Marigold's Marriages (20 page)

The latter scrambled nervously to his feet. He was small and weedy, with damp, spiky hair and drab brown clothes. He was breathing heavily, and his teeth continued to chatter as he gave his name. “I—I’m S-Spiky Blackth-thorn, s-sir.”

“That conveys nothing to me,” Rowan replied.

Beech cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but he is a messenger, and he had something of a fright on the highway when he was almost ridden down by a large group of riders in white robes. He believes they were ghosts.”

“Not ghosts, I assure you,” Rowan replied.

“N-not ghosts?” Spiky repeated.

“Definitely not. Just some fools in fancy dress.”

Spiky breathed out with relief. “Cor, that’s a relief,” he muttered, swallowing as he tried to pull himself together.

Rowan looked at him. “You have a message?”

“Oh, yes. It’s for Lady Avenbury.” Spiky searched in the leather pouch that hung from his belt.

“For me?” Marigold was surprised.

“Here it is, my lady,” Spiky said, holding out a rather creased letter.

She took it, and immediately recognized Perry’s writing. Oh, no, what had happened? Had he and Bysshe misbehaved beyond redemption? Quickly she broke the seal. It was dated at Eton the previous evening.

“Dearest Mama.

I was right, it is the chicken pox! Bysshe and I have both been struck down, and Dr. Bethel says that as soon as arrangements can be made, we are to be sent home to recuperate. The thing is, Bysshe’s family are in Ireland, and their house shut up for the summer. So can he
please
come with me to Avenbury Park? He would dearly like to, and he would be excellent company for me. We promise faithfully not to get in your way, or Lord Avenbury’s.

Your loving son, Perry.

P.S.
Please
say it is all right.

P.P.S. Did I tell you you were the prettiest bride that ever was?

P.P.P.S. Sir Francis has gone at last. Horrah!”

That afternoon Marigold slowly retraced her steps toward the ha-ha. The sun was high, and the peacocks called on the lawns. She wore a cherry-and-white gingham gown that was tightened beneath her breasts by a little drawstring, and her red-gold hair was twisted up on top of her head, with several ringlets tumbling over her left shoulder. Mrs. Spindle’s balm—marigold, naturally—had soothed the bramble scratches, but it would take a great deal more than that to soothe emotions that were stretched to infinity with wretchedness.

Marigold blinked back tears. She so wanted to believe Rowan about Alauda, but knew he had lied about having no contact since Vauxhall. If he lied once, the law of probability decreed that he most likely lied again now. And there was the added fact that he had gone to his own apartment to sleep. Then, when he’d risen just before noon, he’d taken breakfast alone before going out on his horse.

In fact, she hadn’t been able to speak to him at all since dawn when he granted permission for Perry to bring Bysshe to Avenbury Park to recuperate. He still knew nothing of her conversation with Falk, or that she was convinced it was Falk who had led the ceremony around the oak. There were now eleven days to midsummer, and she knew some sort of plan should to be made. She had no idea what, except to persuade Rowan to run away with her, to some secret place where Falk wouldn’t be able to reach him.

She crossed the ha-ha, and then walked past the brambles toward the oak, which looked so innocent in the bright June sunshine. The tree rustled gently in the lightest of breezes, and the ball of mistletoe shone golden, looking almost like the oak’s heart. She could see where Falk’s sickle had sliced off a spray, and on the grass below, scattered quite widely because Rowan had kicked them, were the charred remains of the fire. There was half burned mistletoe, and fragments of the white cloth, which she now saw had contained a marigold flower and rowan leaf.

When Robin had brought the same things to her at Castell Arnold, she had glimpsed Falk’s fear for the first time. What did it mean? Her heart began to thud unpleasantly, for what other interpretation was there except that Falk’s malice was directed at her as well as Rowan? She was in Jenny’s portrait, and therefore part of it all!

At that moment hoofbeats drummed urgently toward her. Unnerved, she shrank back against the tree with a frightened cry, but as the sweating horse was reined in within a foot of her, she saw Rowan looking down at the telltale remnants of marigold and rowan, and then into her wide eyes. The mettlesome horse danced around excitedly as he held a hand down to her.

