The Silver Rose

Chapter Four

The wedding feast in the Great Hall was an affair of unbridled merriment much in keeping with the medieval structure of the castle and the vaulted, cavernous hall where logs the size of tree trunks burned in the deep fireplaces at either end and myriad candles threw complex shadows up to the rafters.

Those guests the Ravenspeare brothers had bidden to celebrate their sister's nuptials were not known for their decorum. Both male and female, they were young and unrestrained for the most part, come to enjoy a month of feasting, sport, and revelry. Ranulf had deliberately decided to exclude from these celebrations any courtier or politically influential member of society. Deep in the Fenland wilderness, it was a private affair, one that would not be marked in the court's social calendar.

Nor had any relatives been invited. The brothers had no truck with other members of the family. After Margaret Ravenspeare's violent and apparently mysterious death, her mother had offered to take the infant Ariel, but Lord Ravenspeare had brusquely declined, and when the same offer was made in the early days after Ravenspeare's own death, Ranulf had responded as curdy. As a result, Ariel had grown up free of all influence but that of her brothers.

Bearing laden salvers of meat, baskets of bread, and platters of oysters and smoked eels, servants dipped and dodged around the long rectangle formed by the tables lined with wedding guests. In the gallery, musicians, as well plied with wine as the guests below, played country tunes with uninhibited gusto, while the silver decanters of wine, the jugs of ale, the bottles of cognac circled as if bottomless.

At the top table, Ariel sat beside her husband, acknowledging the toasts, the increasingly ribald jests, the jocular good wishes of her brothers' friends with a smile that betrayed none of her true feelings. She had been exposed to this kind of company since earliest childhood. It had never occurred to her brothers to modify their behavior in her presence or to expect their friends to do so, and she no longer even heard the off-color remarks, the tasteless jokes. She was aware only of Oliver, sitting beside Ranulf, drinking deeply, his thin lips curved in his unsettling smile, the arch of his eyebrows exaggerated as his eyes became more unfocused. His eyes were unfocused but his gaze never wavered from the bride's face, and Ariel began to feel like an insect displayed in a case before the all-knowing scrutiny of a collector.

Beside her the earl of Hawkesmoor appeared to take the drunken revelry in his stride. He drank well himself, Ariel noticed, but without apparent ill effect. His cheeks weren't flushed, the scar on his face didn't become more livid, and his sea blue eyes were as clear as ever. He spoke to her occasionally in his melodious voice, mere pleasantries whose response required no effort on her part, but in general he confined his attention to his own friends, ranged around the top table.

The Hawkesmoor and his cadre, in their dark clothes, in their air of controlled containment, stood out among the increasingly disorderly throng. Faces grew flushed, collars were loosened, erect postures yielded to slovenly slouching over the board, but Simon and his ten companions only seemed to sit more erect, to become more noticeably sober with each refilled goblet.

"Damme, Hawkesmoor, but if you aren't as much of a sobersides as Cromwell himself!" Ralph leaned forward to poke Simon's sleeve with a greasy finger, his gray eyes slitted with drink and malice and stupidity. "The devil take the king-killing bastard and all his men." He laughed heartily, flinging himself back in his chair. "A toast! I propose a toast. Death to the Puritan. Hellfire to the regicide!" He raised his goblet, his hand shaking so violently that ruby drops spilled upon the white cloth.

A silence fell over those who could hear Ralph above the noise. All eyes rested on Simon Hawkesmoor and his friends. Oliver Becket drew his goblet closer to his mouth as if ready to drink the toast. His eyes met Ariel's with a mocking glitter.

Ranulf leaned over and punched his young brother on the shoulder. It was no light blow and Ralph swayed in his chair, spilling yet more wine. "Unmannerly churl," Ranulf snarled. "This is a wedding, we want no long-past politics here."

Ralph flushed darkly, half pushed back his chair, preparing to strike out at his brother, but Ranulf's eyes held his and finally with a mutter he subsided, reaching for the decanter to refill his goblet.

The conversation, such as it was, picked up again. Oliver smiled to himself, whispered something to Ranulf, and the two laughed heartily, and it was clear to Ariel that their laughter was directed at the Hawkesmoor, who it seemed hadn't moved a muscle throughout the incident.

