So Great A Love (19 page)

“I saw what happened. Are you badly hurt?”
Arden asked. When Michael shook his head, Arden said, “I think
Warrior has had sufficient exercise for today. I'll take him to the
stable. Follow us as quickly as you are able, Michael.”

He rode through the gate and across the
courtyard, sitting firmly without benefit of a saddle, controlling
the giant stallion without stirrups or spurs, the bridle slack in
his hands, using only the strength of his thighs and knees and a
word or two.

Margaret stared after him, watching man and
horse together, and aware of a sudden weakness in her own knees and
thighs. There was a power in Arden that went beyond mere physical
strength. It seemed to Margaret as if he was capable of bringing
any creature he chose under his dominion.

But she did not want to be dominated by him.
She wanted to remain in control of her own actions, to make
decisions for herself. Arden's embraces, her growing attraction to
him, and her odd earlier perception that they were meant to walk
side by side, all threatened to sweep her into treacherous depths
where she had never been before, where she would lose her bearings
and never find herself again. She reminded herself once more that
she could not allow herself to feel any strong emotion for Arden.
He was dangerous to her serenity and to her desire to find a
peaceful convent where she could live far from the demands of
men.

He is a lost soul. Lost and lonely.
The words came into her mind with such clarity that at first,
Margaret imagined someone had spoken them aloud and she looked
around to see who it was. Catherine was talking to Michael, taking
up her role as chatelaine and offering to call a man-at-arms to
help the squire to the great hall if his ankle was truly hurting,
while Michael insisted he was unharmed. Sir Wace had appeared
during the commotion over Arden's horse and was now speaking to the
sentries on duty. With the brief excitement over, everyone else
went back to walking the horses or shoveling snow.

Margaret realized the words had come from her
own heart. It was Arden's loneliness and the way he tried to keep
himself separate and apart from others that drew her to him. She
yearned to comfort him and to restore some measure of happiness to
a life that was obviously blighted by terrible events about which
he could not speak. With a strange sense that the future awaiting
her was already preordained and could not be changed however much
she might try, she watched Arden ride his horse toward the stable,
knowing in her heart that her hopes for a peaceful life in a
convent were slipping farther and farther away from her and
knowing, without fully understanding how she knew it, that the
master of Bowen Manor was, in some mysterious way, her destiny.

* * * * *

“Margaret, I haven't seen you since the
midday meal. Where have you been for the last hour and more?”
Catherine asked, looking up from the chessboard she was
arranging.

The solar was well warmed by the blaze in the
fireplace, to which Arden was adding more logs. Outside, the sky
was a faded shade of rose-gold, with a few streamers of clouds
blowing from the west. There was frost on the glass in the solar
windows and the men coming into the great hall below all stamped
their feet and blew on their hands to relieve the chill.

“We ought to close the shutters now, rather
than waiting for full darkness,” Margaret said. “It's going to be a
cold night.”

“Margaret,” Catherine repeated with
exaggerated patience, “where were you? It's hard to get lost in
Bowen, but you managed to do it.”

“I was in the chapel,” Margaret said, heading
for the shutters, to close them herself, since no one else seemed
disposed to do so.

“The chapel?” Arden repeated, turning from
the fireplace to look at her in surprise. “What were you doing
there?”

“Praying,” Margaret answered him. “For
guidance.”

“And did you discover what you needed, my
lady?” he asked, his fine mouth twisting in barely concealed
derision at the idea of useful prayer.

Margaret could not admit to him that the
serenity she sought in the bare, little chapel had eluded her. Nor
could she say that each time she closed her eyes while kneeling
before the altar, Arden had appeared to her as she had seen him
that morning, riding his gigantic horse bareback, governing the
animal as if man and beast functioned together from the same act of
will.

“You ought to visit the chapel, my lord,”
Margaret said, somewhat tartly. She intended to say more, even to
suggest that he hold a prayer service on Sundays or other holy
days. In the absence of a priest to listen to confessions or
provide the sacraments, noblemen often did conduct the reading of
prayers or psalms for their households. The dangerous flare in
Arden's eyes silenced her.

