by Jane Feather
"The bride, incidentally, will be enjoying the favors of another, under her husband's eye," Roland put in, and all except Ariel laughed.
"Cuckolded on his wedding night." Ranulf's mouth was vicious. "An appropriate vengeance. His father dishonored our mother and the house of Ravenspeare. So the house of Ravenspeare will visit dishonor in its turn."
Ariel felt sick. She pushed away Oliver's arm and stood up abruptly. "I have to go to the stables. There's a brood mare in foal." She left the room, the full skirts of her dark green broadcloth riding habit sweeping the ground, the dogs trotting at her heels.
She heard their laughter, malicious, cruel even, behind her, but she didn't think they were laughing at her, only at the humiliation and downfall of an old enemy. She had been brought up to revile the Hawkesmoors. She knew the old stories of blood and vengeance that tied the families. Of how her father, the earl of Ravenspeare, had killed her own mother when he'd found her in the arms of her lover, the earl of Hawkesmoor. She knew of the land disputes, the political differences: that Hawkesmoors were Puritans, regicides, had been at Oliver Cromwell's right hand throughout the Protectorate, enjoying the spoils of power and the land and possessions of the dispossessed royalists. But with the restoration of Charles II, the Ravenspeares had come into their own, their loyalty to the exiled king throughout the lean dark years of Puritanism finally rewarded as the Puritans in their turn became the dispossessed.
She knew all these things, but her brothers were contemplating murder. And she was to be the bait. She was to be the instrument of the Hawkesmoor's humiliation, and the bait for the trap that would kill him.
Outside in the courtyard in the lowering dusk, she looked up at the castle that had been her home since birth. In the failing light it was an ominous, forbidding structure with its battlements and parapets; the arrow slits were narrow black eyes amid the dark ivy.
For nearly twenty years she had watched her brothers at their amusements, amusements that took no account of those whom they used to provide their entertainment. Many nights she had lain abed, trying to close her ears to the sounds from the Great Hall, the screams of the village girls they'd bought for their drunken orgies. She had watched them follow the hunt across fields bearing tender new wheat, crashing through carefully erected fences, trampling the produce of the small cottage gardens that kept impoverished tenants from starvation. She had watched Ranulf, and their father before him, sentence poachers to death for a single rabbit, vagrants to the whipping posts and the stocks. Justice was swift and merciless when it emanated from the lords of Ravenspeare Castle. It had once encompassed murder, so why should she be surprised that they were planning a single killing? A killing amid the bridal feasting, with their sister as the staked goat.
Nausea rose in her throat and she turned and hurried, almost running, through the gate at the side of the courtyard that led into the orderly world of the stables. This was Ariel's home. This was where she was at peace, where she could put the brooding darkness of the castle behind her-here and in the villages and hamlets of the fens where she was always greeted with warmth and the relief and gratitude owed a healer. The only Ravenspeare in a generation to be trusted and welcomed among the tenant farmers and the working poor whose lives were ruled by the house of Ravenspeare.
Her Arabians were stabled in a long low building to the left of the yard. The door was closed to keep the night chill from the delicate, highly bred beasts. She let herself into the warm, dimly lit interior, heavy with the smell of horse flesh, manure, and leather.
"That you, m'lady?" Edgar, with his face of wrinkled mahogany leather, appeared from a stall at the far end.
"Yes, how's she doing?" Ariel hurried up the aisle. The wolfhounds, well trained around the sensitive beasts, remained seated at the stable door.
"Beautifully." He stood aside so that she could enter the stall where the mare labored. "Won't be long now."
Ariel stroked the animal's nose, ran her hand over the distended belly. Then she took off her coat, casting it to the straw at her feet, pushed up the ruffled sleeve of her shirt, lifted the mare's tail, and drove her arm deep inside. "I can feel him, Edgar."
"Aye. Another ten minutes."
Ariel withdrew her arm, matter-of-factly washed it clean with water from a bucket, and rolled down her sleeve. "We could do with another stallion."