"Aye, it's a wedding!" Roland declared. He was the most sober of the three brothers. "And time for the groom to take his bride on the floor."

A roar of approval went up at this and the strains of Sir Roger de Coverley came from the musician's gallery in invitation. Ariel looked expectantly at her bridegroom.

Simon smiled at her, but it was a small, self-deprecating smile that took her aback. This new husband of hers, for all his ugliness, was an overwhelmingly powerful presence. Such a look of uncertainty sat uneasily on the brow of a man who seemed utterly in control of himself and his surroundings. He spoke softly.

"Forgive me, Ariel, but I make a poor dancer these days. You'll not want to hobble around the floor keeping time with a cripple."

Ariel felt the color rushing into her face. She heard the sniggers around the table, the rustle of whispers as folk asked what had been said, felt rather than heard the titters of false sympathy as they were told.

"I am not overly fond of dancing myself, sir," she said, glaring around the table. "I am as like to tread upon your toes as you are upon mine."

"That may be so," Simon responded, his smile now warm. Her swift championship surprised him. "Nevertheless, one of us must dance at our wedding. I dare swear Lord Chauncey will stand up in my stead." Laughing, he indicated one of his companions. "Jack is as nimble footed as any maid could desire, my dear, and I can safely promise there will be no missteps."

"If Lady Hawkesmoor would do me the honor." Lord Chauncey rose, bowing, extending his hand. "I shall be delighted to take the groom's place on the floor."

"And in his bed, too, I'll be bound," guffawed a young man, spraying the table with crumbs from the venison pasty in his mouth.

Oliver Becket gave a sharp crack of laughter. "Such unseemly talk, Hollingsworth! A man may be a cripple on two legs, but it doesn't have to follow that he's as doltish when horizontal."

Loud laughter bounced off the rafters. Simon smiled faintly but made no comment. Hot words bubbled to Ariel's lips, but before she could speak, Jack Chauncey had taken her hand and whisked her away from the table to the cleared area of the hall.

Other couples stepped up to join them in the line of dance. Ariel glanced at her partner as they moved up the aisle made by the couples. His face was set in grim lines.

"I would guess that you find it hard to hold your tongue when men make mock of your friend's lameness," she said quietly, turning beneath his arm as they reached the head of the line. He made no response until they were reunited again at the far end of the dance.

"Only fools make mock of Simon Hawkesmoor," he then said. "You will discover, ma'am, that your husband takes no notice of fools. Their opinions mean as little to him as a gnat bite."

"He doesn't respond to provocation, then?'' She performed the steps of the country dance automatically, her eyes resting intently on her partner's face.

Jack Chauncey laughed and the bitter anger vanished from his expression. "It depends upon the provocation, ma'am. Your husband is slow to anger, but no man who knows him well would willingly arouse that anger."

Ariel tucked this away for future reflection. She had first laid eyes upon her husband a mere half day earlier and so far was finding it hard to come to any conclusions about him, beyond his obvious physical characteristics.

How would he react when told that he was not to bed his wife on his wedding night? Would he accede without a murmur? He would be within his rights to insist. Within his rights, but it would be the act of a brute and a boor, and from the little she'd seen of the man, neither description fit him.

But how was she to know? The man was a Hawkesmoor. That simple fact told its own tale. She could no more contemplate sharing a bed with a Hawkesmoor than she would entertain sharing a sty with the pigs. And Ranulf had sworn to ensure that she didn't have to.

At the top table, Simon watched his wife dancing with his friend. His expression was placid, his eyes mild, and not even Ranulf could guess at the smoldering anger beneath the serene surface. This coarse, inebriated, unseemly festivity was an insult to both bride and groom. And Simon knew it had been so intended. And yet the bride, in her gown of cream silk and vanilla lace, seemed to float above the vulgarity, as if it didn't touch her in any way. His eyes fixed upon the swirling liquid honey of her hair, falling down her back from the pearl-encrusted bands around her forehead. It struck him as like a cloak, a maiden's cloak that somehow covered and protected her from the crude ribaldry surrounding her.

