by Speer, Flora
“There's no sense of shame where a good marriage contract is concerned,” Phelan responded.
“No one who knows Margaret will believe your accusations, Lord Phelan,” Isabel said. Leaving the shelter of Tristan's arms, she went to take Margaret's hand and stand with her. Catherine was already at Margaret's side, holding her other hand, and Aldis stood with her fingers on Margaret's shoulder.
“Look at them, how they cling together,” Phelan said, his voice filled with contempt. “Mark my words, gentlemen; women are not to be trusted.
“Well, it's settled, then,” Phelan went on, dismissing the ladies from consideration. It was clear to everyone in the great hall that, in Phelan's opinion, they were nothing more than troublesome chattel. “Lord Royce, we'll soon be relatives. We'd best discuss the terms of the marriage contract at once.”
Margaret had seen the avaricious gleam growing in Phelan's eyes ever since Eustace first voiced his scurrilous insinuation. She knew her father was going to take full advantage of the occasion, and she was familiar enough with his character to know he would never stop with a marriage contract. For the rest of his life Phelan would press Royce as far as possible, wanting power and wealth and influence at court and believing Royce could get it for him.
Royce was an honorable man, and the father of Margaret's best friend, the same friend who had risked much in order to help Margaret. She could not stand by in silence and allow a marital connection to be arranged, knowing it would result in constant harassment of Royce by Phelan, and that Phelan would probably find a way to make Catherine and Aldis pay for what they had done.
Nor was Margaret going to allow Arden to be forced into a marriage he plainly did not want. She was not surprised by her father's behavior, or Eustace's, either, but she was outraged and deeply offended. She was the only weapon her male relatives held against Arden and Royce. She would not let them wield that weapon.
“There will be no marriage,” Margaret said.
“You will do as I command you,” Phelan told her.
“Not in this case.”
It was going to break her heart. She was standing close enough to Arden to touch him if she dared to put out her hand. His warmth and his strength tempted her to do so. He gave her a quick look and she detected surprise and, she thought, gratitude in his eyes.
She loved him with all the hopes and dreams and feminine longings that she had been forced to put away deep in her heart while she was barely more than a child who was commanded by her father to marry an old man. Arden was the only man she would ever love. She doubted if any woman was capable of plumbing the dark, mysterious depths of his soul, and she feared he would never be able to open his heart to love. Yet she would never stop loving him.
Her father could beat her, starve her, drag her back to Sutton and force her to marry some other decrepit elder, or kill her for her disobedience, and she would still love Arden. She could lie night after night in another man's bed, bear another man's children, be subject to her father's choice of her husband for the rest of her life, and on the day she died, she would still love Arden.
Margaret had never suspected that she, ever practical and sensible, was capable of so great a love, yet in the instant after her father's declaration about a marriage contract she saw very clearly that she had loved Arden ever since she was a little girl. Perhaps she had simply been unwilling to admit to herself the full extent of her love until the present moment, when Arden's future lay in her hands.
With deep gratitude for the grace Heaven had bestowed upon her, though she was going to have to give it up almost as soon as she recognized it, Margaret acknowledged that it was she, and not Catherine, who had nurtured an everlasting flame within her bosom. Catherine was able to relinquish her devotion to Tristan once she understood that what she felt for him was not true love. But Margaret's love for Arden was so complete, so much a part of all she was, that it could never die. Joy at the gift of love surged through her, giving her the strength to set Arden free.
“I will not marry Arden,” Margaret told her father with perfect calmness, “though you burn me at the stake for disobeying you.”
Chapter 17
“Burn you?” Phelan said, laughing at Margaret, mocking her heartfelt words. “Why should I bother, when you will surely burn in Hell for defying your father?”
“It makes no difference whether Margaret defies you, or not,” Arden said to Phelan. “I cannot marry.”
“Why not?” Phelan demanded. He narrowed his eyes as if considering every possible reason for Arden's blunt statement. Margaret's refusal to marry Arden he had already openly dismissed as undeserving of further comment. The objections of a mere female meant nothing. Arden's refusal had to be taken more seriously. “Are you wed already?” Phelan asked him.