“Not I,” Arden said in response to her
suggestion. “I do not belong in holy places.”

“Don’t tease her, Arden,” Catherine said.
“Margaret is serious.”

“I can see she is,” Arden replied. “So am I.
If we are still snowbound at Candlemass and you wish to ask Sir
Wace to read an appropriate service for the day, I have no
objection, nor do I care who attends. But I will not be
present.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Catherine
exclaimed. “If we are at Wortham Castle by Candlemass Day, you may
be sure our father will insist that you attend the holy
service.”

“Then I must take care to avoid Wortham
Castle until after Lent and Eastertide,” Arden told her. “Perhaps I
will stay away until after Whitsunday.”

“I thought you were planning to play chess,”
Margaret said, breaking into the building dispute. Her comment
prevented Catherine from speaking the irritable words that were,
judging from the expression on her face, about to fall from her
lips, and also prevented Arden from stalking out of the solar. His
booted foot was poised over the first step leading to the great
hall. Margaret did not understand his reaction to talk of religious
services, but she was determined to keep peace between brother and
sister.

“I intend to play,” Catherine said with a
smile for Arden. “Since Margaret claims she has no desire to learn,
and Aldis seems to be avoiding us of late, my only possible partner
is you, dearest brother. If you will join me, I promise to speak
only of the game or the weather.”

Seeing Arden leave the stairway to take the
chair across from Catherine, Margaret let out the breath she was
holding. Now that Catherine's spirits were reviving and she had
turned her focus away from her own unhappiness to look outward upon
other people, her quick perception of the sensibilities of others
was returning. Catherine could be depended upon not to disturb
Arden by raising subjects he did not want to discuss.

Margaret took up her mending and began to
work on it. The stitching did not occupy her entire mind so she was
free to contemplate Arden's refusal to enter the chapel or to
attend religious services. Margaret could not think why he would
not. Even if he had committed a terrible sin it was only necessary
for him to confess, accept his assigned penance, and receive
absolution.

She supposed there were a great many sinful
things a man could find to do while traveling to or from the Holy
Land, and there were probably more than enough wicked deeds that
pilgrims could commit while visiting the sacred places
themselves.

Margaret had been on pilgrimage within
England on two occasions, both of them undertaken with her late
husband in hope of finding a cure for his ailments. During those
pious journeys she paid close attention to what went on around her,
so she knew pilgrims were not always entirely devoted to serious
consideration of the state of their souls, nor to the performance
of good works, and she had seen at first hand the tawdry atmosphere
that sometimes surrounded a sacred shrine. Furthermore,
observations made during her short life had convinced her that
wherever men and women were brought together for any reason, there
was bound to be sinful behavior.

It was all of a piece – the bleak emptiness
she could see in Arden's eyes, the air of icy self-containment and
of dark mystery that surrounded him, and his refusal to attend
prayers – all were part of the same sad alteration in a man who had
once been openhearted, affectionate, and joyful. Unfortunately,
Arden was careful never to let fall any hint as to what event or
sinful deed could have produced such a change in him, so Margaret
had no idea what could be done to overcome his unhappiness.

That evening Catherine did not leave the
solar as soon as the chess game was over, as she usually did.
Instead, she asked for food and more wine. A maidservant brought
them apples and raisins, small squares of a cold pudding, and a
handsome pear tart.

“I'm glad to see you eating heartily again,”
Arden said, watching his sister devour a wedge of the pear tart.
Drawing his eating knife from the sheath at his belt, he sliced an
apple and offered a piece of it to Margaret. She leaned forward in
her chair to take a slice and Arden's glance sharpened.

“My lady,” he said, “I am curious about your
perfume. Never have I smelled a fragrance containing so many
different flowers.”

