The Silver Rose

Chapter Twenty-four

"Are you going up to the castle now, Ariel?" Jenny looked up from the stocking she was darning, turning her wide blue eyes toward Ariel, who was standing somewhat irresolutely beside the table, her boots in her hand.

Ariel, who hadn't fully made up her mind whether to put on her boots or put them away again, said, "How did you know I was even thinking of going out, Jenny?"

"You mentioned it earlier, and you haven't been able to settle to anything all evening."

Ariel sat down and began to lace up her boots. "Yes, I'm going up to the castle."

"To see your husband." It was a rhetorical question. Sarah continued stripping the casings off a sheaf of honesty, revealing the silver sheen of the dried leaves beneath. Jenny said for her, "I expect it's for the best."

"Yes, I'm sure it is," Ariel commented somewhat dryly. She reached for her cloak. "Would you keep the dogs here? I have a feeling they might be in the way."

Sarah rose immediately and laid a hand on each neck. The hounds sat staring mournfully as Ariel went to the door, saying, "Don't wait up for me."

"Should we worry if you don't come back at all?" Jenny asked with an unusually mischievous glint in her eye.

Ariel blushed scarlet, although she couldn't imagine why. She shot a hot look at Sarah, who was considerately busying herself with the dogs. "Just don't wait up for me," she repeated, and left.

It was a crisp, star-filled night. The river was high and its smell of mud and reeds and rank, decaying waterweed permeated the air. She had no idea what she was going to say to

Simon, and within her mind angry, defiant bravado warred with supplicant anxiety. Neither of which were useful.

She broke a laurel switch from the hedge and cut viciously at the tangle of hedgerow as she passed. In essence, she was bowing her head beneath the yoke of her marriage because she didn't have any choice. Not without her horses. She couldn't skulk around accepting Sarah's charity forever. She was a married woman with no financial resources of her own, her husband's chattel; and any court in the land would defend a husband's right to take his wife and sequester her in the marital home.

How her brothers would laugh. And the last laugh was always the loudest. She'd taunted them as she'd foiled their own plans for the Hawkesmoor, and now she was neatly hoist on her own petard.

The three miles to the castle disappeared beneath her feet like three inches under this bitter musing. She avoided the kitchen, slipped swiftly across the deserted stableyard, noting the watchmen's lamps burning in the Arabians' block, and entered the inner courtyard to the Great Hall, whose great iron-barred doors stood ajar to the freezing night.

She heard high-pitched squeals, roars of laughter, the sounds of furniture being overturned. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Ariel ran up the steps, then she stood transfixed in the open doorway at the scene being played out before her. Her eyes took in the row of girls facing the line of men with their pistols cocked, trigger fingers poised. She knew this game of her brothers; it had been played many times in various forms over the years. Sickened, she stared at Simon, unable to believe that she was ready seeing him-a part of this-that he wasn't some figment of her disordered and overwrought imagination.

Then realization dawned in maddeningly slow degrees as she saw Ranulf s pistol move sideways just a fraction of an inch, so that instead of pointing directly at the terrified girl against the wall it was now at an oblique angle toward the man standing beside him.

Half an hour earlier, Ranulf had sprung his surprise on the Hawkesmoor cadre.

"A contest, gentlemen. Since you all seem to have chosen a filly, now you must win her."

Simon felt the girl creep closer against his body. Her fear of the massive, ugly man who had claimed her had died within the first half hour, when he had made no attempt to touch her in the lewd ways she had been taught to expect. From the shelter of his large frame, she had kept a wary watch upon the other men and had seen to her astonishment that most of the girls were being treated with as much respect as herself. All except for the three unlucky enough to fall to the hands of the lords of Ravenspeare.

"Yes, yes, a contest!" Ralph flung out a hand, sending a crystal goblet flying to the floor. He leaped to his feet, sending the girl who had been sitting on his lap to join the goblet on the floor with an unceremonious shove.

"We shall play William Tell, Hawkesmoor. Split the apple, and the girl's yours. Fail, and you go lonely to bed. Where are the apples, Roland?"

"In the fruit bowl, where you'd expect them," Roland drawled, regarding his young brother with his habitual air of contempt. He had bared the breast of the girl he held on his knee and now rolled her nipple between his fingers. Her sharp indrawn breath was the only indication that his attentions were less than gentle.