Ariel-a sprite, a spirit of the air. There was something unearthly about her. But maybe it was just the contrast between her delicacy of frame and face and the heavy, earth-bound grossness of her brothers and their friends.

"Brother-in-law?"

Simon, his reverie interrupted, turned sharply toward Ranulf. Ranulf was regarding him smilingly from over his goblet, but it was an unpleasant, knowing smile.

"There's something I must discuss with you, brother-in-law," Ranulf said, laying sardonic emphasis on the tide. "A matter of some privacy. Would you walk with me in the courtyard?" His chair scraped on the stone flags as he pushed it back.

"A breath of air would be welcome." Simon reached for his cane. "It grows overheated in here."

"In more ways than one," Ralph said with a snigger. "Blanche Carey looks ready to slip beneath the table with anyone who'll have her." He rose unsteadily to his feet. "Perhaps I'll offer m'services." He tottered around the table to where the lady in question, flushed of face and glazed of eye, was unlacing her bodice at the invitation of a cheering group of men.

Ranulf glanced quickly at his companion and caught the flicker of disgust in the deep blue eyes before it was banished. He smiled sourly to himself. The Hawkesmoors were ever prudish-except when they were bedding other men's wives. "Perhaps you find our ways of making merry a little uninhibited, Hawkesmoor? To a Puritan, I'm sure our carousing must seem quite dissipated."

"I don't count myself among Puritans, Ravenspeare," Simon corrected mildly. "My family may have been parliamentarians, but we can enjoy ourselves as much as the next man. Cromwell himself was known to enjoy his wine, music, dancing, even the play."

Ranulf adapted his pace to the other man's slower step as they walked around the hall toward the outside door. "Parliamentarians, royalists-such terms mean nothing these days," he said. "The monarchy was restored over forty years ago, Hawkesmoor; it's time to bury such bones of past contention, don't you think?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be here now," returned Simon, and for the first time there was a tart note to his voice. He stepped out into the sharp evening air and drew several deep breaths, cleansing his lungs of the fetid, smoky atmosphere of the hall within. "Those political differences became irrelevant many years ago-"

"Not quite," Ranulf interrupted. "Or we wouldn't now be joining our families to settle our property dispute."

"True enough," Simon agreed, his tone mild once more. He limped across the grassy square in the center of the courtyard, his cane sinking into the soft, soggy soil. A fine, cold mizzle fell from the darkening sky, and he knew his leg would pain him unmercifully that night. This was a damp, inhospitable part of England, and although he had grown up in the Fens, he disliked the land heartily, and was never truly at home amid the dikes and windmills of this fog-swirled landscape.

He paused at a stone sundial set hopefully in the middle of the grass. Resting on his cane, he leaned slightly against the sundial and surveyed the earl of Ravenspeare through the gathering dusk. "There is more than property that lies between our two families, Ranulf. I would bury that too."

The other man didn't immediately reply, and then he spoke with a heartiness that Simon knew in his blood was false. "Indeed, why should the scandals of our fathers' generation haunt us, Hawkesmoor?" He extended his hand. "Will you clasp on it?"

Simon took the hand immediately. Neither men wore gloves and he felt Ranulf's palm to be soft and clammy. His own, firm and dry, was the rough and callused hand of a swordsman. Ranulf was not offering him friendship and peace, he was extending the hand of treachery, and Simon knew it. But he had come into the Ravenspeares' castle prepared for anything, and whatever slippery plans Ranulf might have, they would not succeed.

"You had something you wanted to tell me," he reminded him, casually dropping Ranulf's hand and resuming his awkward pace to the far side of the courtyard.

"Ah, yes. I trust you will not take this ill." Ranulf kept pace with him, his head bent conspiratorially toward the other's ear. "It concerns Ariel." When Simon made no response, he continued in measured accents, "She is somewhat ailing at present and begs that you will excuse her from the marriage bed until she finds herself well again."

Simon had thought himself prepared for anything, but this possibility had never entered his head. "Ailing? In what way?" He stopped abruptly.

Ranulf's little laugh was conspiratorial. "Women's way, Simon. I'm sure you understand."

"Ariel set the date for the wedding," Simon said slowly. "Why did she choose a time when she would be indisposed?"

