Falk scrambled to his feet, looking a little ridiculous because two small sideburns of false hair had been left in place. He glowered at Marigold, Perry, and Bysshe as they drew uneasily together, trying to seem as if they hadn’t really noticed anything. To their relief, he had other things on his mind, to wit the recovery of his precious wig. Before their eyes, he shifted shape to become a gyrfalcon, the largest of the falcons. More brown and speckled than Perry, he would have been very impressive indeed, were it not that the top of his head was totally devoid of feathers! He spread his enormous wings, and flew away toward the lake, his pate agleam in the sunshine.
Marigold, Perry, and Bysshe watched as he made for the area of reeds where Sir Francis had disappeared with the wig, but just as he glided down toward the spot, there was sudden pandemonium as an immense flock of waterfowl took to the air. He had no time to get out of the way, and in a moment, he was hopelessly caught up in an endless stream of ducks, divers, grebes, swans, coots, and moorhens. At last they were all airborne, wheeling in a noisy cloud above the lake as Falk, shedding a bent feather or two, set off for Romans while the going was good. He didn’t look at all the druidic magician turned gyrfalcon, but rather something that had only just escaped Mrs. Spindle’s meat cleaver!
In spite of his dreadful predicament, Perry clearly delighted in the treatment Falk had received at the lake, for he swung his head from one side to the other, and gave several of his strange shrieks. Bysshe watched him, and then grinned, for if Perry wasn’t laughing, he, Percy Bysshe Shelley, was a Chinaman. Tentatively he extended his grin to Marigold. “Perry approves of all that, don’t you think, my lady?’
“It would seem so,” she replied, stroking her son’s beautiful feathers.
“Serves Falk right, eh?”
“Indeed so,” she murmured.
In the ensuing days, Perry was initially the most utterly forlorn bird of prey imaginable. He refused to come into the house, but perched instead on the balustrade of the dining room terrace, his head sunk low, and his feathers drooping. As he moped and shuffled, it was inevitable he would attract Mrs. Spindle’s cat, but it wasn’t until the tabby relieved him of several feathers that he elected to come inside and accord Bysshe the task of keeping the determined feline at bay.
Marigold and Bysshe decided it was best not to tell the servants that Perry and the peregrine were one and the same, for they were sure such a revelation would result in a hysterical mass exodus. So Perry’s apparent disappearance was explained away by a sudden decision to return to Eton on the night stagecoach that passed through Avenbury village. No one could refute such a claim, especially as his things were carefully hidden to quell any whispers, and soon it was clear the staff accepted the tale, although they were puzzled that Bysshe should remain. Bysshe, meanwhile, told the servants he had captured a sick peregine, and at first it had to be said that poor Perry did indeed look sick.
Perry struggled to settle into his new existence. He communicated with Marigold and Bysshe in his strange shrieking tone, and at nights perched on the top of Bysshe’s wardrobe. During the day he was carried around on Bysshe’s wrist, which was protected from his savage talons by a stout leather strap, but gradually Perry took to his wings more and more, and much to Marigold’s dismay, began to do what falcons do.
Once he had liked Mrs. Spindle’s fine beefsteak pies, but now he preferred small rodents. Among these was a mouse he deliberately stole from the cat in an act of pure vengeance. He ate everything raw, and tried to join Marigold and Bysshe in the dining room, but his mother’s idea of good table manners certainly did
not
run to such things. Perry therefore found himself and his rodents banished outside.
But Perry and his unlovable new eating habits did not detract from Marigold’s other worries, chief and most harrowing of which was Rowan. The remaining days to midsummer were torture for her, especially as she was racked with guilt for ever having doubted Rowan. She spent many hours pacing the house and garden, endeavoring to think of a way out of the morass which Falk had conjured around them all, but her mind remained a blank, and all the while midsummer day continued to approach at an almost audible march. She had to force herself to remember that in her second vision by the standing stone, Robin and Jenny had told her the answer was in the portrait. This meant that Falk
could
be defeated, not that he just
might
be, yet when she studied the painting, there was nothing there, nothing at all.