“I thought to spare you the knowledge that they burned our namesake leaves. But that is of no consequence now, for I have come to give you proof about Alauda.” He seized her fingers and swung her effortlessly up to sit astride behind him. “Hold on tight, madam, for this is not going to be a leisurely trot!”

She had no option but to grip him around the waist as he kicked his heels, and the horse leapt away toward the road, then west toward the escarpment. It was the same way she had ridden. The thyme-scented air was warm, and she could feel the lithe flexing of his body as he controlled the horse. She pressed her cheek to his back, and closed her eyes. She was angry and hurt by his deception, but oh, how she adored him. Until him, she had never truly known what love could be.

At last Rowan reined in, and she opened her eyes to see they were at the earthworks above Romans. He dismounted, and then held his arms up to her. “Come on.”

She slid down to him, but he released her the moment she was steady. After tethering the horse to the same bush she had used, he led her to the edge of the escarpment, directly above the house. “Get down on the ground,” he said then, getting down himself.

“But—”

“Do you wish to be seen against the sky? Get down!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the grass.

Together they peered over. There were a number of people in the orchard, all of them men except Alauda, who suddenly appeared on the upper floor balcony. She wore a bright apricot gown and chestnut spencer, and her raven hair was pinned up beneath a stylish leghorn bonnet. Everyone turned as she called out to them all.

“I’m here at last! Oh,
what
a tedious journey!” Then she gave her odious tinkling laugh, and hurried toward the hunting tower end of the balcony, where a wrought-iron staircase descended to the orchard.

Marigold looked at Rowan. “What does this prove? So your mistress is here now, but who is to say she wasn’t here last night as well? She may just have driven to Salisbury or Marlborough.”

“She may indeed, except that if you look at the front of the house, you will see her traveling carriage being divested of her usual unconscionable amount of luggage.”

The carriage was identifiable as Alauda’s by its bright sapphire blue lacquer and vivid scarlet wheels. Two grooms and the coachman were examining the wheels, which appeared to have suffered some damage.

Rowan glanced at Marigold. “She has just arrived from London, I assure you. I happened to be with my lookout down by the road when her carriage came in sight. It was going very slowly because that wheel was giving the coachman cause for concern. What with that, and the fact that it’s a long steep drive up the hill to the house, and the horses are tired, I knew I would have time to get you here.
Now
will you believe me?”

“I—I...”

“Perhaps you’d prefer me to draw one of your teeth?”

“Oh, very well. Yes, I believe you.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies.”

“Do you mean to see her now she’s here?”

“No, because I don’t intend to go any closer to Romans than we are now. I have informed Falk that his tenancy will not be confirmed, and that I expect my property to be vacated as soon as possible.”

“He won’t comply.”

“Then I’ll take a leaf from his book, and resort to legal action.”

“He’ll rub his hands with glee.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see,” he replied, then took a pocket telescope from his coat. “My lookout tells me numerous carriages have arrived since sundown yesterday, all with their blinds down, so let’s see who the shy occupants were.” He trained the telescope on the gathering in the orchard. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

“Who can you see?”

“Look for yourself. You know some of them.” He handed her the telescope. She peered through and suddenly the faces in the orchard seemed to leap closer. Lord Toby Shrike and Sir Reginald Crane were there, with Lords Stonechat and Siskin. Judge Grouse of Moorchester was there, along with Archdeacon Avocet and the Reverend Spoonbill. The famous actor, Jonathan Dove, was with Mr. Crowe, the lawyer, and the renowned accoucheur, Sir Hindley Tern, was deep in conversation with the Prince of Wales’s friends, Lord Dunnock and Viscount Swallow. She lowered the telescope, and looked at Rowan. “I know all of them,” she said.

“Really?”

“They came to Castell Arnold, and I met them from time to time when I was obliged to come out of seclusion to attend some tedious function or other at the castle.”

“They are among the highest and most famous in the land, and I’ve encountered them all at White’s in recent months. Few of them are members, they were brought by either Falk or Merlin, and they all made a point of engaging me in conversation,” Rowan said softly, taking the telescope and looking through it again. “A surprising aviary, eh? If we exclude Alauda, there are twelve birds, thirteen with Falk himself.”