"She is an innocent, a child, Hawkesmoor. A motherless child," Ranulf added with soft deliberation.

Simon's lips tightened but he refused to be drawn. They had just agreed that the sins of their parents should haunt them no longer. "Has she no woman to advise her? No nurse, no maid, no governess?"

"Ariel has never shown any need for female companionship," Ranulf said, shrugging. "She has cared for herself and her own needs since she left the nursery."

Simon hid his shock. In the last hours he had developed a fair impression of the careless, unseemly way matters were conducted at Ravenspeare Castle, but the idea that a gently bred young woman should grow up without female guidance, even of the most rudimentary sort, left him speechless. Presumably she had had no formal education either. That was not so shocking, many women even of the highest lineage were unlettered, but had she not been taught the arts of the stillroom, or to sew, to manage a household, to play an instrument? All the necessary skills of a country noblewoman. She could ride and she could hawk, that much he'd discovered. And it appeared that she knew the steps of country dances, but what of the galliard, and all the courtly measures that the wife of the earl of Hawkesmoor would be expected to perform?

He contented himself with a dry, "I see," and turned back toward the castle.

"I had hoped you would understand," Ranulf said, turning with him. "The situation is a little… well, unusual, don't you think?"

"An understatement," Simon replied. "Tell your sister, since she doesn't feel able to confide in me as yet, that I am a very patient man. When she's ready to consummate this marriage, she has but to indicate it."

"Ariel will be most grateful for your understanding," Ranulf said smoothly, opening the door and stepping aside so that Simon could precede him back into the riotous scene in the Great Hall.

It was even hotter now, and so noisy it was almost impossible to hear oneself speak. Men and women had fallen forward into their platters, snoring audibly; goblets lay spilled upon the tables; people lurched and swayed around the dance floor. Ariel was dancing with Oliver Becket.

Simon noticed that neither of them seemed to be following the steps of the dance, in fact none of the couples on the floor appeared to be following any coherent set of movements, and even the fiddlers in the gallery had lost track of the dance and were playing at will, regardless of the swaying couples. Oliver Becket's color was high, his eyes glittered strangely, and his hands were roaming freely over the slender figure of Ariel, countess of Hawkesmoor, as she turned and twirled to his touch.

She seemed to be enjoying herself, her husband thought acidly. She was lost in the music, and with her skirts swirling around her, her hair flying, her eyes sparkling, she reminded him of a gypsy girl dancing a wild tarantella.

He couldn't intervene without looking foolish, since he couldn't offer to dance with her himself, not even a stately measure, let alone with such gay abandon. A clapping, stamping circle began to form around the pair as other dancers dropped back, and the two became the center of attention.

Simon returned to his seat among his silent friends at the top table. He could no longer see his wife, who was blocked from view by the circle around her, but could infer from the stamping, roaring cheers that the two dancers were giving their audience their money's worth.

When the dance ended and the circle broke up, Ariel made her way back to the table, her arm tucked into Oliver's, her cheeks pink, her lips rosy, her gray eyes glowing with excitement.

"Ah, bud, but there's never been such a partner as you!" Oliver declared. He caught her chin and kissed her full on the mouth as she reached her chair beside her husband. "I pity you, Hawkesmoor, if you never know the delights of dancing with her. She's light as air-pure magic." Laughing, he kissed her again.

But this time, Ariel jerked her head away. In the exultation of the dance, she had forgotten about her husband, and now with the taste of Oliver's mouth against hers, she realized what was happening. Oliver and Ranulf had planned this-this careful humiliation of the Hawkesmoor. Her own virtue meant nothing to them, and in this wedding company it meant nothing to anyone. Simon Hawkesmoor was to be cuckolded on his wedding night.

She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth in an instinctive gesture of revulsion as she sat down again. Simon's gaze flickered toward Oliver and saw the flash of anger in the other man's eyes.

"I may be unable to dance myself, my dear, but I enjoyed watching you," Simon said coolly, reaching for the decanter to refill her goblet. "For one who's ailing, you show remarkable energy. Drink. You're overheated." He raised the goblet to her lips.