“No,” Arden said, and repeated very carefully, “I cannot marry.”
“Have you taken an oath of celibacy?” Phelan persisted. “If you have, and if you've joined a religious order, then you are in serious trouble with the Church for what you've done to my girl, here. Certainly, I will expect reparations from you, and an income for the child. Perhaps a piece of land, made over to me till the babe is grown, and then a second bit of property to sweeten Margaret's dowry, so I can convince someone else to take her off my hands as soon as she is delivered of the brat she's carrying.” He paused, once again considering various possibilities, one hand stroking the dark stubble on his chin.
“I keep telling you,” Arden said through gritted teeth as he struggled to hold on to the last shreds of his temper, “I have not done the deed you accuse me of. There will be no child. God forbid!”
“Well, then,” said Eustace, snickering at Arden's words, “if you spent all that time alone here with Margaret and you didn't get her with child, it must be because you're not a real man.”
Arden looked from Margaret, with her pale, frightened face, to Lord Phelan, determined to have his way now that he was scenting the real possibility of social advancement and profit, to the smug-faced Eustace, who was nodding in delighted assurance that what he had just suggested was true.
A red mist formed before Arden's eyes and a fury rose in him such as he had not known for years. In the next instant he lost all control over his actions, though he remained aware that his teeth were bared like those of an animal about to attack, his hands were outstretched, and his fingers were curved to dig into his enemy's throat and choke the life out of him. With a howl of rage Arden launched himself at Eustace, wanting only to see the fool dead at his feet.
“Arden, no!” Margaret shrieked. Breaking away from the restraining hands of the other women, she flung herself at Arden's back. She caught one of his arms and clung to it with all of her strength while she attempted to pull him away from her brother. “Eustace isn't worth it. Don't destroy yourself for him.”
Royce's hand came down on Arden's other shoulder, the fingers gripping hard.
“Let him go,” Royce said. “Margaret is right; he isn't worth the trouble his death would cause you.”
Together, Margaret and Royce held on to Arden until he had mastered his anger and released Eustace from his deadly grip.
“I will do no further harm to Eustace,” Arden said in a harsh voice. Deliberately, he made himself relax and Margaret and Royce stepped back from him.
“Get out of my sight,” Arden growled at Eustace. In spite of his reddened neck Eustace went unrepentant and smirking to stand behind his father.
“Arden,” Royce said, laying a gentler hand on his son's shoulder now that the danger was past, “will you listen to what I have to say?”
“I will listen.” Arden stood between Margaret and his father, holding himself erect and perfectly still, praying he wouldn't loose control again, and recalling with horror what had happened the last time such a furious rage had come upon him. As for what Margaret must think of him for very nearly killing her brother, it could be no worse than what Arden thought of himself. And then he wondered why it was Margare
t's opinion that so concerned him, and only secondarily his father's. “Say what you wish, my lord,” Arden said to Royce.
“These two men are vicious,” Royce said in a low voice. Indicating Lord Phelan and Eustace with a quick wave of one hand, he went on, “Their treacherous characters are a large part of the reason why Lord Adhemar broke off his arrangement with Phelan to marry Margaret, and went home instead. Adhemar told me he wanted nothing more to do with Phelan and his crude whelp. Now Phelan has seized upon the chance of making what he imagines will be an alliance more to his advantage than the first one with Adhemar. Lady Margaret, forgive me for speaking so bluntly about your relatives, but it's the truth as I see it.”
“There's naught to forgive,” Margaret responded. “I regret to say that I see the same truth.”
“I also perceive some feeling between you and Arden,” Royce said to her. “At the very least, there is liking and respect.”
“That is also true,” Margaret said, looking Royce right in the eyes, trusting him completely, though she scarcely knew him.
“You seem to me to be a sensible woman,” Royce said. “Is it possible that, under the right circumstances, you would be willing to give up your plan to enter a convent?”