Marigold swallowed. It was just as she had suspected, the white-robed figures were Falk’s guests. She hesitated, and then decided it was time to tell him all she knew. “Rowan, I must let you know what Falk said to me. It’s very important.”

He met her eyes. “If it concerns the curse, as I’m sure it does, I would still prefer not to know. Ignorance is sometimes as close to bliss as one is able to get.”

“You can’t be an ostrich about this, Rowan, you
must
listen.”

He looked away. “Very well, if you insist, but I hear you under protest.”

She told him everything that had passed between Falk and her, and at the end, she said, “I’m sure I’m right about it all, Rowan. In eleven days’ time, Falk is going to attempt to carry out Randol’s vow of revenge, even to somehow transforming Jennifer Avenbury back into a woman, and making her his wife. He boasts of his powers, and maybe he really can do it.”

Rowan had listened unwillingly at first, but had gradually become intent upon her every word. Only when she finished, did he say anything. “Much as it grieves me to admit it, I think he is quite capable of transforming birds into people, and vice versa. I fancy the evidence is in the orchard right now.”

“Evidence?”

“Look at the lawyer. What do you see?”

Through the telescope, she searched for Mr. Crowe. He and Jonathan Dove were now strolling toward the house, and apart from the fact that the lawyer’s left arm was in a sling, she couldn’t see anything else particular about him.

“Well?” Rowan prompted.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

“Don’t you notice
anything
about him?”

“Only the sling.”

“Yes, on his
left
arm.”

She looked at him in puzzlement. “I still don’t understand.”

He pointed to her scratches. “How did you come by these?”

“It was the brambles, and the crow—” She broke off in shock.

“Exactly. The crow I shot in the
left
wing. Think of Jennifer’s portrait. One of the robed figures in the background had black feathers instead of a left hand.” He paused. “Did you hear what they were chanting at the oak?”

“No.”

“May the wheel turn, may the wheel turn,” he said softly.

“Oh, that wretched wheel. Apart from it being in the portrait, I can’t begin to think what it means.”

“There’s no mention of such a thing in the legend, not that I know of anyway. Unless, it’s the simple business of going
around
the oak.”

Marigold considered it, but then shook her head. “I don’t think that’s it.”

“Nor do I, really.” Rowan drew a very long breath. “Marigold, I don’t simply think the twelve men down in the orchard are Falk’s followers, I think they’re Randol’s
as well. They’re the twelve devotees who in 1534 were transformed into birds so they could all escape.”

Marigold’s green eyes widened. “The actual men from the sixteenth century?”

“Yes.”

“Which means that Falk Arnold is—?”

“Aquila Randol? Yes.”

There was a moment of stunned silence as both Marigold and Rowan stared down at the scene below. That Falk might be copying his ancestor was bad enough, but that he might actually
be
that ancestor, was a little too unsettling.

Rowan gave her a quick smile, and put his hand briefly over hers. “Well, I suppose it’s no more bizarre than anything else.”

“Bizarre wasn’t exactly the word that sprang to my mind,” she replied.

“Nor really to mine, but it’s more agreeable than some of the ones that did.”

Marigold glanced at him, wanting so much to tell him about Robin and Jenny.

He met the glance. “What is it?”

“Rowan, I have more to say.”

“About Falk?”

“Well, in a way. I’ve wanted to tell you before, only you wouldn’t let me, but now that so much has been said, you really should know the rest.”

“I give in gracefully, but let’s come away from the edge here. On the assumption that Falk can turn his little nest of feather-headed acolytes into real birds if he wishes, I don’t really fancy being swooped upon by the likes of Lord Toby Shrike, who looks as if he would quite enjoy impaling us upon something suitably sharp. There’s a little hollow just the other side of these graywethers, where we’ll be safe from detection.”

He drew her down into the small dip in the grass, and there took off his coat, loosened his neckcloth, then lay back beneath the heat of the June sun. “Right, now tell me whatever it is.”

Cool in her gingham gown, Marigold lay at his side among the wild thyme and other scented wildflowers. She gazed at the flawless blue sky. “Before I met you, I knew something very odd was going on, indeed it started at Castell Arnold when the robin flew out of a rowan tree and caused Merlin’s death.” She told him everything that had happened since then.