"I trust you'll see your way to competing, gentlemen," Roland continued in the same drawl. "Any girl rejected must go back unfeed to Mistress Hibbert. Not a pleasant fate."

"I'll fee them all myself," Peter Stanton said angrily. Ranulf gave a short barking laugh. "I assure you, Stanton, that Mistress Hibbert knows which side her bread is buttered, and if I make bad report of any one of these girls, the whore will find herself begging her bread on the wharf at Harwich after a particularly unpleasant session with the Hibberts' overseer.

"And they know it, don't you, my dears?" He leered at the girls, who, even while shrinking in obvious terror, moved away from the protectors whose protection was suddenly becoming dangerous.

"Come, whores, over here." Ralph raced around the room, grabbing the girls, manhandling them over to the wad. His eyes glittered madly in his drink-bloated face. "Here, now stand absolutely still if you value your skins." He grinned and snatched up the fruit bowl from the table. Cradling it in the crook of an arm, he marched down the line of girls, carefully balancing a bright green apple on each disheveled head.

"What the hell's he doing?" Jack murmured to Simon, unable to believe his eyes.

"We're ad to play William Ted, it would seem," Simon responded sardonically, indicating the pistols that Ralph was laying upon the table. "Our hosts' idea of gracious entertainment."

"I'd not take my part in such a piece of filthy debauchery," Peter declared.

There was a chorus of agreement. "Consider for a minute." Simon spoke swiftly in an undertone, his eyes never leaving the brothers and their victims. "Win the girl, send her home. Lose her, and she'd fad foul of her whoremaster and victim to our hosts. And if matters degenerate to an open brawl, the girls will suffer regardless." He reached for one of the pistols on the table and hefted it thoughtfully, then glanced across at the row of girls. The child he'd been protecting gazed at him in wide-eyed terror and appeal.

He smiled reassuringly and sighted along the barrel of the gun, murmuring, "Do you doubt your skid, gentlemen?" "Ah, so the Hawkesmoor's not such a puny sportsman after all," Ranulf declared, stepping up beside Simon, caressing the long barrel of his pistol. "Come, gentlemen, take your places."

"And if you're too fastidious to enjoy the game as it stands, pretend you're shying for coconuts at the fair!" Ralph giggled, taking up his own pistol.

"For God's sake, man, your hand's shaking like a leaf!" Jack exclaimed in disgust. "Ravenspeare! You let that drunken sot take aim and I'll shoot the pistol out of his hand."

"Aye, Ralph, back away. This is no game for drunken fools!" It was Roland who moved suddenly, knocking his brother's pistol aside. His eyes were cold and hard and deadly as they held Ralph's besotted gaze. "You ruin this at your peril, brother," he hissed, his face so close to the younger man's that his spittle showered Ralph's cheeks.

Ralph swore a vile oath, wiping his face with the back of his hand. But through his drunkenness a spark of light showed. More than one accidental shooting in the halls of Ravenspeare Castle could cause raised eyebrows. He turned aside, his face sullen, grabbed a wine bottle from the table, and put it to his lips.

There was a small general exhalation of breath, then the men took up their places. The Hawkesmoor cadre were as still as sharpshooters, every man's eye fixed immovable on the shiny green apple that was his target. And the girls, terrified, some of them well gone in drink themselves, struggled to control chattering teeth and quivering necks.

Simon felt the fine hairs on his nape lift; a sensation of acute awareness prickled his ear. Just the tension of this moment, with the girl's huge eyes swimming in front of his gaze? Or something else… something not quite right… but what could possibly be right about anything…

A rush of air, a cry as piercing as a hunting horn's, ripped the tense silence into shreds. Ranulf staggered sideways under an almighty buffet to his shoulder as Ariel's full weight cannoned into him. As Ranulf went reeling, his pistol flying from his fingers, Simon found himself on the receiving end of a barrage of invective that singed his ears.

"You… you would dare to play these vile games! You with your sober Puritan suits and your Hawkesmoor airs and graces, looking down on Ravenspeares, telling me to hold my tongue, not to play the games that only demean the players… and look at you!" Her face was pink with outrage, her gray eyes so hot they scorched, and the words fed from her tongue in a higgledy-piggledy outpouring of outraged justice.

