The Silver Rose

Chapter Twelve

So in conclusion, my dear Helene, I don't really know what to make of my bride. I think you would probably like her. She has a straightforwardness that you would respond to, but she has also a deep personal reserve and she's more stubborn than the most obstinate mule.

Helene leaned back in her chair, Simon's letter fluttering to her lap. The fire was a warm glow in the small wainscoted parlor, and the wind and rain lashing the casements made it seem even cozier within. Her gaze rested on her eldest daughter, Marianne, sitting with her tambour frame on the other side of the hearth. The child was intent over her needle, sewing a sampler for her little sister's birthday. Louise, unaware of her sister's efforts on her behalf, was sitting on the floor playing spillikins with her young brother, James. His father's heir, the reason why Harold in his will had stipulated that if his widow remarried she would lose guardianship of her children.

Helene picked up Simon's letter again. I wish you could meet her, my dear. I would value your insight. Sometimes I believe I understand her, know what's going on behind that broad forehead, and then in the next minute I realize she's a complete enigma. She was unwilling for the marriage, as I've already mentioned, and while she seems resigned now, I have the strange feeling that she is not. Her brothers are brutes of the first water, and she is as different from them as crystal is from clay, but I still believe that in the deep-running rivers of her soul she could never bring herself to care truly for a Hawkesmoor.

"And you once said there would never be room in your heart for a Ravenspeare."

"I beg your pardon, Mama?"

"Nothing, my dear." Helene hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. Ravenspeare Castle was a fifteen-mile journey across the fens from the dower house of Kelburn Manor. She was practically a neighbor of the Ravenspeares. And her own family's connection with the Hawkesmoors was so well known in the Fens, any interest she might take in the marriage of the earl of Hawkesmoor would cause no comment. It would not be unheard of for a neighbor to pay her respects to the bride and groom during their extended wedding celebrations. Not unheard of, but given the reputation of the lords of Ravenspeare, most unusual.

But Simon sounded strange in this letter. He was a faithful and regular correspondent; even from the battlefields of Europe, he had written monthly accounts. She could read his mood beneath the words as easily as if she'd been sitting in the same room with him. And he was clearly disturbed, uncertain, most uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

And all because some nineteen-year-old chit didn't understand her good fortune. She should be on her knees thanking God for giving her such a wonderful man as husband, instead of making him feel unwanted, withholding herself from him, when he so clearly wanted her… her what?

Her love?

Helene leaned forward abruptly and threw another log onto the fire. Her face was hot and a nasty sourness was in her belly. Of course Simon didn't feel love for his Ravenspeare bride, but it seemed he felt something. It seemed she interested him… intrigued him, even. And there was a softness behind his frank and puzzled confidences that Helene had come to believe was for herself alone.

Now it seemed she must share it. She despised the wave of jealousy as it flooded her veins, made her mouth turn down, her eyes narrow. But she couldn't seem to prevent it. It was demeaning and futile. She was the one who had refused to marry Simon after Harold's death. Oh, for invincible reasons, ones that Simon had understood without question. But all the rational thought in the world couldn't seem to stop the venom of jealousy from infecting her blood.

"Are you ill, Mama?" Marianne, of the three children ever the most watchful and careful of their mother, threw aside her embroidery and dropped to the floor at Helene's knees. Her eyes were filled with concern as she touched her mother's cheek with the back of her hand.

Helene smiled reassuringly, stroking the girl's bright head before kissing her brow. "Just a dark thought, my love. But it's passed now."

"About our father?" James cupped the spillikins in his small hands before letting them fall to the carpet to start a new game. The lad had no real memory of Harold, Helene knew, but he referred to his father on every possible occasion, as if he needed to make him real.

He would have benefited so much from a stepfather… such a one as Simon would be. Helene caught the tiny sigh before it escaped. "Come, let's all play spillikins." Smiling, she sat down on the floor among her children, who gathered around her like a trio of baby ducklings.

