by Speer, Flora
“Are you ready?” Catherine asked. She came into the solar while drawing on her gloves. Wrapped in her cloak and with a shawl pulled over her head, she was dressed for the out-of-doors. “Margaret, where is your cloak?”
“I'll get it.” Margaret headed for her own room. She spoke again, over her shoulder. “Aldis, are you coming with us?”
“I've already been outside once today,” Aldis responded with a mock shiver. “I stuck my nose out the kitchen door earlier this morning and I thought I'd freeze before I was inside again. I would much prefer to spend an hour in the laundry, where it's nice and warm, and there I'll oversee the maid who is to wash our shifts and stockings.”
“Oh, by all means, stay as warm as you can,” said Catherine with a chuckle.
After their time together, Aldis's dislike for cold weather was as well-known to Margaret as was her skill at finding excuses to remain indoors near a fire. Returning to the solar with cloak in hand in time to hear Aldis's offer to supervise the personal laundry, Margaret laughed along with Catherine. The laughter died on her lips at the sound of male footsteps coming up the stairs from the great hall. Arden appeared, clad in a dark gray woolen tunic and with a faintly annoyed expression on his handsome features. At the sight of him Margaret's heart began to beat faster.
“Arden, you haven't forgotten your promise to assist us on the slippery walks, have you?” Catherine asked him.
“Certainly not,” Arden said, but he wasn't looking at his sister. He was staring at Margaret as if he was uncertain exactly who, or what, she was. With a quick little shake of his head he took Margaret's cloak from her hands and laid it around her shoulders. His fingers rested on the dark blue wool for just an instant, holding the cloth in place while Margaret fastened the cords at her throat. By turning her head a little she had a glimpse of his firm jaw and of his mouth drawn into a hard line. Then his hands were gone from her shoulders and he was speaking to Catherine again.
“Come along,” he said, gesturing toward the steps, “though I doubt if you will care to walk abroad for more than a short time, despite the sun. The day is unusually cold.”
Down from the solar and into the great hall they went, through the wide arch into the entry hall and out by the main door and down the steep, snow-packed outside steps. The courtyard was almost completely cleared of snow. A long, broad space just outside the palisade gate was shoveled, too, and there the stableboys and squires were walking some of the horses, while a few men-at-arms rode their mounts from end to end of the cleared area.
“Oh, let's watch,” Catherine exclaimed. She started off toward the gate, with Margaret and Arden following. Margaret was hurrying a bit too fast. Her foot slipped on a patch of ice. Instantly, Arden's hand was at her elbow, to steady her. She looked into his eyes and saw there only concern for her.
“Be careful,” he said.
“I will,” she responded.
It was a simple exchange of words, almost meaningless in its ordinary politeness. Yet Margaret, with her gaze still held by Arden's clear blue eyes, discerned something far beyond that single moment. It was as if Arden was meant to be there, beside her with his hand on her arm, as if that was his proper place. As if it were her proper place in the world, too.
“How beautiful it is!” Catherine cried, reaching the palisade gate. “Margaret, Arden, come and see the snow.”
Arden removed his gaze from Margaret's eyes and his hand from her arm. They walked side by side but not touching to where Catherine stood looking around in delight.
Beyond the cleared area just outside the gate the snow lay in an unbroken blanket of glittering white that continued into the forest, vanquishing all hard edges beneath a series of sweeping, graceful drifts that flowed softly against trees and rocks. The leafless trees murmured and shook in the wind, the coating of ice on their branches adding to the glittering effect wherever the sun shone upon it. Nearer to the manor, snowdrifts several feet high were blown against the palisade. Overhead, the sky arched in unbroken blue, a perfect pavilion.
Among the folk of Bowen Manor there was a sense of merriment, of release from the confinement and forced inaction of the last few days, and this feeling of freedom, added to the sight of the horses being exercised up and down the shoveled space, resulted in an atmosphere similar to that of a tournament. Clutching her cloak tighter against the brisk wind, Margaret surveyed the scene and decided it needed only a few banners and, perhaps, benches for the ladies and a herald to announce each event.
“Arden, is that huge black creature yours? I haven’t seen it before today,” Catherine said. She pointed to the far end of the cleared area, where Arden's squire, Michael, was struggling with a rambunctious stallion. “The beast looks as if he needs a long, tiring run.”
The stallion was pulling at its bridle, unwilling to take direction from the squire. Even as they watched Michael slipped on the snow and fell to his knees, and the horse broke loose. Freed of all restraint, the steed came charging along the cleared space, men and horses scattering out of its way. Again Margaret was reminded of a tournament, save that there was no rider with a lance on the horse's back and no opponent riding to meet him from the other end of the list.
Leaving the women safe in the shelter of the gate, Arden began to run toward his horse. There wasn't anywhere for it to go. The snow was simply too deep for it to get away. Having reached the end of the shoveled area the stallion reared up, neighing, and plunged its forelegs into a high pile of snow. As if shocked by the coldness of the snow, the horse stopped abruptly, tossing its head.
By then Arden had reached it. Without missing a step on the slippery packed snow, he vaulted to the horse's bare back and caught the bridle. Again the stallion reared high, chunks of snow spattering from its forelegs. Seeming completely unfazed by the danger he was in, Arden leaned over the horse's neck, stroking it and speaking to it. The horse settled down at once and stood trembling. Slowly, Arden coaxed it out of the snow bank and turned it around.
With the stallion still tossing its head and snorting steaming breath in the cold air, Arden rode to where Margaret and Catherine were standing and brought his mount to a halt before them. To Margaret's surprise the horse stood quietly, as if awaiting Arden's next command.
“My lord, I am sorry.” Michael came limping to join the group by the gate. “I slipped on a patch of ice.”
“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?”
