So Great A Love (5 page)

The wintery landscape through which they were
passing lay peaceful around them, its frozen emptiness echoing the
cold void in Arden's heart. Thanks to the firm hand of King Henry,
the roads were relatively safe from brigands. There were few other
travelers in that winter season. No person stopped or delayed
them.

Not that they offered an inviting target for
thieves. Arden had long ago given up the bright colors he had
favored as a youth. Blue and green had given way to shades of gray
or black, his somber attire unrelieved by any of the jeweled rings
or gold chains so favored by other noblemen.

His belt was of plain leather and the sword
he wore was also unornamented. Both were gifts from Isabel's
father, and Arden suspected Tristan of suggesting the gifts. At the
time the sword was given to him, he had not touched a weapon in
more than a year. Since receiving it he had practiced with the
sword almost every day, knowing there was no better way for him to
rebuild the strength lost to injury and illness.

His original sword, presented to him by his
own father at his knighting, had vanished in the desert wastes of
the Holy Land. Arden preferred not to think of the uses to which it
was presently being put against Christian men. Had he dared address
any prayer to the Deity, he would have prayed to God and all the
saints to destroy the old sword before it could do further harm,
and to preserve him from ever having to draw and use the new one in
battle. He had no desire to shed any more blood.

“It will snow soon,” said Guy the
man-at-arms, the sudden comment jerking Arden's thoughts away from
grief and guilt and back to the present.

“From what you have said, my lord,” Michael
the squire remarked, “I judge it's another two days' ride till we
reach Bowen. Let's hope we are safely there before the weather
breaks.”

Arden only grunted in reply. He had not been
to Bowen Manor for more than a dozen years, since well before
leaving England as a young man, but he had always enjoyed his
visits there as a boy and in his youth he liked knowing that one
day the place would be his. Bowen had always felt more like home to
him than Wortham Castle, which was his father's stronghold.

Resolutely, he put aside memories of Bowen as
it was during his childhood, memories that threatened to undo his
hard-won self control. He would not allow himself to think of his
pretty, laughing mother, or of his dear younger sister. They were
both lost to him, his mother dead for almost ten years and
Catherine grown to womanhood during his long absence and surely
married by now, with children of her own. Most of all, Arden
refused to let himself think about his father. Perhaps at Bowen he
would regain some measure of peace before he faced his formidable
parent.

He hoped there
would
be snow, and he
did not care how deep it fell. Bad weather would delay Tristan and
his party, which would give Arden more time alone, time in which to
decide exactly what he would say, and how he would say it, when he
finally met the baron of Wortham.

Sutton Castle

January 5

The Twelfth Night festivities began at midday
with an elaborate meal to which everyone who lived or worked at the
castle was invited. At many castles the nobles served the servants
during the Twelfth Night feast. Lord Phelan loudly declared his
disapproval of such antics and besides, he reasoned, his voice
growing more strident, he could not force his honored guests and
prospective son-in-law to act as servants. The nobles would eat at
the high table just as they always did, and the fun and games could
begin after the meal.

Margaret wore the red dress, which had
originally been made for someone who was a good deal heavier than
she. Aldis cinched in the too-loose waist with a gold sash.
Catherine braided Margaret's straight black hair and stuffed it
into a gold mesh net that, like the sash, was borrowed from
Ermengarde.

“Dear Cat, I cannot believe what you did!”
Margaret said, laughing in spite of her nervousness. “For that
matter, I can't believe Ermengarde actually gave you what you
wanted. And all you had to do was knock on her chamber door and
make the request – and she honored it?”

“It can be a useful thing to be the daughter
of a wealthy and powerful baron,” Catherine said, alluding with
airy unconcern to the description of her that Lord Phelan had used
on the previous night. “I do believe Ermengarde would have given me
anything I asked for.”