She would visit the new countess of Hawkesmoor as an old family friend ready to welcome her into her husband's world. She would see this Ariel for herself. And if the girl didn't understand the full worth of Simon Hawkesmoor, then Helene would make her understand in no uncertain terms.

Ariel watched the earl of Hawkesmoor draw back the longbow. Despite the cool afternoon, he, like the rest of the archery competitors, had shed his coat. The muscles of his shoulders bunched beneath the white shirt as he pulled back the thick willow. The shirt was tucked carelessly into his britches. A broad belt with a magnificent jeweled buckle outlined his slender waist, accentuated the taut buttocks and slim hips.

Desire flickered in her belly. The arrow was loosed from the bow and thudded into the center of the target. Ariel smiled and swung her legs as she sat on an upturned rain butt to one side of the archery court. She had abandoned her wedding finery for a simple gown of homespun russet linen. White cuffs banded the wrists and a deep white collar set off the creamy oval of her face. Her hair hung in a thick rope down the middle of her back. She wore no hoop and on her feet were a pair of sturdy leather clogs over woolen stockings.

Simon stepped back, took a tankard of ale from a waiting servant, and drained it in one gulp, his eyes on the lad who had run to the target to remove the arrow. It was pronounced a bull's-eye and the Ravenspeare brothers looked sour.

Ariel watched as Ralph stepped up to the mark. At this archery tournament, the earl of Hawkesmoor and his team were competing with the Ravenspeare brothers and theirs. Ralph drew his bow and his arm shook with the strain as he pulled the string taut. Ariel judged that as usual he was not sober. The arrow hit the target, but off center. Ralph muttered a vile oath and stepped back.

"Beggin' yer pardon, m'lady."

Ariel turned immediately to the girl bobbing a curtsy a few feet away from her. "What is it, Maisie?"

"Mistress Gertrude sent me, m'lady. Would you come to the kitchen?"

Ariel slid off the rain butt immediately and left the court with the long, energetic stride that set her skirt swinging about her ankles. Simon noted her departure but gave it not a second thought. Ariel was always about some household matter or other. However, once the contest was over, he went in search of her.

Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped through the kitchen garden and made his way to the stables. Sometimes he thought the only clues to Ariel's feelings lay here with Edgar and her horses. A wet nose pushed into his palm, and he realized the hounds had followed him. They now slept at night before the fire in Ariel's bedchamber.

He acknowledged them with a word and they walked sedately at his heels, matching his halting pace, into the stable-yard. At the door to the Arabians' block, they paused expectantly. Simon paused too. He could hear voices, Ranulf's voice, loud and hectoring, followed by Edgar's slow country drawl, impeded by the eternal straw between his teeth. There was no sign of Ariel.

"What's my sister done with the colt?"

"Sent 'im away, m'lord. I jest said so."

"Don't be insolent, man! Unless you want to feel my whip. Sent him away where?"

"I don't rightly know, m'lord. She told me to 'ave 'im shipped downriver t'other mornin' and I obeyed me orders- as I always does." Edgar's voice was phlegmatic, unperturbed by Ranulf's threats of violence.

"You must know where you shipped him." Ranulf's exasperation clearly came from his knowledge that this man was not to be cowed.

"That I don't, m'lord. Them what comes fer 'im knew where they were agoin' an' I didn't inquire. Not my business, sir."

Simon moved away from the door and limped rather more rapidly than was comfortable toward the mews. He didn't want Ranulf to catch him eavesdropping. But just what was going on? Ariel's horses were beautiful, but why was Ranulf so put out that one of the colts had disappeared?

He remembered now Ariel's questioning of her brother at the hunt picnic. He remembered hearing the tension in her voice as she asked him with such apparent casualness what he'd thought when he'd paid his unexpected visits to her stables. She had said she had no interest in selling them. But he remembered her flush, the way she had walked away from him.

Ariel was not an adept liar. Something was going on.

The mews was dark and cold, the air acrid. A faint shifting filled the quiet as the raptors, sensing the presence of a stranger, shifted on their perches.

