by Sandra Heath
Rowan glanced around from the portrait. “Yes?”
The butler came in. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I think you and her ladyship should know that the young gentlemen have been listening at this door, and have now gone out to the oak tree.”
Marigold was dismayed. “Listening?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Do you know for how long?”
“No, my lady. I only saw them for a moment, before they slipped away outside.”
“Then they may have been there for some time?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Marigold looked unhappily at Rowan. “Heaven knows how much they may have heard.”
“Well, it’s done now,” he replied, and nodded at the butler. “Thank you for informing us, Beech, it’s much appreciated.”
“My lord. Do you wish me to bring the young gentlemen back to the house?”
“No, leave it with me.”
“My lord.” The butler bowed and withdrew.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Marigold rose agitatedly from her seat. “Oh, Rowan, what if they heard everything we said?”
“Then what’s done is done.”
“But what we were saying is so utterly outlandish!”
Rowan smiled, and got up to go to her. “My dearest darling, I think our Eton invalids wallow in the outlandish! In fact, I’d go so far as to suggest they’re so steeped in the amazing and unlikely, they’d be disappointed by the mundane. I don’t recall hearing any frightened gasps at the door, do you? No one came rushing in tearfully, or collapsed with the vapors. No, the little monsters lapped it all up.” He put his arms around her.
“Do—do you really think so?”
“I know so. Well, no doubt we will now be obliged to discuss it all with them, for to refuse to do so would be a little absurd. Actually, that might be a good idea,” he added, and Sir Francis clacked his bill.
Marigold glanced at the mallard, and then at Rowan. “Discuss it with the boys? Oh, I don’t know ...”
“My darling, Bysshe’s huge interest in the occult and so on might prove useful.” Sir Francis quacked, and nodded his head. Rowan indicated the drake’s response. “He thinks it’s a sensible notion.”
“Well, I suppose ...” Marigold smiled. “I’ll go along with whatever you decide.”
“Good, because the first thing I intend to do is teach them both a lesson for snooping upon other people’s private conversations.” He kissed her nose, then went to get her shawl from her chair. “Come on,” he said as he placed it gently around her shoulders.
“Where are we going?”
“To your bramble refuge.” He ushered her to the French windows, and Sir Francis immediately fluttered down to accompany them. Rowan turned with a frown. “Not you, I want things quiet, and you’ve got far too much to say for yourself!” he breathed, trying to gently push the drake back inside with his boot. Sir Francis gave several highly indignant squawks, then took to his wings over Marigold’s head.
“Damn and blast him!” Rowan cursed, watching the mallard disappear toward the village. “I vow that when I next have duck à l’orange, I shall eat it with considerable relish!”
“I don’t think I shall ever be able to eat duck again,” Marigold said.
“I intend to make a point of it,” Rowan replied with a quick smile. “Come on, let’s give our young friends a small fright.” Taking her hand again, he led her along the terrace.
The lawns behind the house had been scythed that day, and the night air was scented with cut grass as they made their way toward the ha-ha. There was no mist, and the moon was out, so they could see the boys using sticks to poke the ground at the foot of the oak, presumably to inspect the charred remains of the druids’ fire. Rowan and Marigold kept low as they negotiated the ha-ha, then hurried to the brambles, where they lay down to peer through the thorny branches. Marigold glanced at Rowan. “What are you going to do?” she whispered.
In answer, he nodded toward the moat, where it left his land and skirted the common. “Look,” he said softly.
She saw what appeared to be faint blue flames hovering above the water, and she shrank closer to Rowan. “What is it?”
“Ignis Fatuus, will-o’-the-wisp, jack-o’-lantern, call it what you will. It’s only marsh gas, and used to appear quite frequently here, but over the past year or so I’ve had the moat cleared out, and only that one stretch remains. I didn’t expect to see it now, but it’s most convenient to my purpose. Ah, our young friends have espied it!”
She watched as Perry shook Bysshe’s shoulder, and pointed toward the weird blue flames. Bysshe turned to look, and Rowan immediately cupped his hands to his mouth and called out in a horribly hollow voice. “Behold, the flames of hell!”
The boys froze, and then shrank together, glancing around in all directions.
Rowan grinned at Marigold. “Let’s see how much Coleridge they know.” He cupped his hands again. “ ‘Like one, that on a lonesome road, Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.’ “ He emphasized the frightful fiend part.
The boys clung together in terror, then as one began to dash back toward the house. Rowan waited until they had just passed the brambles, then he shouted out. “He’s behind you! Run! Run!” With shrieks, they fled even faster, stumbling over the ha-ha, and then kicking up their heels toward the kitchens, where welcome lights shone. Rowan laughed out loud. “There go our brave occultists!”
“Oh, Rowan, that was cruel. The poor things were frightened out of their wits,” Marigold said sympathetically.
“Serves them right for eavesdropping. Anyway, I’ve had my revenge, so now we will go and reassure them.” He got up, and held out his hand to her.
She accepted, and he drew her to her feet, but then slipped his arms around her. “First I will have a kiss,” he said softly.