"Look at what you're doing! You… ad of you…" An expansive hand swallowed up the astounded cadre in one gesture. "You're no better than my brothers. In fact you're worse, because you're hypocrites, every damn one of you… No, don't you deny it!" she cried as Simon, slowly beginning to recover his senses, took breath to interrupt. "You want to play for a woman in your bed, husband. Then you can damn well play for your wife!"

In one bound she had snatched the apple from the head of Simon's whore, shoving the girl out of the way. She stood facing him, the apple in her hand.

"All right, Hawkesmoor. I challenge you."

Ranulf had picked up his fallen pistol. He stood staring down at it in bemusement. Roland lowered his own weapon and looked at his sister. His eyes held the knowledge of what had ready happened… what Ariel had seen and prevented. And behind the frustration lurked a spark of amusement and something akin to admiration.

"Wed, well," he said almost to himself. "Baby sister's foiled us again." He continued to regard her with the same gleam in his eye, recognizing that Ariel was now rather entangled in her motives. Having achieved the practical issue of her intervention, something else was going on now, and Simon, earl of Hawkesmoor, was definitely her target.

"Lady Hawkesmoor… Ariel… there's no need to get upset," Stanton began.

"No, indeed, ma'am. Your husband was only-"

"I've no need for my friends to make my excuses to my wife," Simon interrupted, his voice unusually sharp. He cradled the barrel of the pistol in his left palm.

"So, you've come back, my wife."

"Just in time to save my brother's pistol from throwing a little to the left," she retorted.

"Ah." Simon nodded, casting a sideways glance at Ranulf. "That was why I felt that pricking in my thumbs." He returned his attention to Ariel, standing with the apple between her hands. "It seems your return was timely."

"Hardly," she snapped. "When I find you in the midst of an orgy."

"It's not always wise to believe the evidence of one's eyes," he advised. "But we can discuss that later. For now, we have more serious business to attend to, I believe."

He took a step back, squinted at her, then said evenly, "Stand still, Ariel. You're shaking… with anger, not fear, no doubt… but if you move so much as an eyelash, you make my task impossible."

His eyes were steady, once again clear and blue as glacial ice. Ariel took a deep steadying breath as she balanced the apple on her head. She dropped her hands to her sides and faced him, her eyes still fierce yet exultant with challenge.

The Great Hall fell completely silent. It was as if not a rustle of air breathed through the group of men and women. Even Ralph was transfixed. Something primitive, elemental, surged between the man with his pistol and the silent and immobile girl. It was contained in their eyes. An overpowering, almost sexual tension that thrummed in the air.

Simon took his time. On some detached plane, he was aware of the absurdity of indulging in such a primitive reaction, such an irrational response to challenge. But on another plane, he knew what this was about. It wasn't about rational thought and civilized reaction. It was about trust. The wild, untamed side of Ariel had chosen this crazy challenge as a leap of faith. Not intentionally and she was probably not even aware of it in the curious exultation of this moment. But that was what was happening. She was challenging him to deserve her trust.

He raised the pistol, supported it on his forearm lest the slightest quiver of a finger prove their undoing. He sighted. For a minute Ariel's eyes filled his sights. Huge, glowing, defiant, yet filled with an emotion that stunned him as he recognized it. It was need. Ariel, who never needed anything from anyone, needed him to make this right for them both.

He moved his sight to the apple, until it filled his vision. The small black tip of the stem showed at the bright green apex. Gently… oh, so gently… he squeezed the trigger.

The report was so violent in the deathly hush that the girls screamed shrilly almost in unison, and even men used to the sounds of a battlefield flinched. Only Ariel didn't move. After a minute she raised a hand and almost wonderingly touched her head. Her scalp still felt heavy where the apple had rested, and her hair still seemed to crackle from the rush of air from the bullet. But the apple, in two neat segments, had flown to the floor, and her hair wasn't even parted.

Simon laid the pistol down and limped over to her. He took her hands in a firm clasp and said with not entirely feigned sternness, "Of ad the insanities, Ariel! I cannot imagine how you persuaded me to do such a thing."

"You did it because you wanted to," she returned. "Because you needed to."

"That is nor what I needed to do with you," he said dryly, catching her chin between finger and thumb. "I have let you run us both ragged for too long, my dear girl. The worm is about to turn."

"Oh?" Ariel exclaimed. "What worm? I was the worm who wasn't allowed to have her horses!"

