him. The bracelet had been the only thing she’d had time to give her baby when she’d sent him away to his uncle. The lords of Ravenspeare, their knives pressed to her belly, had given her time to make provision for her son before they’d taken her away, and she remembered now how pathetically grateful she’d been for that consideration. As grateful as a victim to his torturer for some unhoped-for leniency. She’d arranged for the child to be taken to Geoffrey, and she’d enclosed the bracelet . . . in pitiful payment, in gratitude . . . for what she begged him to do for Owen’s son.

  And somehow the bracelet had passed from Geoffrey’s hands to Ravenspeare hands—following some other dark strand of blood and passion flowing between the two families.

  Many years ago, Sarah would have wept for the memories that now consumed her, but her tears were long since dried. The well had dried up when she’d understood how pointless tears were, how useless in the face of reality—a blind daughter to care for and a life to live and make good for both of them. She had had only one driving condition for the new life. Her son must never be touched by his mother’s violation. He must never know in his mother this broken, dreadfully damaged woman. Therefore his mother must disappear so completely that not even Geoffrey could find her. And she had succeeded.

  The sound of voices outside brought an end to her reverie. She turned her attention to the pot of soup simmering on the trivet as Ariel bounced energetically through the door, Jenny following rather more slowly.

  “Edgar says all the wedding guests have gone home, Sarah. Ranulf apparently told them that the celebrations were at an end and sent them packing! Isn’t that unbelievable, even for my brother?” She hung her cloak on the peg by the door and began to lay out soup bowls as she spoke.

  “But your husband and his friends are still there,” Jenny put in.

  “Yes.” Ariel set a dish of salt on the table. “So Edgar says. And Simon
told him to be ready to move the stud to Hawkesmoor the day after tomorrow.” She sat down on a stool, propping her elbows on the table. And soon after that, the Hawkesmoor would be ready to leave himself.

  She picked up her bracelet from the table and clasped it around her wrist, wondering idly why she’d forgotten to put it on that morning. But then, she was so miserable and preoccupied, it was amazing she remembered her own head.

  Presumably, as soon as Simon was ready to leave Ravenspeare, he would come for her and cart her off to Hawkesmoor willy-nilly. An exasperated husband dealing with a recalcitrant wife.

  Presumably, once the preparations were made for moving the stud to Hawkesmoor, that was what he would do. It would not be a simple transport, so it would take a day or two to put in train. She supposed she should be grateful that he was still willing to allow her to keep her horses—to pursue her hobby under his eye. But she wasn’t. She knew what she wanted, and she knew she was crying for the moon.

  She became aware of Sarah’s eyes on her and flushed, knowing that the older woman would have read her thoughts.

  She couldn’t continue to cower in Sarah’s cottage. It was cowardly and futile. And she couldn’t bear him to come and drag her away. “I’d better go back to the castle,” she said heavily. “Nothing’s going to change; I don’t know why I ever thought it might. I have no choices anymore.”

  Sarah smiled more to herself than to Ariel and ladled barley soup into the waiting bowls.

  The three lords of Ravenspeare were gathered in the Great Hall when Simon returned to the castle.

  “Ah, Hawkesmoor, well timed indeed. We’re having a little party this evening. I do trust you and your friends will join us.” Ranulf reached over the table to fill a crystal glass with wine, which he held out to the new arrival. “Try this. I’d value your opinion.”

  Simon took a sip and nodded. “A fine rioja.” He sat down on the long bench. “It’s very quiet in here these days.”