“Such a decision would depend upon the circumstances.” Margaret's cautious response elicited a faint smile from Royce and brought her a surprised look from Arden, as if he could not believe after her impassioned declaration that she would not marry him, she could be convinced to change her mind.
“Arden,” Royce said, “I think you ought to do as Phelan wants, and wed this admirable lady.”
“I cannot wed.” Arden repeated the words he had spoken twice before. His face and voice were both hard, as if he were made of stone. It was how his heart felt, rock-hard in his chest and cold as ice. He could not explain his refusal, not in the great hall with Phelan and his son watching and listening to everything that transpired. Not even to ease the forlorn look in Margaret's eyes could he tell his father what the real reasons were. Later, Royce would know all, and refuse to see or speak to his son, ever again. Margaret, too, would turn from him in appalled disgust. Arden was shaken by how painful the realization was that now there were two souls whose reactions mattered so much to him.
“Arden, are you already married?” Royce asked in a sympathetic tone far different from Phelan's rantings.
“No, Father, I am not,” Arden answered.
“Have you taken an oath of celibacy?” Royce asked.
“No,” Arden said, feeling as if a rope were being drawn ever tighter about his neck.
“And you have not joined a religious order?” Royce persisted with a kindly-meant determination that nearly destroyed Arden.
“No.” It was all Arden could do to get the single syllable past his lips.
“None of the obstructions that Lord Phelan has suggested exist?” Royce asked.
“No.” Arden thought he would choke to death. He longed to stalk out of the great hall before anything more terrible happened than had already occurred. He tried to move, only to discover he was incapable of taking a single step. He was doomed to remain where he was, accepting his father's gentle interrogation, aching for the pain he was causing Margaret, and helpless to stop the steady march of events toward a conclusion he could not prevent.
“In that case,” Royce said, “I can see no reason why you cannot marry Margaret. In fact, you are honor-bound to do so, and as soon as possible.”
Arden tried to speak, to interrupt the flow of his father's words, and found he could not.
“I have a priest in the company that came with me from Wortham,” Royce said. “We can discuss the marriage contract this afternoon and agree with Phelan upon the terms. Father Aymon can write out the necessary copies tonight, and we'll have the wedding tomorrow morning. There is a piece of land near Sutton that I hold in fief directly from the king. It is a drain on me because it's so far from Wortham and there's no suitable residence built on it. It is fertile land; I am sure Phelan would like to have it, and Henry will understand when I explain to him why I have transferred it. Let me use the property to buy Margaret's freedom from her oppressive father. Arden, what say you to these suggestions?”
“You do not understand.” Arden could only croak the words past the dryness of his throat. The familiar cold withdrawal enveloped him, reaching ever deeper into his heart, allowing him to show no gratitude, either for his father's generosity, or for Royce's concern for Margaret's welfare. Arden could see no point in continuing a pointless discussion. “Father, before this goes any further, we must talk in private. There are things I have to tell you that will make a serious difference in the way you regard—”
“Well?” Phelan approached, interrupting them. “Is this private conference over? Shall I take my disobedient daughter home and let her give birth to her bastard brat there at Sutton?”
“There is no bastard!” Arden shouted at him.
“I'll have the raising of it,” Phelan said, unmoved by Arden's outburst. “Eustace can stand as godfather to the little bastard.”
“The man is mad!” Arden said to his father.
“Marry Margaret,” Royce told him.
“Not until I talk to you in private,” Arden said in rising desperation.
“We will talk later, after our guests have left, which, I promise you, will be as soon after the wedding as possible,” Royce said.
“Decide now,” Phelan insisted, confronting Arden with a nasty look and an air of triumphant determination. Obviously, he was certain he was going to get what he wanted. “Right now. You agree to marry Margaret, or I'll take her back to Sutton this very afternoon. When I have her to myself, I can promise you, she'll pay for what she's done. And then I'll return with all my fighting men and make you pay, too, my noble Lord Arden.”