"Could someone explain what's going on?" Jack inquired somewhat plaintively. "Worms and horses seem an unlikely combination."

"Not in my wife's scheme of things." Simon reached behind him for his cane. "Come. Let us discuss these improbable bedfellows in privacy." He made her hand fast beneath his arm and turned with her toward the stairs.

"What's that?" Ariel said suddenly, resisting his encouraging pressure.

"What's what?" Simon's voice was impatient.

"That!" she said, breaking free of his hold and running toward the open doors. As she reached them a blood-spattered figure staggered through into the hall.

"Edgar!"

"The 'osses!" Edgar gasped, falling to his knees, one hand pressed to his shoulder, which hung at an odd angle. Blood poured from a gash on his head, blinding him. "The 'osses, m'lord. Men… men in the stableyard… after 'em… can't 'old 'em off."

"Oh, you bastard swine son of a filth-eating sewer rat!" Ariel cursed Ranulf, who was already on his way out of the hall. Ariel looked wildly around. "You, girl!" She pointed to one of the girls who seemed less vacuous than the others. "Get help for Edgar from the kitchen." Then she was off, her plait flying behind her.

Roland and Ralph, both in the dark about the true nature of Ariel's racing stud and their brother's own plans for it, took a minute or two before they set off in pursuit of brother and sister.

"Go on," Simon gritted as his friends hesitated when he limped toward the door. "For God's sake, go on-Keep an eye on Ariel. I'll follow as fast as I can."

Jack gave him one last concerned look, then nodded, and loped off toward the sounds of battle coming from the stableyard.

Simon's mouth was set in a dour line as he hobbled, forcing himself to an almost impossible pace toward the arch to the stableyard. Once there, he stared for a minute in disbelief. Ariel's Arabians were standing in a shivering string to the far side of the yard in the charge of a gang of gypsies. A pitched battle was being waged on the cobbles in the fitful glare of pitch torches.

The men of the Ravenspeare stables were fighting with staves, pitchforks, stones; and their opponents, dark clad, faces smeared with soot, wielded the same. As Simon watched, trying to distinguish the figures, Ariel plunged into the midst of the melee.

Simon opened his mouth to bellow at her, but then his own friends had dived forward and she was lost to view in the encircling company. Simon's eyes darted around the wild scene as he tried to decide where his own intervention should be made. His gaze fed on a tad, slim figure standing on a water butt, his sword in his hand, his head thrown back, his eyes glittering in the light of the torch behind him.

Oliver Becket.

Becket cheered on his men with a rousing cry, then yelled across the yard, "Ravenspeare! Let's show this rabble how it's done!" He leaped from the barrel into the fray.

"A mid… a mid!" Ralph squealed excitedly, racing forward, head down, sword waving without direction.

Roland's eyes flicked toward Ranulf, who hadn't responded to Becket's cad to arms and stood glaring angrily at the fracas, ripping at a fingernail with his teeth. Roland glanced at the Hawkesmoor, who, still unflappably, was taking in the scene with a soldier's observant eye.

The two battle lines swayed, then a flame shot up from the thatched roof of the barn. A horse screamed in fear at the smell of smoke. Ariel dodged sideways out of the grappling fines.

She darted to the horses. "Do something useful, you thieving dolts! Get them to leeward of the smoke before they stampede!" She kicked, punched, pulled, grabbed, at the ragged, filthy youths, some of whom somehow found themselves leading the high-strung beasts out of the direct line of the smoke, while others raced to douse the flames, filling buckets from the pump.

Simon's friends stepped backward as Ariel abandoned the fight and, like the earl, they stood and took stock, the immediate need for action now lessened.

The Becket contingent were all hardy scrappers, from the gypsy encampment for the most part, and they followed no rules of combat. The Ravenspeare men, those whom Simon and Edgar had employed to guard the horses, were not natural fighters. They were grooms, field hands, gardeners, and it was clear to Simon once he'd sorted out the confusion that his men were getting the worst of it.

The barn was now merrily afire, the flames shooting up into the star-studded sky. Simon listened, hearing a dull rumbling roar from across the fields. It was a roll of voices, gathering momentum, like impending thunder. And then the sound became distinct. It was the panicked chant of "Fire!" on the tongues of a great crowd. People poured into the yard, men and women, armed with buckets, flails, pitchforks.

