The Silver Rose (6 page)

“But you know the history of my family. You know I would not repeat it.” He looked down at her with a mixture of regret and irritation. “Why else do you think I have arranged this marriage?”

Helene sat up, holding the sheet to her breast, an arrested expression in her eyes. “Whom do you marry, Simon?”

“You don’t know?” He stared, incredulous.

“How could I know? I spend no time at court. I have no visitors but you,” she exclaimed. “You said only that you were marrying. Nothing about how it would mean the end of
us.
Nothing about when or who.”

He sighed. “I am marrying the Lady Ariel Ravenspeare, Helene.”

“A Ravenspeare!” she breathed. “Dear God in heaven. They killed your father.”

“I’ve seen enough blood spilled in the last years, Helene. I am awearied of blood and anger and war. My family has been locked in enmity with the Ravenspeares for so long, and each generation deepens the wound, whether with an illicit passion or an act of violence.” He leaned over her, his eyes intense, his voice low. “A marriage made in good faith can only heal.”

“But they killed your father.”

“And I will meet them now in peace.”

Helene turned from him. She knew that look, the sudden clenching of his jaw, the hardness of purpose in his eyes, the power of will behind the quiet words. When Simon Hawkesmoor was in this mood, he was unmovable. He was a man of such paradoxes. A man of war who loathed conflict in his private life. A man of massive strength whose loving touch was so tender and gentle it would not crush the petals of a rose. But above all, he was a man of powerful convictions
and principles. He stood way above the petty disputes, the spite, the opportunistic betrayals of the political court. No party claimed his allegiance, and he lived in no one’s pocket. For this he was both respected and feared. A man who could not be bought.

She lay silent, listening to him as he moved awkwardly around the chamber, dressing himself. She heard the clunk of his belt buckle as he put on his swordbelt, and knew that he was ready to leave her.

“What if the Ravenspeares will not meet you in peace?” She rolled onto her side so that she could see him. Her eyes were dark against the white pillow.

“Ranulf has agreed to the marriage . . . admittedly with a degree of persuasion from the queen,” he added. “Judging from the number of invitations that have gone out, he is preparing to marry off his sister in a lavish style.”

He sat down on the bed beside her, taking her hand. “Helene, if anyone can understand what I’m doing, it must be you.”

“For a man of war, you have a strange fondness for peace,” she said, curling her fingers in his large palm. “But the Ravenspeares are known for their treachery. What makes you think you can trust them?”

“There can be no treachery if Ranulf wishes to keep his place at court. I told you, love, that the queen herself wants this marriage.”

“Maybe so.” Helene hitched herself onto one elbow. Her anger and bitterness were gone. They would do no good and she was too wise a woman to bid farewell to her friend and lover in resentment. “But Ranulf Ravenspeare would betray his dearest friend if it suited his purpose. And he’s not known to be a forgiving man. It’s said he’ll carry a grudge to his grave . . . or to the grave of his enemy.”

Simon smiled. “For one who never goes to court, you’re remarkably informed of gossip, my love.”

“Deny it.”

He shook his head. “I cannot. But it’s not as if we plan to
embrace each other as beloved family. After the wedding, after this month of celebration, I will take Lady Ariel to Hawkesmoor, and Ranulf and his brothers will never have to lay eyes upon me again. But the marriage will have put an end to the old enmity, once and for all.”

“You are an extraordinary man, Simon Hawkesmoor.” Helene touched his cheek with her free hand, tracing the path of the livid cicatrix.

He put up his hand to clasp her wrist. There was a look of uncertainty in his eye, a strange and unusual diffidence about him. “Do you think a young girl will find me repulsive, Helene?”

“How could you think such a thing?” she gasped, sitting up, clasping his face between both hands.

“I have a body and a countenance covered in scars,” he said with a hesitant little laugh. “I must walk with a stick. I have thirty-four years to her twenty.”

“You are beautiful,” she said.

“And beauty, as we know, is in the eye of the beholder.” He laughed again, taking her hands, turning them palm up and kissing each one. “But I am grateful for your confidence, my dear.”

“If the Lady Ariel Ravenspeare cannot see you as you really are, then I’ll open her eyes for her,” Helene stated.