“There is no need for us to go to war over this,” Royce said in a tone meant to calm the irate father.
“I think there is,” Phelan responded, unwilling to be calmed. “Barons have fought for less cause than the despoliation of a reckless daughter. Furthermore, I know of half a dozen other noblemen who will agree to back me up with men-at-arms and supplies, beginning with Margaret's stepson, Geoffrey of Pendance, who will most certainly feel the slight upon his late father's honor. Aye, there will be blood shed, both here and at Wortham, before I am satisfied that I have taken adequate restitution for this shameful escapade.”
Arden rubbed his hands across his face, wishing he could wave Phelan and his son away like the gnats that had swarmed around his head when he was in the desert, constantly buzzing in his ears, biting and raising painful welts. He did not want to be the cause of his father going to war, though he did not doubt that Royce would win any battle against Phelan.
Bloody warfare seemed unimportant in the face of a far more serious issue. Arden looked at Margaret, the only person in his immediate vicinity who remained quiet. He was certain her refusal to marry him was a decision made for his sake, because she recognized the emptiness that lay inside him. He saw Margaret's gentleness, and the fear of her father that she tried so hard to hide. And he saw the red mark of Phelan's hand against her cheek and knew he could not turn her over to the brutish punishments her father and brother would inflict on her.
He could give Margaret his protection, if he could give her nothing else. As her husband, he would become her legal guardian. After the formal marriage agreement was made and her male kin were gone from Bowen, he and Margaret could make their own private agreement.
“Speak to me and not to your father, or mine,” he said to her, taking her hand. “Is there any circumstance under which you would be willing to marry me?”
“I will wed you only if you truly wish it, my lord,” she said in a low voice.
“I wish it,” Arden said, and prayed that Margaret would not regret her trust in him.
“Good,” said Phelan, restored in humor now that he had his way. “I thought you'd see the sense of this. Let's arrang
e the terms at once.” He put out a hand to clasp Royce on the shoulder.
“I'll call Father Aymon to assist us,” Royce said. Evading Phelan's congratulatory touch he headed for the fireplace, where the priest was warming his hands while pretending not to hear the quarrel that had been going on behind his back.
Phelan did not appear to notice the slight. He seized Eustace by the arm and began to talk with great excitement about the profit he intended to force from Royce and Arden through the terms of the marriage contract. Phelan did not even trouble to lower his voice.
“Margaret?” Arden still held her hand. “Are you content?”
“Thank you for rescuing me, my lord,” she said. “Despite your claim of wishing to marry me, I believe you only offered for me in order to prevent a serious conflict between our families. I understand and agree with your reasoning and I promise, I will try my best to see that you do not regret your kindness, for it was never my intention to entrap you in this way. I truly did mean to enter a convent.”
Margaret's voice trailed off into silence and Arden was left uncertain as to whether or not she regretted the abrupt alteration in the course of her life.
“I'll keep you safe, Margaret,” he said, knowing this one promise was all he had to give her. “Neither Phelan nor Eustace will ever strike you again.” Later, when he found a few uninterrupted moments, he would speak to her more privately and explain the kind of marriage theirs must be. He would, indeed, keep her safe from her brutal male relatives. He would also keep her safe from him.
“If you will excuse me, my lord,” Margaret said, smiling shyly at him, “I think I ought to confer with Catherine and Isabel over what is available for me to wear for the ceremony. Since I only have one dress, I expect I'll have to borrow something from Isabel, who is most generous, and we will have to alter it to make it fit.”
“Of course.” He released her hand. “My father and I have important terms to discuss with your father.” He let her go, watching her slender shape as she moved across the hall, and he grieved for the loving husband she deserved, that he could not be to her, and for the children she undoubtedly wanted, that he could never give her. When Royce came to him and said it was time to sit down and talk about the marriage contract, Arden told himself again that he was doing what was best for Margaret. And then he made himself think of practical matters, rather than the remembered, fragrant softness of her skin, or her eager tenderness when she lay in his bed.