"Aye, but we'll take what God gives us," Edgar said.
"It's rumored that the queen is going to establish a royal racecourse at Ascot," Ariel mused. "If that happens, we'll be one of the few stables breeding racehorses."
"Aye," Edgar agreed stolidly. "Set your own price, I reckon."
Ariel nodded. If she could make money out of her racehorses, she could be independent of Ranulf's rule. She could leave Ravenspeare, set up her own stud, be a person in her own right. She knew it was an extraordinary idea-that a woman should support herself with her own efforts and skill-an idea so far-fetched as to be almost unbelievable. But she believed she could do it. However, she had to keep her breeding program a secret until she had sufficient funds to make her move. If her brothers once suspected there was money to be made from what they merely considered to be a harmless if time-wasting amusement of their sister's, then not only would she never be free of Ravenspeare Castle, but she'd find herself working to fund her brothers' expensive lifestyles.
And marriage? No, that was not a possibility and never would be. Men were all the same when it came to their women. She would be as firmly dominated by a husband as she was by her brothers. This prospective marriage to a Hawkesmoor was a joke, an evil joke of Ranulf's. She would just close her eyes, play her part, and wait until their lethal game was played out. What did she care about a Hawkesmoor? One fewer in the world could only be a good thing.
She settled down on the straw to wait for the mare to deliver the foal. Leaning back against the wooden partition, she listened to the snorting and whiffling behind it of the stallion who had sired the foal about to be born. Edgar didn't disturb her, merely leaned against the stable door, sucking on a straw. He was almost as fiercely devoted to the Arabians as he was to the Lady Ariel, and he could tell that something was troubling her.
What kind of man was this soon-to-be-dead Hawkesmoor? Ariel gave up trying to pretend that if she ignored the whole extraordinary business, it would wash over her without leaving a trace. Presumably he was a sobersided Puritan who considered laughter to be the devil's tool and enjoyment of any kind to be the embodiment of evil. A greedy man, obviously, if he was prepared to marry into the family whose very name was anathema to his own, just to acquire a disputed piece of land. But Puritans were greedy. They amassed wealth but considered spending it to be a sin. He would be a dour, ill-disposed, glowering man, who would demand absolute obedience from his wife in a somber household where they attended church twice on Sundays and listened to four-hour sermons.
Except that she would not really be his wife. She would not leave Ravenspeare Castle; therefore, she would never come under her husband's dominion. Because her husband would not survive the wedding party.
Ariel stared unseeing at a knot in the wooden partition opposite. She couldn't grasp it properly. It was outlandish. It was impossible. And yet it was neither of those things for those who knew the Ravenspeare brothers.
The mare suddenly whinnied and snorted, and a gush of water poured from her, followed almost immediately by the transparent caul-covered body of a foal. It slipped out easily and fell to the floor. The mare bent and licked it clean.
Ariel and Edgar watched in breathless wonder. It was always miraculous, however many births they witnessed. The foal staggered to its feet, its incredibly thin long legs shaking as they took its weight.
"Looks like you got your wish, m'lady," Edgar observed, as the colt found his mother's teat.
"Yes. Another stallion." Ariel stroked the mare, who was gazing with her head down at her suckling foal. "And Serenissima didn't need any help." Easy births were unusual, but horses generall
y needed less help than humans. There were few birthings that took place in the hamlets around Ravenspeare Castle at which she was not present with her bag of shiny instruments and her pouches of herbs.
"I had better get back." She picked up her coat from the straw, slung it around her shoulders, and went out with the dogs into the now full dark of the October evening.
When was this deadly charade to begin? She could see no way to avoid playing her part, not as long as she remained under Ranulf's roof. And where else was she to go? She had no money of her own as yet. Oliver wouldn't help her; he was in her brother's camp. He was her lover with Ranulf's approval and encouragement; in fact she sometimes suspected that what she had originally thought had been an overwhelming mutual attraction had actually been engineered by her eldest brother. For what reason, she couldn't guess. Maybe it was a reward for friendship, she thought now, as she reentered the castle. If Ranulf could use his sister as bait for vengeance, he could certainly use her as a gift for his friend.