She gladly surrendered her lips to his, sinking against him as naturally as if she had spent her entire life with him. They had known each other for so short a time, yet were completely one. Her mouth softened beneath his, her lips parted, and as his body pressed to hers, she felt desire stirring hungrily through her. She also felt the physical proof that the erotic hunger was shared.
He drew back, and smiled in the darkness. “I trust we will be soon abed, my lady,” he murmured, holding her against his urgent loins.
“I trust so too, my lord,” she whispered back, closing her eyes as delicious feelings danced over her warm skin.
His lips sought hers again, and they kissed for a long, long moment, then he gently released her. “You tempt my base male nature so much, I am liable to give in and take you right here and now, but I think our unfortunate young diabolists require our presence.”
“Yes.”
“I love you, Lady Avenbury.”
“I love you, Lord Avenbury.”
They walked arm in arm back to the house, and followed the boys into the kitchens, where they came upon a repeat of the scene with Spiky Blackthorn. Mrs. Spindle was just handing glasses of water to the two white-faced boys. Maids and footmen had gathered around, but Beech was seated calmly in his favorite chair, reading a newspaper as if nothing untoward had occurred. The butler had guessed what had happened, and so was totally unmoved by tales of a “frightful fiend” creeping around outside.
Perry gave a cry of relief when he saw his mother. “Mama! Oh, Mama, Bysshe and I have had a dreadful scare!”
“I know,” she replied.
“You—you know?” His eyes fled from her to Rowan, and then back again. Bysshe looked at them as well, and rose slowly to his feet, belatedly suspicious of trickery.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. “So, gentlemen, it seems you are frightened of marsh gas. I’m disappointed you really thought it was hellfire.” As their faces flamed like the fire in question, he went on. “Nor, it seems, do you know your Coleridge very well.”
“ ‘Like one, that on a lonesome road, Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.’ “
Bysshe’s face was a picture of embarrassment. “It—it was you, sir!”
“I fear so. Well, not entirely me, I have to say a certain ancient mariner helped a little.”
Perry looked quite sick. “You had us well and truly, sir,” he said.
“I know, so let that be a lesson to you not to listen in on what does not concern you.”
They glanced at each other, hugely dismayed to have been found out. Bysshe recovered first. “You know we did that, sir?”
“Yes. Beech was good enough to tell me.”
As the boys gave the butler dark looks, Rowan wagged his finger. “Beech is not at fault, sirs, you are. May I ask how much eavesdropping you did?”
“Quite a lot, sir,” Perry confessed ashamedly. “In fact, I—I’d say we heard most of your conversation.”
“I see.” Rowan looked from one boy to the other. “As I understand it, gentlemen, you are both supposed to be recuperating from chicken pox, but I have to say you seem hale enough to me. Mayhap you should be dispatched back to Eton first thing tomorrow.”
They were appalled. “Oh, no!” they cried in unison.
“Can you think of a good reason why not?” Rowan inquired.
Bysshe nodded. “Yes, my lord.” He glanced at the listening servants, and then dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “I’m sure I can be of assistance with all those birds, in fact, I’m quite an, er, ornithologist.”
“I rather wondered if that might prove the case,” Rowan replied, glancing at Marigold. “Very well, sirs, we will discuss the matter at the breakfast table. Tell me, how did you convince Dr. Bethel you had chicken pox? Flour on your faces, red ink for spots, and feigning sleepiness?”
Bysshe gave a shamefaced grin. “Something like that,” he confessed.
“Hmm. Well, to bed with you, sirs.”
They obeyed with alacrity.
Chapter Twenty-six
Breakfast proved a very lengthy affair. Sunlight streamed into the dining room, the French windows stood open, and the scent of coffee, toast, and crisp bacon hung in the air. All eyes were fixed upon Jennifer Avenbury’s portrait. The boys hadn’t been able to offer further suggestions, so it seemed like an impasse.
If only Jenny would come, and say something more, Marigold thought as she stroked Sir Francis. The mallard had wandered in from the terrace, and once again settled on the table beside her. For a while he had added his usual derogatory comments to the discussion, grumbling beneath his bill, and sighing now and then in a long-suffering way. No one paid him any heed, and at last he tucked his head beneath his wing and went to sleep.
The boys had indeed listened at the door for a long time the previous evening, for there was nothing they did not know about the situation. Nor, it had to be said, was there anything they did not take in their stride; but then, apprentice demonologists had to be made of stern stuff, except perhaps when unnamed but frightful fiends might be in the offing.
Marigold eventually felt she had to say something about their calm acceptance of it all. “Aren’t you two in the least dubious about this? After all, it isn’t every day that someone tells you sinister druids are at work, and that a lawyer can transform himself into a large black bird, or that a talking wren is really a sixteenth-century woman.”
Bysshe answered her. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but Celtic mythology is full of birds and shape-shifting. The children of Lir were turned into swans, Branwen trained a starling to speak so she would be rescued, the singing of birds could suspend earthly time, Rhiannon’s birds were harbingers of the Otherworld, ravens were oracles ... Oh, it’s endless.”
“So are stories about fairies and ghosts, but do you believe them?” she asked.