One of the Ravenspeare men gave a sudden unearthly shriek and fell to the cobbles, a knife jutting from his arm. At the sight, the crowd, who had come ready for anything, charged into the melee, to the rescue of the sons and husbands of their own villages.

"Oh, God, you have to stop it!" Ariel was suddenly at Simon's side, her face black with soot, her hair flying from its pins. "They're going to kill each other. All of them. It's a Romany fight."

The local people loathed and feared the gypsies. Brawls were constantly breaking out, and it would take little to start a full-scale battle between the two camps. And the wounding of one of their own was all the tinder needed.

"Ravenspeare! Call off your men!" Simon bellowed over the noise. "For God's sake, man, this is no good for anyone."

Ranulf's eyes glittered. "Call off yours, Hawkesmoor. The horses 'are mine. Get out of here and take my damnable sister with you, and I'll call off my men."

Ariel jumped forward and was pulled back with an unceremonious jerk as Simon grabbed and hung on to her arm. "You murdering bastard!" she gasped at her brother. Words were futile but they were ad Simon was allowing her. "You wouldn't give a tinker's damn if every man here died."

"Why should I?" he laughed. "Yield your horses, sister, and I'll grant the lives of your precious peasants."

"Jack, take my wife." Simon thrust Ariel from him and she spun into Jack Chauncey's arms, too startled for a minute to speak.

Simon drew his sword. He took a step toward Ranulf. "So, it must be as it's always been, Ravenspeare." His voice was without a trace of expression and his eyes were cold and flat. "We will settle this in blood, as such things have always been settled between our two families."

Ranulf drew his sword inch by inch from his scabbard, his mocking gray gaze never leaving his brother-in-law's. "You think I can't best a cripple, Hawkesmoor?"

"Yes, I think that." Simon stepped back, clearing a space around them with a sweep of his sword. "Ted your pander to cad off your men first."

Ranulf's mouth twitched at this contemptuous epithet. But his eyes were greedy, too greedy for revenge upon the Hawkesmoor to defend his best friend too strenuously.

He bellowed over his shoulder, his voice rising above the tumult. "Cad off your men, Oliver. I have a better way of settling this."

Oliver, emerging from the fray, looked stunned. But he had danced to Ranulf's tune for too many years to question the notes, even now in the midst of this splendid mayhem that he alone had created. He turned with a slashing sword back to the fray, cursing and beating through the throng.

"Quell it, Jack." Simon spoke quietly as he stood waiting. The cadre moved into the fray, using their swords with quiet, unemotional efficiency as they would when quelling a riot. Men fed back, bleeding, moaning, the wildness dying from their eyes as they realized how lost they had been in the blood madness.

Ariel stood still, her heart in her throat. The barn's damp thatch was now sullenly smoldering, and the torches threw garish light over the stableyard as the two men paced out a dueling piste. From all sides, eyes watched them.

How could Simon match Ranulf in an even contest? Ranulf had two sound legs. He was fast. He was not plagued with debilitating aches and pains.

Why were his friends not fearful? She could see nothing on their faces as they conferred with Simon and paced the piste.

Then Jack took Simon's hand, pressed it, and stepped back, the others joining him beside Ariel. She looked up at Jack, unable to frame her fear, and he gave her an almost quizzical smile and took her hand.

Ranulf looked over his shoulder at his two brothers, standing behind him. He grinned at them. "The final game of the tournament, my brothers. A fitting end to our wedding celebrations, I believe."

Ralph sniggered. Roland merely raised an eyebrow.

Simon lifted his sword in salute. Ranulf returned the courtesy.

The two women hastened, breathless, along the uneven lane. The sounds of mayhem, the smell of smoke, the clash of weapons, grew ever closer and more immediate, drowning out any words Jenny formed. Her mother's hand was on her arm, guiding her because they were going too fast for the younger woman's blind feet to step true. Ahead of them the hounds barked, every now and again turning back as if to herd the women onward.

Sarah had heard the sounds first. So faint behind the snug walls of the cottage, for a minute she believed she was imagining them, except that the dogs had raced to the door and stood, ears cocked, every line of their graceful, powerful bodies straining.

And then Romulus had thrown himself at the door, raising his voice in a great baying cry of anxiety and distress. Remus had promptly followed suit.

"What is it? What's the matter with them?" Jenny had rushed over to them, trying to calm them, but they had continued to batter the doors, giving vent to that unearthly cry.