She felt despoiled for the first time in her relationship with Oliver. What had been fun, exciting, and wonderfully sensual now became tawdry and sordid. She had known Oliver did not really care for her, and she had never let on that sometimes she thought she loved him. Such an admission could only hurt her. Women who loved rakes were destined for heartbreak. But her warm feelings for him had provided a luster, a purity almost, to their joyous nights. Now she could see only a squalid manipulation.
"Ariel, a word with you." Ranulf was coming down the great stone staircase as she closed the front door behind her, shutting out the night. He had several packages in his arms.
"I've been in the stables; I'd like to wash before supper," she demurred.
"You can do that later. I need to talk to you."
She shrugged and followed him back into the small paneled parlor where Ralph, Roland, and Oliver were still comfortably drinking before the fire.
"The queen, my dear, has honored you with a wedding gift." Ranulf set the parcels down on the table. "You must be sure to write and thank her." Sarcasm laced his words as he untied the string of the largest package and lifted out a mass of rippling silver cloth. "A wedding gown, I believe." He shook it out, holding it up against himself with a comical grin. "Impeccable taste, Her Majesty has."
The gown was certainly rich, but as Ariel looked closely she saw a stain on the sleeve ruffles as if they had been dragged through a plate of gravy. "I wonder who was married in it first," she observed, pointing out the stain. "I trust you will furnish me with bride clothes that haven't come out of someone else's wardrobe, brother." She turned in disgust from the stained gown.
Ranulf tossed it onto a chair, remarking carelessly, "Her Majesty is renowned for her frugality, but your maid may be able to do something with it."
"I'll not stand at the altar in someone else's castoffs," Ariel declared, unconsciously squaring her shoulders. "I may have to go through with this travesty, but I'll not be insulted further."
To her annoyance, her voice shook, but Ranulf was in great good humor and merely laughed, saying, "No… no, of course you shan't. No Ravenspeare ever went to the altar in borrowed plumage." He drew a leather purse from his pocket and tossed it onto the table, where it fell with a heavy chink. "There's gold, little sister. You may trick yourself out as you please." He picked up a second package. "This, too, is Her Majesty's gift. Is it worth opening, d'you think?"
"I doubt it," Roland said, holding out his hand. "But let's see anyway." Ranulf tossed the flat parcel to him.
Ariel wondered if she would ever be permitted to open her own gifts. Not that it mattered particularly. She looked at the string of topaz that her brother now held up. "Pretty enough bauble."
"Aye, but they're not the best stones," Oliver said, taking the necklace and examining it in the candlelight. "Badly flawed, some of 'em."
"I trust not an omen for your marriage, my dear." Ranulf laughed at his own sally. He took up the third, much smaller package. "But you'll find no fault with this. A gift from me because you're such a good and obedient sister." He pinched her cheek carelessly and dropped the package into her upturned hand.
Ariel unwrapped the tissue. Her eyes widened. She lifted out a gold, pearl-encrusted charm bracelet shaped like a serpent, with a pearl apple in its mouth. The gold was most intricately worked, the design unlike anything she had seen before. She fingered the only charm it carried, a perfectly carved emerald swan. She opened her mouth to exclaim at its loveliness, but the words remained unspoken. Because it wasn't lovely. It was beautiful, certainly. Intriguing, certainly. But she felt there was something amiss with it, and she couldn't for the life of her see where, what, or why. "Where did it come from, Ranulf?"
His eyes shifted and caught Roland's gaze, then he said, "Call it a family heirloom. If you open the little box, you will find something else."
She opened a small box. "Oh, it's another charm." She lifted out an exquisite silver rosebud; deep in its center glowed a ruby, the rich red reflected in the furled silver petals. This time her response was without reservation.