“It's of my own making,” Margaret replied.
She accepted the comment as the introduction of yet another subject
that would keep the conversation away from Arden and the long years
when he had been gone from England. Few subjects were less likely
to raise strong emotions or to cause controversy than the
concoction of perfume. “When I first went to Pendance Castle an
elderly Cornishwoman lived nearby, who had great knowledge of herbs
and of flowers. It was she who taught me how to use herbs as
medicine, and how to distill floral essences and then blend them
together to create a pleasing scent. When Aldis made up a bundle of
my belongings for my flight from Sutton, she included a bottle of
my special perfume.” Margaret paused, regretting her last words and
thinking that, in this case, even discussion of perfume could lead
to troublesome subjects.

“I want the recipe,” Catherine said, before
Arden could comment on the issue of Margaret's most improper flight
to Bowen, or say anything about Aldis and the way she kept out of
Arden's sight.

“You should have your own fragrance,”
Margaret said to Catherine. “I’m surprised you haven't invented one
yet. Tomorrow, we'll see what we can find to please you in the
stillroom.”

But it was Arden who came to the stillroom
the next day, while Catherine was busy elsewhere. Margaret had just
reached the room, which was so small that Arden, coming in directly
behind her, filled it by his presence. Bunches of herbs were hung
from the rafters to dry and Arden knocked several of them down as
he entered. Leaves and dried flower petals scattered over the
shoulders of his dark tunic and onto the floor.

“Do be careful, my lord,” Margaret said,
stooping to retrieve the herbs from the floor. A few leaves broke
off in her hand and the scent of marjoram wafted upward. “What
brings you here?”

“It's my stillroom,” he said. He raised his
eyebrows as if in surprise that she would dare to question his
presence. “I don't need an excuse to visit it.”

“I am glad to know you are interested in what
is done here,” Margaret said, deciding not to allow him to upset
her by his unexpected presence or by any remarks he might make. She
had a perfectly good reason for being where she was. “I am
compiling a list of herbs that ought to be grown in the kitchen
garden. Perhaps one of the kitchen maids would be willing to learn
how to make salves and ointments and tinctures.”

“To what purpose?” Arden asked.

“For medicine, of course,” she answered, not
quite believing that he did not know as much. “If one illness can
be eased or a single life saved by an herbal concoction that I have
taught your people to make and use, is that not partial recompense
for the hospitality shown to me?”

“You owe me nothing, Margaret, nor do you owe
aught to anyone else at Bowen.” He drew closer, the dangling
bunches of herbs overhead swaying dangerously with his passage.

Margaret was standing by the worktable in the
middle of the room. She wanted to put the table between herself and
Arden, but she discovered she could not move. Her knees were too
weak. She stayed where she was as he took another step toward
her.

“My lord,” she said in a shaky voice, “you
have a most unsettling effect on me.”

“As you have on me, my lady. Were I a
sensible man, I would stay far away from you,” he said. “Were I a
decent man, I would not draw you nearer to me. Instead, I would
keep you safe from my wicked impulses. But you see, my dear, I find
I cannot resist your delightful perfume,” he murmured, and bent
forward to kiss her behind her left ear.

“Please, Arden.” Putting both hands on his
chest she tried to push him away. She felt the hard muscles beneath
his woolen tunic, felt his warmth in contrast to the cool room, and
the steady beat of his heart. She spoke hastily, fearing his
disturbing closeness. “Your sister could join us at any moment. If
you will recall, I promised to help her make a perfume.”

“No nun,” he said, running one finger along
the margin of her lower lip, “no respectable nun, would ever wear a
fragrance as enticing as yours.”

It was too much. He was all but seducing her
right there in the stillroom, with the herbs overhead in danger of
being knocked to the floor each time he moved. And yet, in the
timbre of his voice and deep within his eyes Margaret heard and saw
the distant, terrifying void that lay at Arden's core, and she
instinctively knew that mere seduction was not what he wanted. His
need was deeper than physical desire, and far more desperate.

“In the name of heaven, Arden, what do you
want of me?” she cried.