“Such a champion!” He took her face and kissed her mouth hard. “We must say farewell, my love. But you will always be my dearest friend.”

She slid off the bed, accompanying him to the door. “Have a care, Simon. Do not trust too easily.”

He laughed, and this time his laugh was harsh, an abrupt change from the diffidence and tender humor of a minute earlier. “I do not go alone under Ranulf Ravenspeare’s roof, Helene. I shall be well attended, and well on my guard.”

“Ah.” She gave a little sigh of relief. “For a moment I was afraid you were so intent on your mission that you had lost caution.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “You will visit me in friendship, even after your marriage?”

“Of course,” he replied simply. “You will always have a place in my heart, Helene.”

“And it’s not as if you’re marrying for love,” she murmured, standing back as he opened the door.

He turned to look over his shoulder at her, and his eyes darkened. “There can never be a place in my heart for a Ravenspeare, Helene. But I will do my duty by the girl, and if she does her duty by me, she will receive all the kindness and consideration of which I’m capable.”

The door closed behind him. Helene went to the window, to watch him emerge into the street below, expecting him to turn and look up at the window as he always did. But this time he didn’t. He left the inn that had always been their rendezvous, and walked down the lane, leaning more heavily than usual on his stick, his cloak billowing around him in the brisk winter wind that whistled around the street corner.

Helene turned back to the room, filled with a strange apprehension. She told herself it was not apprehension for Simon but anticipation of the loneliness that lay ahead for her. She was still in her prime, too young to be condemned to a life of chastity . . . to exchange the turbulence of love and passion for the blandness of friendship.

“No,” Ariel stated. “I will not dress up in a wedding gown when the groom is nowhere in sight.”

Ranulf’s face darkened. “You will do as you’re bid, sister. Your wedding is set for noon and you will be ready for it.” He gestured to the bed where lay a froth of pale lace. “You will dress and show yourself belowstairs. It will not be said that the Ravenspeares reneged on their contract.”

Ariel shook her head, standing her ground. “When the earl of Hawkesmoor comes to claim his bride, Ranulf, then and only then will she dress herself for sacrifice.”

“Why, you obstinate, disobedient—” The angry words died and he fell back, his hand still upraised, as the wolfhounds
ranged in front of Ariel, facing him, teeth bared, hackles raised. “Call them off,” he demanded tightly.

“Not until you lower your hand, brother.”

His threatening hand dropped to his side. Ariel said, “Down,” in a soft voice, and the dogs sat, but they remained in front of her, staring fixedly at the earl.

“I command that you dress immediately for your wedding.” Ranulf spoke through compressed lips. “Hawkesmoor may well be intending to arrive at the chapel at the very stroke of noon. I will not have him find us unprepared. This family will give no sign of hesitation, of reluctance, for this wedding. The queen will receive reports that the Ravenspeares conducted themselves impeccably, and if there is to be any criticism, it will be directed at the Hawkesmoor.”

“Why do you think he hasn’t come yet?” Obliquely, Ariel deflected the subject. She stepped backward and hitched herself onto the broad windowsill of her chamber overlooking the inner courtyard. “He should have been here for the prenuptial feast last evening.”

“I don’t know,” Ranulf said as tightly as before. “He’s playing his own game. But he’ll not outplay us, Ariel. If he thinks to embarrass us, I’ll not have him thinking he succeeded. We will give him
no
indication that his late arrival has caused the least anxiety.”

“So you do expect him to come?” She flicked at a straw on her skirt, a remnant of her recent visit to the stable.

“Of course he’ll come!” Ranulf spat out the words, his charcoal gray eyes blazing in his angular face. “He’ll come because
he
started this. He arranged the queen’s command.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, goddamn it! But whatever his plan, it won’t succeed. And he will not ever feel that he has humiliated us. You will be ready and waiting at the altar with a smile of welcome and the promise of obedience
whatever
time he comes.” His riding whip slashed across the surface of an inlaid table, and the dogs rose with a growl.