Catherine was wearing a bright blue silk
dress, deliberately chosen because it was easily noticeable,
especially when she and Margaret stood together to provide a
startling contrast in colors. Aldis was in deep green, a far more
retiring shade. All three had masks to match their dresses, though
they did not plan to wear them at first. The masks were to be used
later.

“Aldis,” Margaret said when they were ready,
“are you certain you remember the two maidservants I pointed out to
you early this morning? You will not make a mistake?”

“Of course not,” Aldis responded. Her saucy
grin revealed the delight she was taking in their carefully
thought-out plan. “I remarked those servants well, and I understand
that you do not want them to be aware of the parts they are to play
until the very last moment, so when they are questioned later, they
will know nothing and cannot be punished for what they believe is
no more than a Twelfth Night prank.

“I promise, I will have all of our belongings
packed and delivered to the men-at-arms in good time for our
departure, and I will see to it that your traveling clothes will be
at hand when you need them. Trust me, I won't fail you.”

“We know you won't,” Catherine said, her eyes
sparkling with her own excited reaction to the challenge before
them. “It's just that we are all a little nervous. It's not every
day that mere women undertake to outwit nasty and determined
men.”

“Oh, my dears!” Margaret exclaimed, wrapping
her arms around both Catherine and Aldis and pulling them close. “I
do not know how to thank either of you for what you are doing.
Never has a woman in need been blessed with truer friends. I do
promise you, I will do everything in my power to see to it that you
do not suffer for helping me.”

The three of them stood like that, close
together, arms around each other for a bit, bound by affection and
the thrill of possible danger, until Catherine turned aside to
sneeze.

“If we are ready,” Catherine said, sniffling
a little, “let us begin now, and good luck go with us until this
night is over.”

* * * * *

As the women had planned in advance, during
the feast Margaret sat demurely next to Lord Adhemar at the high
table so everyone in the hall could see her in the bright red
gown.

Meanwhile, Catherine spoke to Lord Phelan in
her most charming manner, telling him that, with his kind
permission and in honor of the holiday, it would be her great
pleasure to take over as temporary chatelaine during the foolery of
the afternoon and evening, thus freeing both Margaret and
Ermengarde to enjoy themselves. Phelan was delighted to receive
such an offer from the daughter of Royce of Wortham and he made
certain that all the guests at the high table knew of it.

Having obtained Phelan's consent to her
supervision of the feast, Catherine proceeded to see to it that an
unusually lavish distribution of wine and ale was provided to the
guests at the lower tables, as well as to those who were sitting on
the dais.

Margaret watched as her friend moved about
the hall, overseeing the servants with practiced ease, stopping now
and then to chat with the guests in a friendly way. She noticed how
Catherine paused a little longer when speaking to the men-at-arms
who had come to Sutton Castle with her, and Margaret saw how, after
Catherine spoke to them, they continued to eat well, but they all
drank little. Margaret was so fascinated by what Catherine was
doing that she was able to endure Lord Adhemar's renewed lascivious
attentions until they became too obvious to ignore.

“It's a good thing you wore the dress I gave
you,” Adhemar said to her, leering at the expanse of white shoulder
and bosom revealed by the wide, low neckline, “else I'd have taken
you to your bedchamber and removed whatever you were wearing.”

Not wanting to encourage him for fear he
would insist that they retire to her bedchamber in spite of the
fact that she was wearing his gift, Margaret tried to show no
reaction to the crude overture. A short time later Adhemar pulled
the hem of the red skirt upward so he could place his hand upon
Margaret's bare knee above her stocking. Margaret forced herself to
allow his unwelcome touch, but when Adhemar fumbled farther up her
leg she pressed her thighs together and spoke to him through
gritted teeth.

“My lord, I must insist that you stop,”
Margaret said.

“You belong to me,” Adhemar responded, his
wine-soaked breath hot on her cheek. “I can do with you whatever I
want.”