“I don’t disbelieve. Until there is proof that they do not exist, I have an open mind,” Bysshe replied.
Rowan smiled. “That’s fair enough. So tell me, sir, what is your theory concerning this wheel business? We could only think that it was something to do with going around the tree.”
Bysshe thought for a moment. “Well, the wheel is a favorite Celtic symbol. Everything the druids and Celts did was connected with the yearly cycle, which may be viewed as a circle ... or wheel, I suppose.” He glanced around at the others.
Perry sat forward. “So the stones here and at Stonehenge are a circle, but may also represent a wheel? Is that what you’re saying, Bysshe?”
“Well, I’m not exactly saying, I’m just guessing. The druids thought the sun was at its weakest in midwinter, and its strongest in midsummer. That’s why they placed such importance on sunrise at midsummer. Their rites and so on were intended to encourage the sun—and thus also themselves—to be strong for another year. Some people suggest that Stonehenge was built so that the first rays of that sunrise fall exactly on something in particular, perhaps a certain stone.
“When Perry and I were at the tree last night, I noticed that the mistletoe on it grows on the side facing sunrise at this time of the year. I calculate that on midsummer day, the first rays will fall directly onto that mistletoe. If I’m right, it would be regarded as particularly auspicious. You see, mistletoe and oaks were very holy to the druids, so the oak tree on the common would have been particularly venerated.”
“Aquila Randol certainly thought so, and in his form as Falk Arnold, he still does,” Rowan observed.
Perry looked at him. “Sir, do you really think Uncle Falk is Randol?”
“Yes, Perry, I do.”
Bysshe had been deep in thought, but then his eyes cleared and he looked excitedly at them. He held up a hand to tick the items he listed. “Let me sum it all up. Perry’s uncle has only recently started all this, hasn’t he? All of a sudden, after years of failure, legal ventures have begun to go his way. Believing himself unbeatable, he has commenced proceedings to gain your lordship’s title and estate. On top of that, at dawn on midsummer day, he intends to turn Jennifer Avenbury back into a young woman in order to marry her, and finally he means to make certain of your lordship’s death. Forgive me, sir, but I have to say it.”
“That’s quite all right,” Rowan replied.
“Then it can only mean he’s found the lost anguinum,” Bysshe declared emphatically.
They all stirred, for the anguinum had been quite forgotten. Sir Francis took his head from under his wing, and gazed intently at Bysshe. Rowan sat back. “Damn, the druid’s stone had quite slipped my mind,” he breathed.
Bysshe went on. “An anguinum gives its possessor awesome supernatural powers, as well as complete success in all legal matters. I’d stake my life Perry’s uncle has it again.”
Marigold nodded. “You’re right, Bysshe. It explains everything. Mr. Crowe told me Falk was unassailable in court. He also said it was quite impossible for me to win if I challenged Perry’s father’s will.”
“It’s the anguinum all right,” Bysshe declared. “All we have to do is steal it, and his power will be destroyed.”
Rowan gave him a wry look. “Is that all there is to it? Why, it’s so easy, I’ll toddle off to Romans right now, knock on the door, and ask him if he’ll kindly hand it over. I fancy pigs would fly as well as birds before he obliged!”
Marigold sat back. “But Aquila lost it here at Avenbury, so when on earth did Falk find it? He’s been at Castell Arnold for months and months, certainly since well before his first success in the courts.”
Bysshe grinned. “Maybe he flew down here one night,” he said. But somehow no one thought it was funny, not even Perry. Indeed it was such a disagreeable thought that Bysshe himself stopped grinning, and lowered his eyes.
Marigold had been thinking. “Bysshe, you just said ‘an’ anguinum. Does that mean there’s more than one?”
“Oh, yes. Not all
that many, but certainly more than one. One folktale has it there were six.”
“And this is something Falk is bound to know,” Marigold murmured thoughtfully.
Rowan glanced at her. “What are you thinking?”
“Just that he may wonder if I have one, or part of one. I haven’t, of course, but something certainly happens when I touch one of the standing stones.” Her gaze went to Jenny’s portrait again. “Is the anguinum depicted somewhere?” she wondered aloud.
Sir Francis gave a disgusted snort, and got up. Then, after stretching one wing then the other, he flew down from the table.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Our drake friend doesn’t seem to think it is,” he said, watching as Sir Francis waddled to the French windows, then flew away.
Marigold sighed. “He never agrees with anything we say,” she complained.
Perry buttered himself another slice of toast. “I say, Bysshe, what on earth does an anguinum look like? It’s all very well to say we have to steal it, but first we have to know what we’re looking for.”
“Well, it’s about the size of a billiard ball, and is bright red in color.”
Marigold gasped. “Yes, Falk does have such a thing! I’ve seen it!” She described those moments after the reading of Merlin’s will, when Robin had pulled Falk’s handkerchief from his pocket in order to dislodge the round red ball.
Bysshe’s eyes shone. “It will be at Romans right now.”
“Which brings us back to the tricky point of how exactly we’re going to lay our hands on it,” Rowan observed, toying with a table knife.