Several times she returned to the escarpment, but she did so entirely alone. Bysshe offered to come too, bringing Perry on his wrist, but she hadn’t wanted anyone with her. Robin didn’t appear on any of these unhappy expeditions, nor was there any sign of Sir Francis, and never had she been more alone in her life than when she trained the telescope upon Romans, and again saw Rowan with Alauda, behaving for all the world as if he were the most happy man on earth. Poor Jenny was still trapped in her golden cage, hopping desperately from perch to perch, and calling out. Tic-tic-tic.
Help me, please help me ...
Marigold’s solitary visits to the escarpment were observed with sadness by the servants and local residents. They were all much perplexed by Rowan’s presence at Romans, which had soon became common knowledge, and their loyalties were torn. Until now he had always enjoyed their respect, but no one could approve of the seemingly callous treatment he’d dealt his bride, first disappearing, then coming to light again with his mistress. Marigold’s distress when he first vanished had been too heartbreakingly genuine for people not to know how much she loved him; his conduct, on the other hand, seemed all that was cruel.
Another aspect of local disapproval—resentment even—was the way he’d allowed everyone to search for him. They believed he’d deliberately led them all a merry dance, dodging from one part of Romans to another in order to pretend he wasn’t there at all. In their eyes, Lord Avenbury had most certainly blotted his formerly spotless copybook.
Marigold longed to tell them the truth, for she could not bear to know how low he’d sunk in everyone’s esteem, but she knew it was best to say nothing. The Avenbury curse was known in fashionable London circles, but Rowan and his forebears had always striven to play it down locally, so to suddenly tell the truth now would be to reveal incredible occult goings-on that would surely be too much for simple country folk.
One day a letter arrived for Rowan from his lawyers, and because the seal had broken and she glimpsed Merlin’s name, she couldn’t help reading it. The contents left her not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Rowan was informed that his wife’s first marriage had been genuine, although the investigator had at first thought it would be impossible to prove anything. This was because on arriving at the town of Kirkham in Lancashire, where the investigator believed the wedding had taken place, it was learned that recent clumsy attempts to smoke a large flock of starlings from the church roof, had resulted in the whole church burning to a cinder, registers included. On establishing this, the investigator had almost returned to London, but then the incumbent clergyman had mentioned there was also a
village
in Lancashire called Kirkham, and this was where the relevant record was at last discovered.
Marigold was so surprised to learn that proof existed after all, that she had to read the letter several times. She had no doubt the obliging starlings were Falk’s doing, but he had made a singular error in thinking the town, not the village, of Kirkham was the site of the marriage. Without the benefit of the local clergyman’s knowledge, the wrong church and its contents were burned down, and Falk was under the impression that his plot had succeeded. Anguinum or not, this was clearly one example of litigation that could be prevented from going Falk’s way. Merlin’s so-called new will could now be safely challenged, and Perry could be declared Merlin’s legitimate heir.
Smiling a little wryly, Marigold refolded the letter, and placed it upon the hall table with the rest of the mail awaiting Rowan’s attention. What a Pyrrhic victory this was, for when Falk discovered that proof of her marriage to Merlin had survived, it would be in his interest to make certain Perry remained in feathered bondage. That way Falk would
genuinely
become the true heir. Oh, the bitterness of this particular pill, for it would almost be better that the right church had burned after all, for at least then Perry would stand a chance of being changed back to his proper shape again.
It seemed midsummer eve was upon them all quite suddenly, and Marigold was distraught. She knew Falk was preparing for the coming dawn, because Bysshe had gone to the earthworks to do a little spying. Rowan had been on the balcony with Alauda, watching the scene in the orchard, where the druids had commenced a vigil around a bonfire. Seated in a circle in their cowled white robes, they were passing Jenny’s cage one to another, and chanting.
May the wheel turn, may the wheel turn.