Margaret's cheeks were flaming and the
revulsion she felt at his touch threatened to make her physically
ill. Her decision to flee her impending marriage had never seemed
so right as it did at that moment. However, she harbored a very
real fear that Adhemar would decide not to wait until his wedding
night to claim her body as his property. She did not think her
father would raise any objection, not when he was so eager to see
her wed to Adhemar.

It was a problem Margaret knew she was going
to have to deal with unaided by anyone else, for in so intimate a
matter there was nothing Catherine, or Aldis, could do to help her.
Hoping Adhemar would not notice how badly she was trembling,
Margaret took his hand from her thigh, lifted it to the tabletop,
and held it there. He had by this time consumed so much wine that
it was no very difficult task to overcome his resistance to what
she was doing. Margaret fought back her disgust and tried to speak
politely, yet firmly enough to leave Adhemar in no doubt about her
intentions.

“My lord, I went to my first marriage bed a
virgin,” she said. “I intend to go to my second marriage bed a
virtuous woman. My insistence upon maintaining my virtue now,
today, is your guarantee of my fidelity after we are wed. If you
persist in putting your hands on me, I will complain to your
chaplain in a very loud voice. Tomorrow, after we are formally wed
and our union has been blessed by the Church, I am indeed yours to
do with as you wish. Until then, you may not touch me again.”

Though Adhemar appeared to have no respect
for women, it seemed he did respect God's representative. Or
perhaps, Margaret thought, his advanced age and ill health made him
cautious about transgressing the sanctions of Mother Church. After
a hasty glance at his chaplain, he left Margaret alone and directed
his increasingly slurred remarks to her father instead. The two of
them were concocting a plan to make war on a third baron, whose
lands they coveted. With King Henry mired in grief over the recent
death of his sons, they did not expect royal interference with
their schemes and they began happily dividing up the lands they
intended to gain by force of arms.

“After the first test of our loyalty to each
other,” Phelan said with wine-induced confidence, “we can move on
to more important alterations in our circumstances. I suggest we
should plan to attend the royal court at the same time and use our
combined influences on the king.”

Relieved to be freed from Adhemar's
importunities, Margaret returned her attention to what Catherine
was doing. She noticed that Aldis and all of Catherine's
men-at-arms were missing from the hall. She had not seen them
leave, but she took their absence as a sign the escape plan was
under way. Margaret hoped it was so. Every moment she spent at Lord
Adhemar's side made her more nervous, more eager to be gone, and
more afraid something would occur to prevent her from leaving
Sutton and to cast blame onto Catherine and Aldis.

Finally the long meal was over, if not the
drinking, and the men and women who had been sitting at the lower
tables were on their feet. The tables and benches were being pushed
back to make room in the center of the hall for a band of acrobats
who had come to the castle offering to entertain in exchange for
food and lodging. There were also to be wrestling matches between
Phelan's men-at-arms and Adhemar's men and, later, a pageant put on
by the servants.

Suddenly there was a lot more noise in the
hall and much movement, with the servants beginning to assert their
right to have fun on this night that was also known as the Feast of
Fools, which they considered to be their own special holiday. With
a shout of good-natured laughter one of the stableboys was lifted
onto a table, there to be crowned with a large cooking pot, as the
Lord of Misrule. Margaret knew the time was approaching for her to
make her move.

From across the hall Catherine caught her eye
and nodded to her. Margaret understood the signal, but for a tense
few breaths she could not make herself move. At last, with her
heart beating like thunder, she gathered her courage and rose from
the bench where she was sitting. She left the dais so quietly and
the guests at the high table were so full of wine and heavy food,
and were so intent upon the performances of the acrobats and the
nonsense of the noisy servants, that no one remarked on her going.
No one but Eustace's wife, Gertrude, who also left the table to
trail along a few steps behind Margaret.

Catherine was waiting at the entrance to the
screens passage. Margaret followed her friend into the deserted
kitchen and then out another door and beyond, to a small garderobe
behind the kitchen that was used by the servants and
men-at-arms.