by Speer, Flora
So Great A Love
Flora Speer
Cover Design Copyright 2014
By http//:DigitalDonnna.com
Smashwords Edition
Published by Flora Speer At Smashwords
Copyright © 2014 by Flora Speer
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Prologue
Portsmouth Harbor
January 4, A.D. 1121
Daylight was almost gone by the time the ship from Normandy was secured at the dock. Arden stood at the rail, gazing through the fog and sleet that obscured most of the harbor and the other ships moored there. He did not care about the ships. Arden's eyes were intent upon the land.
England. Home. After so many years away his arrival should have been a joyous occasion. Instead—
A movement on his right caught Arden's attention. The passengers were beginning to disembark and the maidservant Laure, burdened with her mistress' jewel casket, was having difficulty climbing onto the gangplank. The sailors were eager to be ashore after the rough voyage and paid no heed to the plain-faced young woman.
“My lord?” Laure said, looking at Arden. “May I ask your help? The step is high.”
“Of course.” Arden sprang lightly onto the gangplank. Though his emotions were permanently numbed by events he wished he could forget, at least his body still functioned well, in some ways, if not in others.
Don't think about that, he told himself. Think only of the present moment. He reached down to clasp Laure's hand and lift her onto the narrow gangplank. He steadied her along the few steps to the dock, then off the gangplank to solid ground. As soon as Laure regained her balance Arden dropped his hand and stood back to make room at the foot of the gangplank for the other two members of his party.
They were far less somber than he, their gaily colored clothing a vivid contrast to his dark garb. The fair-haired Tristan scooped his wife into his arms, holding her close against his heart while he ran down the gangplank. Isabel gurgled with laughter and clutched at her white linen coif.
“Here you are, my love, safe at last on English soil.” Tristan set his giggling burden on her feet in a swirl of bright blue skirts, handling her as if she were a priceless treasure.
“I do thank you for your gallantry, Tristan, but I am capable of walking ashore on the gangplank, as Laure has just done,” Isabel said. “You saw how easy it was. Arden had only to offer her his hand.” She nodded and smiled her approval at Arden.
He did not smile back. Arden could not recall the last time he had smiled, not even at his friend's wife. Laughter followed Isabel like tinkling chimes. Only Arden was immune to it.
“You are too precious for me to risk having you fall from the gangplank into the cold water,” Tristan said, giving Isabel a look filled with tenderness.
Isabel glanced away from the men to the murky water below the dock. She gave a little shrug, as if the chance of falling in did not disturb her at all. She pursed her lips into a pout, but there was laughter in her expressive brown eyes.
“In this England of yours,” she said, “here in your damp homeland, dear Tristan, I am finding it difficult to distinguish the cold water from the supposedly dry land. In sunny Aquitaine, we can always tell the difference.”
“You have only just arrived, and it's winter,” Tristan responded, chuckling at her teasing remarks. “I promise, you will like England better when the sun shines. Arden, I believe I see the inn the ship's captain told us about, where we can stop for a day or two, until our cargo is unloaded and Isabel is rested enough to continue our journey. We won't delay you any longer than we must.” He put an arm around Isabel's shoulders.
Arden gritted his teeth, revolted by the open affection between the two and angry with himself for his reaction. His twisted, blighted emotions were not Tristan's fault and Tristan, honest friend that he was, had every right to happiness with the woman who held his heart in a tender grip.
“You may stay at the inn as long as you wish,” Arden said. “I will not.”
Isabel turned worried eyes on him just as a gleam of light from an approaching lantern touched him. For a moment Arden saw himself as Isabel must see him: a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair clipped much shorter than the current fashion and shadowed eyes beneath straight black brows. No doubt Isabel thought his expression as grim as that of a condemned criminal on his way to the scaffold. Which was not far from the truth.
The person carrying the lantern moved on and Arden was plunged back into the foggy shadows he preferred to the too-revealing light. He pulled his long black cloak more closely about himself and prepared to refute the arguments he was sure both Tristan and Isabel were going to make.
“Not staying in Portsmouth?” Tristan cried. “But, I thought we agreed on our arrangements. Isabel will need to rest, we must locate carts to carry all of our belongings, and we will have to send ahead to arrange for lodging along the way to Wortham Castle.”
“I am not going to Wortham,” Arden said, keeping his voice clipped and low in hope of disguising all emotion. “I cannot. Not yet.”
“But, Arden, the information we have will be—”
“Hear me,” Arden said, and at the sudden note of command in his tone Tristan ceased his protest.
“I intend to ride first to Bowen Manor,” Arden said. “Tristan, I leave the cargo, and our people, in your charge. See the horses disembarked and stabled, the men-at-arms settled at the inn you mentioned. Let Isabel rest for as long as she wishes. There is no need for haste. Follow me to Bowen by slow stages. Take as many days as you need.”
“I think there is need for haste,” Tristan objected. “The sooner Lord Royce hears about the rumors, the better. He will want to investigate, for if the story is true, if the king's heir was murdered along with all those other poor souls, then neither Royce nor King Henry can let the matter rest.”
