“I should go to the hall and direct the
servants in clearing up after the meal,” Margaret murmured, her
gaze still meeting Arden's.
“I'll see to it,” Catherine offered. “It will
give me a few moments alone with my father. I can see he's still at
the table. If I don't stop him, he will eat all of the almond
pudding again tonight.”
“I'll go with you,” Aldis offered, giving
Arden a wide berth as she headed for the stairs.
Tristan reached the top of the steps and
joined his wife. Catherine and Aldis descended to the great hall.
The solar emptied. Margaret and Arden remained where they were,
gazing into each other's eyes.
“Margaret,” Arden whispered, cherishing the
sound of her name on his lips.
“Come to bed, my lord.” Margaret's eyes never
left his. Slowly she drew him from the solar into the lord's
chamber.
“I have lit the brazier,” she said, “to warm
the room in advance, so you will not be chilled.”
“How could I ever be cold, when you are
present?” he asked.
“I did forget to close the shutters.” She
laughed. “Perhaps I was a little nervous.”
“Why should you be nervous? This is not our
first night together.”
“Last night was for duty, and to make the
marriage legal,” she answered. “Tonight is for lovers. I do love
you, dear husband.”
“Ah, Margaret.” He wanted to weep from love
and grief. He wanted to throw himself on his knees before her and
beg her never to stop loving him.
He did not deserve anything from his generous
and loving wife. Even so, he was willing to take what she offered.
The longing to make her part of himself, to absorb some of her
goodness into the emptiness of his cold soul, was more than he
could bear. For one more night he was able to warm himself at her
loving fire. He could give her pleasure and watch her eyes turn
soft and misty. He could feel the sweet contractions of her inner
body and hear her sighs of completion.
And on the morrow—
“Don't think about tomorrow,” she said, as if
she could read his thoughts. “Think only of tonight, of the next
few hours, of the joy we can give to each other.”
“Joy.” He all but choked on the word. The
very concept of joy was alien to him – or had been, until the
advent of Margaret into his life.
Her fingers worked at the buckle of his belt.
He let her unfasten it, let her undress him as if she were his
squire. When she was finished and he stood naked before her, with
his physical scars revealed and his need for her painfully obvious
to both of them, Margaret began to undress herself.
“Let me.” He brushed her fingers away from
the pins that held her wimple in place. “I hate this thing. It
hides your glorious hair.”
“Hides my hair from the gaze of other men,”
she said a bit breathlessly. “Married women cover their hair. It is
the custom.”
“I shall buy you a golden hairnet, like the
one Isabel wears.” He paused, pins and white linen caught in both
hands, while Margaret loosened her thick braids. He would never buy
her a gold net for her hair. There was nothing for them beyond this
night.
“I am sorry,” he said. “That was a false
promise, and you and I are bound to honesty. You are so beautiful
that I long to see you in bright colors and jewels.”
“Hush.” Her fingers were on his lips,
silencing him. Her eyes were sparkling with humor. “From the
evidence that has arisen before my very eyes, my lord, I do
conclude that the sight you most long for at this moment is your
wife, unclothed and in your bed.”
“Margaret!” He gaped at her, shocked and
delighted by her joke, while she slowly lifted her gown and removed
it. Her underdress and shift quickly followed. Margaret kicked off
her shoes and stood before him clad only in her white stockings
which were tied below her knees with plain blue ribbons.
“You see, I am not embarrassed before you,”
she said, and wound her arms around his neck to kiss him.
She was so tall that their eyes and mouths
were at the same level, her small, round breasts rubbed against his
chest, and her hips rolled firmly against his hardness. Arden
flamed with desire, sure he would be ashes and cinders in another
moment. Tall though she was, Margaret was not too heavy for him to
lift her into his arms and carry her to his bed. He noticed that
she had turned down the covers, so he laid her on fresh linen
sheets. He smelled lavender and her complex, flowery perfume.
She twined her arms and legs around him and
gave herself up to love, to blissful sighs and sweet caresses. With
difficulty Arden withheld himself until Margaret cried out to him
in aching urgency. Then he plunged into Paradise and stayed there
as long as he could, rejoicing in Margaret's openly expressed
pleasure until his own overtook him and she kissed him just as he
erupted into a fountain of red-hot fire.