"Can I 'elp, sir?"

The falconer appeared out of the shadows. He was a big man, with a large paunch and a squint that gave him an immediate air of suspicion.

"Hawkesmoor." Simon offered in identification.

"Afternoon, m'lord. You want to take a look at the birds before the hawking in the mornin'?"

"If you please."

The falconer walked him through the dimness along the perches, giving brief descriptions of each bird. "This 'ere is Lady Ariel's Wizard." He stopped at the merlin.

"Ah, yes, I saw him fly." Simon scratched the falcon's neck and the bird's bright eye regarded him coldly. "I thought be would renege, but he came back to the wrist as sweetly as you please."

"Aye, he's a bird wi' a mind of 'is own, but he'll return to Lady Ariel."

"Why's this one hooded on his perch?" Simon pointed to the bird next to Wizard. The gyrfalcon was almost pure white, heavy and powerful, and his massive claws gripped the perch. Everything about him bespoke malevolence.

"That's Satan. By name and nature," the falconer replied. "No one knows why 'e went bad, but 'e can't be trusted." He laughed shortly but with a degree of affection. "Not that you can trust an 'awk further than you can throw 'im, but this one's a real evil devil."

"Why do you keep him?"

"The earl 'as a fondness fer 'im." The man's tone was tart. "Like master like bird."

Simon let the statement lie. "So, which birds do you keep for your guests? My friends and I didn't bring our own."

"I've a beautiful peregrine for you, m'lord." The falconer's voice grew warmly enthusiastic. "I trained 'im fer Lady Ariel and she flies 'im often, but she says you're to 'ave 'im tomorrow. She'll be flyin' the merlin."

The slate gray falcon was indeed beautiful. "Any quirks?"

The falconer laughed softly. "Traveler likes a reward.

Flies better fer it, unlike most of 'em. I'll give you a pouch of chicken liver. Jest a taste now and agin will keep 'im flyin' sweet."

Simon nodded and scratched the bird between his ears. "Crafty one, are you?"

The falcon regarded him with an air almost of complacence, and Simon smiled. "I believe I'm going to enjoy you, Traveler."

The falconer accompanied him back to the door to the stableyard, where the hounds were waiting patiently. Since their adventure with the poisoned carcass, they rarely went off on their own.

Ranulf was crossing the yard from the Arabians' block as Simon emerged from the mews. "Magnificent birds you have, Ravenspeare," Simon called pleasantly.

Ranulf stopped to wait for him. He was glowering, clearly still out of temper, but whether because of the defeat in the archery court or because of the disappearance of the mysterious colt it was impossible to tell.

"I've a gyrfalcon you can try, brother-in-law." Ranulf's dark eyes watched the Hawkesmoor's reaction.

Simon shook his head, saying easily, "If you're offering me Satan, I have to say I'm not skilled enough to fly him."

Ranulf's lip curled. "Then I'll fly him myself."

"I'm sure you have the skill, Ranulf. I'll be flying Ariel's peregrine." Simon whistled up the dogs who were snuffling at the ground a few yards away.

"I see those damned hounds have taken to you," Ranulf snarled.

"They had little choice," Simon responded with a private smile that he knew would rile his enemy even more. "I've learned that the way to Ariel's confidence lies through her animals." He moved a little faster to keep up with Ranulf, who had increased his speed across the yard. "Her Arabians, for instance. An impressive stud, don't you think?"

Ranulf slowed his pace. "What has she said to you of her plans for them?"

"Only that they're her hobby. I've sent order to Hawkesmoor Manor to have new stables built for them. They should be ready soon after our return."

Ranulf shot him a quick look, his eyes sharply assessing. Then he said nonchalantly, "We shall be sorry to see you go, brother-in-law. Such a pleasant time as we're all having. But you'll excuse me if I leave you now. I have matters to attend to and it's not convenient to keep to your pace."

He strode off, leaving Simon to limp after him.