“Everyone who sailed on The White Ship is dead and the ship lies at the bottom of Barfleur Harbor,” Arden reminded him. “Our haste, or lack of haste, cannot return the dead to life. More than six weeks have passed. A day or two delay cannot matter now. Justice delayed is still justice.”
“It's not just the sinking of The White Ship you're thinking of, is it?” Tristan demanded.
Arden felt his mouth turn grimly downward. Tristan knew him well enough to detect his subterfuge, yet he would not pry into the dark area that Arden kept hidden even from his oldest friend. He had more – and worse – to tell Royce of Wortham than Tristan could possibly guess, and he dreaded the coming meeting with his father. “After I have carefully considered how to deliver the news I bear, I promise I will go to Wortham Castle.” Arden bit off each word he spoke, hating the taste of them in his mouth, hating the very thought of what he soon must do, and knowing he had no choice. The responsibility was entirely his. So was the blame.
“What need is there for more thought?” Tristan demanded in apparent blissful ignorance of Arden's torment. “Simply tell Royce what you overheard on our way here from Aquitaine.”
While Arden cautioned himself to be silent and not reveal to Tristan any hint of the true reason why he did not want to see his father again, Isabel spoke.
“Arden, dear friend, you cannot ride off alone. I will not allow it.”
She drew nearer to look up into his face and by her approach she seemed t
o lighten the shadows in which Arden stood. But even Isabel's sweet gentleness could not ease the cold pain at Arden's heart, or relax the hard line of his mouth. He stared at her as if he were a man carved of stone, unable to respond to her honest concern.
“She's right,” Tristan said. “There can be no justice meted out to wrongdoers by the baron of Wortham if you are murdered and your body left to freeze somewhere on a forgotten country track.”
Arden did not flinch at the deadly possibility, thinking that such an end might be a blessing. But no, he could not escape his burden of duty and his friends were right to be concerned about his safety.
“I will take one squire with me,” he said, and considered who it should be for a moment before speaking again. “Michael is a quiet man who will not disturb my thoughts.”
“You will need a few men-at-arms, too,” Tristan insisted.
“Guy. No one else,” Arden said, naming the largest and fiercest of the guards who had come with them across the Narrow Sea from Normandy, a man who, like Michael, did not talk much. When it seemed Tristan would raise further objections, Arden said, “You will require the rest of the men to protect Isabel. And to guard the baggage carts.”
“Very well.” Tristan gave in, accepting that Arden was not likely to change his mind. “We will leave Portsmouth in a day or two. Have no fear for us; I remember where Bowen is located. It's in the same direction as Wortham Castle. We will find your manor without difficulty, though we may be delayed by bad weather and by the need to avoid tiring Isabel.”
“I understand.” Arden clasped hands with Tristan, bowed to Isabel, and then went to give orders to the squire Michael to remove from the ship at once the horses he wanted for the journey. “Take the horses to the inn, Michael. I will meet you there after I see to our food supplies,” Arden said. He strode off through the drizzling rain, heading for the inn. Tristan and Isabel followed close enough behind him for Arden to overhear their low conversation.
“How I wish he would laugh now and then, or smile just a little,” Isabel murmured. “Perhaps, if he could bring himself to speak aloud of what troubles him so deeply, his unhappiness would be eased.”
“I am not certain that Arden will ever laugh again,” Tristan said.
Indeed, I will not, Arden thought. Not wanting to hear more, he began to walk faster, hastening away from his friends and their worried conjectures about him.
Chapter 1
Sutton Castle
South of Shrewsbury
January 4, A.D. 1121
“I cannot do it, Catherine! Indeed, I swear to you, I will not! I am finished with allowing uncaring men to rule my life for me.” Seeing the shocked expression on her dearest friend's face, Lady Margaret turned away. Her dark blue woolen skirts swirled and the edges of the white linen wimple that completely covered her black hair flared outward at the abrupt motion.
Leaving Lady Catherine of Wortham to stand alone in the center of the castle garden, Margaret paced along the gravel path until she reached the stone wall surrounding the garden. There she stopped to take a deep breath. Telling herself that panic-stricken rage would not convince Catherine of the justice of her cause, she tried to compose herself. When at last she turned again, less furiously this time and creating only the slightest movement of her garments, and headed back to where Catherine still awaited her by the sundial, all the bitter emotion was smoothed away from Margaret's face. She had had more than ten years in which to polish her skill at hiding what she was feeling, and she was determined to win Catherine to her way of thinking.
She thought Catherine would believe her desire to enter a convent, for Margaret knew she was austere as a nun in her appearance. Only the day before, her brother Eustace had told her that she was too tall for a woman and her figure was much too scrawny for any man to look forward to having her in his bed. According to Eustace, Margaret was fortunate that their father had been able to arrange a second marriage for her. Margaret did not agree.