Much later she stirred and caressed the
tousled head that rested on her bosom. Arden reluctantly awoke from
a dream of happiness, only to discover that happiness still lay
with him, at least for the moment.
“You forgot to remove my stockings,” she said
with a lazy smile.
“I'll do it now.” He slid slowly down the
slim length of her until he reached her rounded, pink knees.
Untying the ribbon garters took no time at all. It took longer to
roll the stockings over her shapely calves, her delicate ankles,
and her slender, graceful feet. After the first stocking was gone,
dropped carelessly on the floor beside their bed, there was still
the second stocking to attend to. And when both stockings lay on
the floor, Arden discovered that he was ready – no, frantically
eager – to enter Paradise again. And so was Margaret.
It was only one night, one tender interlude
before confession and punishment separated him from her. As night
softened into morning, Arden held his sleeping wife in his arms
while he stared out the window over which she had not closed the
shutters. He watched the sky turn from dark blue to pearly pink,
and saw the morning star gleaming above, and knew its promise was
not for him.
By mid morning Phelan and Eustace were gone
from Bowen. They left quietly, escorted to the gate by Sir Wace,
who assured them they would reach Sutton before the good weather
broke. Phelan was pale and complained of a severe headache, while
Eustace's face displayed a slightly greenish tint. Both of them
grumbled about the glare of the sunlight on the snow and the
unwonted brightness of the clear blue sky above, which, according
to them, had never before been so painful to the eyes of men. The
squires and men-at-arms who left with them were similarly
downcast.
The guests were waved on their way by
Margaret, Arden, and Royce.
“Perhaps the next time they attend a
wedding,” said Royce, watching them ride through the gate and away
from Bowen with an expression of pure relief on his handsome face,
“they will recall this occasion and not drink so deeply of their
host's wine.” He bestowed a cheerful smile on his new
daughter-in-law.
“I would not care to make a wager on that,”
Margaret told him with an answering smile. “They never do seem to
learn. I am sorry my father tried to pull you into his attempts to
influence King Henry. It was a misuse of our new relationship.”
“When I see King Henry next month, I will
warn him about Phelan,” Royce said, “and I'll suggest that he ought
to be watched in case he continues to try to devise other clever
schemes.”
“You are not responsible for your father's
treacherous ambitions,” Arden said to Margaret. “Phelan and Eustace
are no longer your concern.” He was standing so close beside her in
the entry hall that his hand brushed against her skirt when he
moved.
Margaret relished his nearness. The previous
two nights with him had more than fulfilled every dream of
tenderness that she had ever cherished. Were it not for the
interview Arden intended to conduct with his father as soon as
possible and her concerns about the results of their conversation,
she would have been a remarkably happy bride.
She had many reasons to be contented. She was
already fond of Royce, if somewhat in awe of him; Catherine was now
her sister as well as her closest friend; Aldis and Isabel were
fast proving to be friends almost as dear as Catherine; and
Margaret had forgiven Tristan his youthful indifference to
Catherine and was convinced that he would soon become a friend,
too. Margaret loved Bowen and the people who lived and worked
there. She would be happy to live at Bowen for the rest of her
life.
Most of all, important above all else, she
loved Arden, and she believed he was beginning to care for her. The
knowledge that he trusted her enough to confide in her gave her as
much pleasure as his passionate lovemaking. Arden's revelation of
his deepest secrets increased the intimacy between them, bringing
them closer, binding them together in a new way. Margaret vowed
never to betray his trust.
When Arden quickly stepped forward to
intercept Royce on his way back to the great hall, Margaret felt as
if a cloud was passing between her and the sun, obscuring the
brightness of her newfound contentment. She knew something of what
was going to happen and she dreaded it for Arden's sake. Sustained
by her sense of partnership with him, she was determined to stay
with him throughout the confrontation with his father.
“We must find a place to talk where we will
be private and uninterrupted,” Arden said to Royce.