As well as his robe, Falk wore the heavy golden torque around his throat, and a mistletoe crown graced his bald head, indicating that he hadn’t retrieved his wig. Bysshe reported that Rowan did not seem to be concerned by the significance of it all, for he smiled and whispered to Alauda, sometimes kissing her, sometimes just holding her close. He showed no awareness at all that the coming dawn rites would entail his own demise.
Marigold went to bed that last night knowing that unless something were done, at dawn the husband she adored would die. In the seclusion of the bed in which she and Rowan had lain together, she sobbed inconsolably into her pillow. Her love for him was so overwhelming, and her desperation to save and protect him so ferocious, that gradually she became aware of the same awesome sensation she’d known when touching the standing stone. Energy began to surge through her, and she was carried away by a maelstrom of emotion.
Something fearsome and primitive had been unleashed in her, a force so strong that she had no control. Vivid, sensuous colors shimmered through her, and she was engulfed by strange, unfathomable feelings as she was whirled helplessly around and round. Then, in the midst of it all there shone a bright alluring light, toward which she knew she must reach out. She heard Rowan calling, and she answered, begging him to pull her out of the vortex. Suddenly his hand, luminous and almost transparent, plunged down through the colors and light to rescue her. Although his fingers seemed to lack substance, they had a remembered warmth and strength as he pulled her to safety.
Then the maelstrom became calm, and they were lying together in the bed. He seemed ethereal, a shimmering apparition, yet he was very real. Her name was on his lips, her love reflected in his eyes. He was so precious, so adored and worshipped that she felt weak at his touch, and when his mouth met hers, it seemed her flesh would surely melt. She welcomed him into her arms, her lips bruising with the passion of the kiss, and as she waited for the longed-for penetration, never had anticipation been more sweet or erotic. He stroked her breasts, teasing her nipples between his fingers. Oh, how wonderful it felt, and how exciting was the new urgency in his kiss. She wanted to cry with love, for he was the air she breathed.
At last he took her, sinking deep into her warmth, and gasping with pleasure. She gazed up at him. How ghostly he was, a silvery phantasm she could actually see through, but there was nothing ghostly about his lovemaking. He was really here with her, he
was!
His eyes were closed in ecstasy as he thrust in and out of her, and exultation seized them both as the climax began to carry them away. They both became weightless with elation, but then the bright light shone blindingly through Marigold’s consciousness, as if it had come to take Rowan from her again. So she held him more tightly than ever, for fear he would leave her again, but at last he drew away, and got up from the bed. She reached out, trying to make him stay, but already he was fading. He smiled lovingly down at her, and whispered her name, then he disappeared.
She lay there on the moonlit bed, staring at where he had been. He hadn’t been a dream, or a hallucination, for her body was warm and slaked, as always it was when he made love to her. So what had happened? How had he been able to come to her? She tried to remember how it had begun, and realized her intense emotion had caused it. She had conjured Rowan’s fetch, his doppelganger!
Marigold wriggled down in the bed, where the warmth of his body was still tangible. Was this another facet of her power? If so, it was one for which she was very thankful indeed. She had needed Rowan, and he had come to her. She only prayed he realized what had happened, and that while his essence and soul had come to his wife, only his shell lay in Alauda’s arms at Romans.
She must have fallen asleep, because she was awoken by something tugging imperatively at the hem of her nightgown. Her eyes flew open to see Sir Francis on the bed, pulling almost willfully at the lace-trimmed lawn. The clock began to chime three; it was only an hour before dawn!
Dismayed, Marigold got quickly out of the bed, and put on her wrap. Sir Francis chuntered beneath his breath, as if to chide her for taking so long to awaken, then he fluttered down to the floor, and began to waddle toward the door.
Marigold gazed anxiously after him as she dragged a brush through her hair. “What can we do? There’s only another hour left. Oh,
why
did I fall asleep!”
“Quack! Quack!” The mallard turned to give her one of his superior looks, then continued out of the room.
Lighting a candle from the nightlight beside her bed, Marigold hurried after him. “Have you thought of a plan?” she asked rather pointlessly, for even if he had, he wasn’t able to tell her. The drake thought it stupid as well, for he bestowed another withering look upon her.