"How beautiful. It's perfect." She looked up at her brother, puzzled. Ranulf had never given her a present before, except the usual birthday and Christmas trinkets. It occurred to her that he was buying her cooperation, but why would he need to? He had only to command it and he knew that while she remained under his roof she would have no choice.
But perhaps he was afraid she might make things difficult for him. She might be forced to obey his commands, but there were covert ways in which she could sabotage his designs, or at least create difficulties.
"My wedding gift, little sister." He pinched her cheek again in a clumsy gesture intended to denote affection. But Ariel wasn't fooled. "You will play your part in Ravenspeare vengeance, and when the work is done, then you shall have another charm for the bracelet."
Dear God, he was bribing her! Was he afraid that she might slip from his control? That marriage to the earl of Hawkesmoor, even a mock marriage, might somehow affect the balance of power and control? It was a fascinating idea.
"I shall endeavor to earn it, brother," she said demurely and saw his eyes flash with anger at her clear insolence. The dogs shifted against her skirts and Remus growled low in his throat.
"Take those beasts out of here," Ranulf ordered. "And you'd best keep them away from me, little sister, if you expect them to live a long and happy life." He took up his goblet and drained its contents, his gray eyes hard as granite yet filled with malevolence as he stared at her fixedly.
Ariel was not about to push her luck further. She curtsied with every appearance of humility and left the room, the dogs pressed to her skirts.
The men wouldn't give her a second thought if they didn't see her again this evening. Ranulf had had his fun for the time being, and they would settle into their usual companionable stupors after another bottle or two.
But there was no way Ariel could keep this disastrous turn of events to herself. She hastened back to the stable-yard, the dogs still trotting beside her. She hailed a groom crossing the yard. "Josh, saddle the roan. I'm going to visit Mistress Sarah and Miss Jenny."
The man touched his forelock. "You need me to come wi' you, m'lady?"
Ariel considered. In daylight she wouldn't risk incurring Ranulf's wrath by going out unaccompanied, but he'd not want her again tonight, and once the drink took hold it would be out of sight, out of mind. And the last thing she needed was a groom kicking his heels in Sarah and Jenny's small cottage while she was spilling her news. And she could hardly expect him to sit outside for however long the visit lasted.
"No," she said. "I'll go alone."
It was a relatively bright night; scudding clouds dimmed the moon now and again, but the stars shone clear over the North Sea across the flat fens to the east. Just before she reached the village that skirted the grounds of Ravenspeare Castle, she turned the roan down a marshy track that led to a narrow drainage cut taking surplus water from the Gre
at Ouse back to the Wash and out to the North Sea.
Her destination, a small reed-thatched cottage, stood on a hillock above the dike. It was a lonely spot. But a lantern glowed in the window, and as Ariel dismounted and unlatched the garden gate, the cottage door opened.
"Is it you, Ariel?" Blind Jenny rarely failed to identify visitors before they announced themselves.
"Yes. I'm in need of cheer and advice," Ariel responded. On reaching the woman, she kissed her cheek. "I'll put Diana in the lean-to and then I'll be in. Don't stand out here in the cold."
Jenny smiled, returned the kiss, and went back into the cottage's one room. "Ariel's here, Mother. Something's worrying her."
The woman bending over a cauldron on the range straightened. Her eyes were sharply assessing but her tongue had been locked for close on thirty years, so her thoughts remained unspoken. The door opened again and Ariel came in, the hounds still at her heels. They went immediately to a corner on the far side of the fireplace and lay down, resting their heads on their forepaws.
"Good evening, Sarah." Ariel bent to kiss the woman's faded cheek. One could see that Sarah had once been a very beautiful woman. Her features were regular, her face a perfect oval, her body tall and slender. But the eyes were haunted, the face deeply etched with the lines of endurance, the long hands chapped and rough, the once glossy black hair snow white, the supple slimness of youth reduced to gaunt thinness. But a gentleness radiated from her, and a certain strength belied by her air of frailty.
Sarah reached up and stroked Ariel's cheek, then she gestured to the chair by the fire and returned to the cauldron.