Folding her long, slim hands neatly together at her waistline, lowering her eyes, Margaret paused next to the sundial. She was confident that outwardly she presented the perfect picture of a noblewoman, poised, demure, once more in complete control of her emotions. Only Margaret herself knew how false that picture was.
Catherine of Wortham was twenty-four years old, a year younger than her friend, shorter, rounder of figure, with red-gold hair bound loosely into a single thick braid and left uncovered because, by her own choice, she was not married. Catherine was not as emotionally composed as Margaret, perhaps because she had never been forced to conceal her feelings. The eyes she raised to Margaret's face held a puzzled expression and her lips were tightly compressed, as if in an effort to hold back the distressed words she yearned to speak.
Margaret saw Catherine shiver when a blast of cold wind tugged at her cloak. Catherine clutched the bright green wool more closely about herself with one hand, while with the other hand she caught and tried to tame a curly lock of hair that had blown loose.
The two women were alone in the castle garden. Considering the damp chill of the early January day and the biting wind, it was not surprising that no one else cared to venture out of the sheltering stone walls of Sutton Castle's great hall. Margaret had barely given Catherine a chance to warm herself after her shivering arrival, or to sip a cup of wine, before leading her friend away from the gentlewoman who accompanied her and into the garden. There, in the cold outdoors, Margaret fervently hoped she and Catherine would not be disturbed while she made her desperate appeal.
Despite her calm outward appearance, Margaret was driven by a sense of urgency and of impending danger. She thought Catherine would likely require some time in which to consider what she was proposing, and Margaret did not have much time left.
“Well, Cat, what do you say? I know I have made a request calculated to test any friendship beyond bearing, but there is no person here at Sutton whom I can trust. Anyone I appeal to for help will only report what I say to my father, or to Eustace. I can see no other way out of my present situation except by the plan I have made. Will you help me?” As she spoke Margaret drew nearer to Catherine. She stopped just an inch or two away, meeting her friend's eyes and awaiting with indrawn breath the response to the scheme she had just revealed.
“It is a serious matter to defy the wishes of your male relatives,” Catherine said, frowning in disapproval. “I would never dream of disobeying my father, or my brother, if he were to return to England.”
“I have never met your father, but I remember Arden well from the days when we all were fostered together at Cliffmore Castle,” Margaret said. The image of handsome, laughing Arden rose in her memory, as if to mock her unhappiness and what she was determined to do. Arden had loved Catherine dearly. Unlike many other young men with sisters who were several years younger, he had never made a secret of his affection or shown any sign of impatience with her. It was Arden who had given her the teasing name of Cat. “I cannot imagine your brother commanding you to do something that he knew in advance would make you miserable for the rest of your life.”
“Arden has been gone from England for so long that I scarcely know what he would do if he were my guardian,” Catherine responded. She began to say something more, but she sneezed instead, a circumstance which gave Margaret a chance to continue her argument.
“I feel certain your brother would listen to your pleas with a kind heart,” Margaret said, keeping her voice low and quiet, mastering by sheer force of will the unruly emotions that threatened to overcome her. “Whereas, my father and brother will not pay attention to a word I say. I am only a woman, after all, chattel to be used as they please to their own political benefit, with no regard for my feelings.” With no regard for her life, either, if their nefarious scheme was allowed to succeed.
“You have always been such a practical person,” Catherine said. “If you will only think upon it, I am certain you will discover that there are very sensible reasons behind the betrot
hal your father has arranged for you.”
“Sensible, practical reasons are not the point here.” Margaret balled her hands into tight fists, unable to hide that outward evidence of her growing inner tension. Her wind-chilled cheeks were numb. She was sure her face was as bleak and pale as the cold winter sky above. Afraid someone would appear in the garden to interrupt her before she could say all she intended, she began to speak more rapidly, keeping to the subject of her planned marriage, not mentioning the other, darker secret. “My father and Eustace have both broken the solemn oaths they swore to me before my first wedding. That is why I no longer feel myself obligated to obey them.”
“Broken an oath?” Catherine spoke the words through chattering teeth. “Whatever do you mean?”
“More than ten years ago, when they insisted I must wed Lord Pendance, I refused to do what they wanted unless they swore to me that, if I should outlive my husband, I would then be free to enter a convent, or that I would at least be given some say in the choice of my second husband, if I decided I wished to marry again. Rather than drag a weeping, unwilling young girl before her bridegroom and the necessary witnesses to the ceremony, my father and Eustace agreed to what I wanted. They swore an oath to me – an oath neither of them intended to keep.”
“I find it impossible to believe that you would ever marry a man and then wish for his death,” Catherine cried, openly disturbed by Margaret's words.
“I did not do so,” Margaret said. “Lord Pendance was sixty-five years old, while I was only fourteen when I wed him. It seemed reasonable to assume that he would die before I did, unless I should die in childbed, and that was a fate I soon discovered was not likely to occur.” Margaret paused, unwilling to continue along her present line of thought. She could barely bring herself to recall Lord Pendance's frantic efforts in their marriage bed, much less speak of them to a maiden like Catherine.