Ariel's color mounted. She clasped the goblet and drank deeply, then set it down on the table. "Will you excuse me, my lord." She rose, gathering her skirts in her hands as she turned toward the staircase at the rear of the hall.

Simon, leaning on his cane, moved with surprising rapidity after her. He reached the foot of the stairs when she was halfway up. He called softly, "Grant me a minute of your time, madam wife."

His voice was as melodious and courteous as ever, so why then did she know she'd received a command? Ariel paused, her hand on the banister. "Will you come up, sir?" Then she continued upward, waiting for him at the head.

Simon silently cursed his clumsiness as he clumped up the wide flight, aware that she was looking at him so that every awkward half jump, half dragging step seemed exaggerated in his mind's eye.

The raucous sounds reached them from below as they stood on the small square landing. Moonlight filtered through an arched mullioned window set in the stone high above them.

Simon leaned against the cold wall, examining his wife in thoughtful silence. She lifted her chin slightly beneath his scrutiny. "You wished to speak with me, sir?"

He nodded. "It's hardly unusual for a man to wish to speak privately with his wife on their wedding day." He glanced around the small space. "This, however, is hardly private. Do you have a sitting room… a boudoir?"

There was only one room in this castle that Ariel could keep for herself. Her bedchamber was not sacrosanct-it was invaded at will by her brothers and by Oliver-but only a very few servants knew of the green parlor in the turret on the floor above her bedchamber. And she was not about to share that privacy with the earl of Hawkesmoor.

Deliberately she laughed and Simon realized it was the first time he'd heard the girlish, chiming sound. Involuntarily he smiled, waiting to be told what amused her.

"Ravenspeare Castle has no such nice chambers, my lord. We live somewhat roughly here."

"So I had noticed," he agreed, no longer smiling as he detected a light mockery in her tone. "And you have my sympathies. However, do not expect me to believe that there is no chamber that you can call your own." His voice had hardened, and his sea blue eyes were searching as they rested on her face.

Ariel bit her lip. "I have a bedchamber, sir."

"Then let us go to it."

Again she heard the note of command. With a tiny shrug she moved past him along the corridor, hearing the click of his cane, the slight drag of his boot as he came behind her. She opened the door to her turret bedchamber and went in ahead of him. Immediately she was engulfed in a swirling, barking mass of gray fur as Romulus and Remus leaped upon her.

It looked as if she were under attack from the massive wolfhounds, and Simon's instinctive reaction was to reach for the knife at his belt. Then Ariel turned toward him; both dogs were on their hind legs, front paws on her shoulders, and she held them by their necks.

"My dogs have been shut up since noon," she explained. "Otherwise they would have followed me to the altar… Down now," she instructed, pushing them away from her, scolding laughingly, "Look what you've done to my gown with your great muddy feet!"

Simon's hand dropped from his belt. He remembered seeing the dogs with her by the river and again in the courtyard. Clearly, Ariel had nothing to fear from them beyond torn and muddied garments. He glanced curiously around her firelit bedchamber. The furnishings were plain; there was little evidence of girlhood to be seen. Except for a doll on the cushioned window seat. For some reason he found the wooden toy strangely moving. He closed the door behind him.

Ariel jumped at the sound, and immediately the dogs turned on him, hackles raised, great yellow eyes glaring. Simon stood motionless, quietly staring them down. Ariel watched, as still as he. The dogs slowly sat down, then together lay with heads resting on their paws, still regarding him, but without suspicion or hostility.

Ariel was impressed despite her chagrin that someone else had shown mastery over her beasts. "You have a way with dogs, sir," she commented. "Romulus and Remus have never acknowledged anyone but me before."

"All pack animals recognize a superior," he said casually. "Wolfhounds are no different from wolves in that respect. I assume that they acknowledge you as the pack leader, so I daresay I'm considered your lieutenant." He laughed and she couldn't help a responding smile. A man who could win the allegiance of her dogs clearly had hidden qualities.