“Where?” Royce asked. “At this hour servants
will be about, working at their morning chores, even in the lord's
chamber.”
“We could go to the chapel.” Margaret
suggested. “Few people go there. If we close and latch the door we
will be undisturbed.”
“We?” Royce asked, looking at her with his
eyebrows raised in surprise.
“I will not be left out of your
conversation,” Margaret declared.
“Margaret,” Arden began in a tone that told
her he was going to refuse her desire to remain with him.
“We are no longer two separate individuals,”
she said, conscious of a faint warming in her cheeks. “After the
last two nights, we are one flesh, Arden, and what affects you,
affects me equally. I will not allow you to thrust me aside as if I
am of no consequence to you.”
“
You
will not allow me?” Arden
repeated with a sidelong glance at Royce, who was watching them
with an air of unconcealed amusement. Arden frowned and Margaret
lifted her chin in resolution, facing her husband without fear.
“I know that I am of consequence to you,” she
said. “Do not rebuff me, Arden.”
“Ah, Margaret.” Arden shook his head. Then,
with a sigh, he waved a hand toward the rear of the entry hall and
the open chapel door as if to usher her inside. “You will regret
this.”
“I do not think so,” she told him, “for I do
not regret a single word that you or I have said to each other
since we were married. I regret nothing, Arden,” she said,
emphasizing her last words.
Arden threw her a quick, inscrutable glance
just before he reached the chapel door. To her relief he did not
argue further. When the three of them entered the chapel they
discovered Father Aymon was there.
“I have just finished my prayers,” the priest
said, rising from his knees. “Unless you have need of my presence,
I will leave you alone.”
“Please don't go.” Arden put up a hand to
stop him. “Father Aymon, what I have to say is in the nature of a
confession that is difficult for me to make, and I would prefer to
tell the story only once. You will understand why after you have
heard all of it.”
“This is most unusual,” Father Aymon said.
“Are you certain you would not prefer to speak to me in the privacy
of the confessional?”
“Please stay and listen,” Arden insisted,
“and when I have finished, impose on me whatever penance you think
is justified beyond the punishment my father will lay upon me in
earthly justice, for my sins are grave ones.”
“As you wish, my son.” Father Aymon bowed his
head in consent.
“Arden,” Royce said, frowning a little, his
bright cheerfulness beginning to be dimmed by his son's words to
the priest, “exactly what is it you wish to say to me?”
Seeing Royce grow stern, Margaret moved
nearer to Arden. She did not touch him, though she yearned to take
his hand and offer words of love and support. She did not think he
would like that, not before the other two men, so she decided her
best course was to trust him to know, after her acceptance of his
revelations on their marriage night and her offering of love during
the night just passed, that she would stand with him through any
further confession, however awful it might be. She was rewarded by
a quick and surprisingly warm look from him, before he turned his
full attention to his father.
“First,” Arden said to Royce, “I must give
you the news that Uncle Oliver and my Cousin Roger are dead in the
Holy Land.”
“I thought it must be so,” Royce said, “since
they did not return with you and neither you nor Tristan have
mentioned their names until this moment. From her cheerful
demeanor, I assume Aldis doesn't know.”
“Not yet.” Arden winced visibly at mention of
Aldis. Then, with a gesture of one hand that seemed to brush aside
all thought of his cousin, he returned to the subject of his male
relatives. “Second, I wish to confess my guilt in the deaths of my
uncle and cousin.”
Royce did not respond to this statement. He
only stared at his son with a face gone as hard and cold as
Arden's. There was no humor and no charm left in Royce.
“Third,” Arden went on relentlessly, “I am
willing to turn Bowen over to you without dispute. I cannot think
you will want me to continue to hold it after today.”
Margaret gasped at this statement. Regardless
of what Arden's reaction might be, she was compelled to reach out
to him, to take upon herself some part of the unhappiness she was
certain he was feeling. She knew Arden loved Bowen and thought of
the manor as his home. Giving it up would be incredibly painful for
him. He gave no indication of noticing when she laid her hand upon
his arm. He stood unmoving, his gaze fixed on his father's
face.