Ariel had rarely seen her brother at a disadvantage, but it
was clear that Simon Hawkesmoor’s tardy arrival for his wedding was causing Ranulf a fair degree of consternation. She turned to look over her shoulder down into the court. It was deserted, the February day too cold and sharp for the wedding guests to venture outside. “Is there a watchman in the tower?”

“Aye.” Ranulf seemed for once uncertain. He didn’t know how to compel his sister’s obedience when the damn dogs prevented his getting close to her. Ariel had acquired them as puppies two years earlier. At first they had been little threat to his usual manner of exercising control, but in the last twelve months they had grown into these gigantic creatures who stood menacingly in his path whenever his temper rose against his sister. Something would have to be done about them, he thought grimly.

“When the watchman sees them coming—and he’ll see them from a good five miles away in this light across the fens—then I’ll dress.” Ariel turned back to her brother. “You cannot find fault with that, Ranulf.”

He glared angrily at the dogs, who fixed him with their great yellow eyes and didn’t move. He swung on his heel and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Ariel chuckled slightly, stroking the dogs’ heads. “I wonder if you know how useful you are, boys.” She slipped off the window seat and went to the bed. She had spent Ranulf’s money with abandon. Travesty of a marriage or no, she had reasoned she might as well get as much out of it as she could. The wedding gown of cream silk edged with vanilla lace was only one of the garments she had acquired. She had bought enough materials to bring a fatuous smile to the faces of the Cambridge milliners and enough work to keep an army of seamstresses busy for a week.

But her most prized new garment was her riding habit. She went to the armoire and drew out the coat, waistcoat, and skirt of matching crimson velvet, thickly decorated in silver braid. She fingered the deep cuffs, the richly braided pockets.

On impulse, Ariel threw off the old riding habit she wore, tossing the green broadcloth garments to the floor. She dressed rapidly in the new costume, fumbling in her haste with the looped, braided buttons. She tied the stock of crisp white muslin at her neck, put on the new tricorn hat edged with silver lace, and examined herself in the cheval glass.

It was a most satisfactory image. She had never really given much thought to her appearance before. Life in the Fens was somewhat socially circumscribed, and besides, Ranulf kept a close hand on the purse strings. She didn’t need elegant garments for her midwifery in the hamlets, and when she wasn’t out and about on such duties, she was happiest in the stables, or riding or hawking, and her old green broadcloth habit had done perfectly well for that. But she felt a tingle of pleasure at her present elegance. During the month ahead, when the earl of Ravenspeare’s guests would be entertained with every kind of sport, she would have ample opportunity to show off her finery.

Unless, of course, the wedding festivities came to a very abrupt end early in the month. Ranulf had said nothing further to her about his plans for the bridegroom, but she wasn’t fool enough to think he’d thought better of them.

But there was nothing she could do for the present. She hurried to the door. Ranulf wouldn’t accept defeat for long, but if she wasn’t around to be bullied into obeying him, there wasn’t much he could do. She whistled to the dogs and they came bounding after her.

At the head of the stone staircase, Ariel paused. The Great Hall below was crowded with guests, some eating a late breakfast at the long tables set before the fires, others already drinking deep as servants circulated with wine and ale. Ravenspeare Castle was a massive edifice and, in the past, had more than once housed a royal progression and the multitude of courtiers, servants, and hangers-on that that entailed. Two hundred wedding guests had been accommodated easily enough, since no one objected to sleeping two and three to a bed in such circumstances, and the young
bachelors, much to their amusement, were accommodated in the dormitories in the old barracks.

Ariel knew very few of these people. Only those of her brothers’ inner circle came in general as guests to Ravenspeare Castle. Those she knew well. Her intimacy with Oliver Becket made her presence acceptable at their gatherings, except on the nights when the men went after female prey and she was banned from the hall.

Reluctant to go down into the hall and run the gauntlet of the guests, she turned aside, the dogs at her heels, and took a narrow stair set into the massive stone walls. It was a service staircase that emerged in the kitchens, where, to the uneducated eye, chaos reigned. Scullery maids, potboys, and sweating liveried footmen rushed through the series of connecting rooms, under the great vaulted stone ceilings blackened by the smoke from the massive ranges, where suckling pigs, whole sheep, and barons of beef roasted on spits turned at each end by red-faced potboys.