It occurred to her as he stood there smiling that he wasn't nearly as ugly as she had first thought, if you took his features one by one. His deep-set eyes were startlingly attractive, the triangle of his large nose with its fine nostrils was imposing, and there was something disturbingly appealing about his crooked mouth with its strong white teeth. For a moment she forgot their situation and was aware of him only as a powerfully charismatic presence. Then reality flooded back and she remembered he was a Hawkesmoor. She stiffened her shoulders clasped her hands in the folds of her skirt. "Did… did my brother explain-"

"That you are most inconveniently indisposed? Yes, he did." Simon sat down on the end of the bed, saying with a hint of amusement, "There's no need to look alarmed, Ariel. I have no intention of claiming my marital rights until you're ready to yield them."

"I am grateful, my lord," she said stiffly.

"I understand from your brother that you have no female companion," Simon began. If this girl was ignorant and perhaps therefore frightened of the physical side of marriage, someone had to enlighten and reassure her. And it rather looked as if the task fell to his hand.

Ariel frowned, wondering where this was leading. It was not by any means the truth, but her life outside the castle was her own secret. Her brothers knew nothing of her friends or of the work she did among them. "I have never felt the lack within these walls," she said carefully.

"But, my dear, it's quite outrageous that you should have grown to womanhood without anyone to teach you-"

"Teach me what?" she interrupted vigorously.

Simon ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and grasped the nettle. "I will endeavor to answer any questions you may have," he said. "I cannot explain these matters as a mother might, but…" He stopped dead. Ariel was laughing, her eyes brimming with merriment. "In what way have I amused you?" he demanded.

She struggled for sobriety. "My lord, I do assure you there is nothing that I do not know of these matters. There is nothing you could possibly tell me that I don't understand." She thought of her stud, of her work as midwife in the villages, and was suddenly convulsed with laughter again. She couldn't tell him about these things, but it was so absurd that he should be trying to teach her the facts of life when she probably knew more than he did as they pertained to women.

Simon's face closed. Without another word he rose from the bed, took his cane, and limped from the room. He closed the door behind him. It was one thing to endure the not-so-veiled mockery of the Ravenspeare brothers, quite another to hear it from his bride. A young girl, many years his junior, one who had never left the land of her birth, who could know nothing of the world as he knew it! And she dared to laugh at his admittedly clumsy attempts to gain her confidence.

His blood seethed, but beneath his anger lurked dark uncertainty. Did she see him as a figure of fun? A repulsive scarred cripple? A man from whom the fresh bloom of youth had been long rubbed off? A man who bore the marks of long suffering on his face and body? A hideous husband for such a bright, fresh maid. A hideous husband forced upon her. He'd guessed when he'd first met her that she was not a willing participant in this scheme. But surely she couldn't have been forced to agree? This was not the Middle Ages; no woman could be legally compelled into a distasteful union.

But Ranulf Ravenspeare and his brothers were not civilized men. Had they coerced their sister in some way?

His spirit seemed to shrivel inside him as he saw himself as he must appear to the eyes of a young and beautiful girl. It was no wonder she couldn't contemplate her bride bed, he thought with a surge of self-disgust. He had been prepared to encounter her resistance to a Hawkesmoor, and he had tried not to think that she might be repulsed by him personally. But his hidden fear had been justified, and he couldn't imagine how he would nerve himself to overcome her revulsion.

He was still standing outside her chamber door, and the sounds from the Great Hall were growing increasingly incoherent. Presumably the disappearance of the bride and groom had been noted. If he returned to the festivities without his bride, he would be licensing the crudest of comments. Better to retire quietly and leave the drunken revelers to their own devices. Let them think what they wished.

He turned aside into his own chamber, opposite Ariel's turret room. A fire burned in the hearth and a lamp had been lit on the mantelpiece to provide some cheer against the night chill. He was weary and saddened and angry, and as he flung himself into a chair beside the fire, he wondered why he had embarked on such an implausible scheme. What had made him believe he could heal such deep-seated wounds? What arrogance to believe he could bring peace to two families locked in blood hatred!

But it was done and he was stuck with the consequences of his conceit. However, maybe he could still turn this ill-fated visit to Ravenspeare land to good use. The thought heartened him a little and he rose to his feet, limping across to the table beneath the window where decanters stood ready filled. He poured a liberal measure of cognac and sipped slowly.

Esther. Somewhere on Ravenspeare land there was-or had been-a woman called Esther. A woman who had born a child to a Hawkesmoor.