Sarah had fetched her cloak from the peg, and Jenny, in bewilderment, had donned her own. The minute she had opened the doors, the hounds had shot out like gray cannon-bads, and as the women had hurried in their wake, they returned again and again, rounding them up, herding them along toward the smoke-filled skyline and the sounds of battle.

"Is it Ariel, Mother?" Jenny's voice was barely a whisper. Sarah merely took her hand in a tighter grip and hurried her along.

They reached the stableyard just as the violent hubbub seemed to be dying down. Jenny blinked as if she could somehow clear her blind eyes as she stood clutching her mother's hand. Ad around her, Jenny could feel the press of people. She could smell the reek of blood and stale humanity, and the stench of fear twitched in her nostrils. But she could hear no words to help her form a coherent picture of her surroundings. Her mother's hand gripped hers, and Jenny clung to it as the only solid beam in a frightening maelstrom that had no shape for her.

Sarah stepped a little forward into the yard. She saw the two men with their drawn swords, facing each other in the torchlight. She saw the circle of faces, eager, curious, malicious, surrounding them, watching the spectacle of death. She saw Ariel, the dogs now at her side, although she seemed unaware of them. She seemed to Sarah to be in a trance, her face bloodless, her lips blue.

Swords clashed and Ariel jumped as if it wasn't the sound she'd been expecting. Nausea was bitter in her throat, filling her mouth, and she thought she wouldn't be able to stay on her feet. And then she saw what was happening.

Simon wasn't moving. He stood rock solid, foursquare on the cobbles, and he was driving back Ranulf's attack with the sheer power and force of his upper body. But then she saw that he was moving, but they were small sideways shifts, mere flickers of his torso, taking him out of the line of Ranulf s snaking blade. And again and again, he caught his opponent's blade and forced it back.

It was as if Ranulf's opponent were a many-armed Hercules, Ariel thought in disbelief. Wherever her brother placed his blade, Simon's blade was waiting for it. Neither man was using the slender tempered steel of a dueling rapier, but Simon's weapon seemed somehow thicker, sharper, broader, and yet it moved as if with a life of its own.

Ranulf feinted, lunged beneath Simon's arm, trying to throw him off balance, hoping that he could slide behind him, forcing him to turn. Simon sidestepped. It was more of a hop than a step, and for one impossible second he was poised on the ball of his strong foot. Then his great cavalry sword flashed up and under, the blade crashing against the underside of Ranulf's hilt, and the other man's sword crashed to the ground.

Simon bent awkwardly and picked up the fallen sword. Suddenly all the grace seemed to have gone from him. That impossible pirouette was now just an image in the minds of everyone who had seen it. He straightened, and Ariel could see immediately that he was in pain. The white lines were drawn deeper than usual from his nose to his mouth, and his lips were set.

"Ravenspeare." He handed the sword hilt-first to Ranulf, who was staring flabbergasted. "The horses are now to be transported to Hawkesmoor."

"No!" Ralph surged forward, his eyes wild and staring. "You think you can better a Ravenspeare, Hawkesmoor!" He had a knife in his hand.

Ariel's shriek brought Simon swinging round, but Ralph was already upon him, his hand raised to plunge the knife into the Hawkesmoor's neck.

Sarah's thin body was suddenly between the two men. Ralph couldn't have halted the knife's stabbing trajectory if he'd wanted to. Sarah fed to the ground in a flutter of dark material, her hand pressed to her throat, where blood pulsed strongly between her fingers.

"Sarah," Ariel whispered, moving forward like a somnambulist. Simon had fallen heavily to his knees beside the fallen woman, his hands pressing a fold of material against the wound.

"Mother! Mother! Where are you?" Jenny's voice broke the hushed stillness. She came toward the group, her hands outstretched as her feet stumbled over the uneven cobbles. Ad her usual sensory antennae had deserted her in the evil-smelling place where the people crowded thickly against her.

"Sarah?" Ariel bent low, pressing her ear to the woman's mouth. "No," she whispered. "No. It can't be." She raised her eyes to Simon, whose hands were still pressed to the wound in Sarah's throat.

Ariel reached up for Jenny's hand, pulling her down to the cobbles beside her. Jenny laid her hands on her mother, feeling her breast. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks as she laid her face against Sarah's.

Sarah opened her eyes. For a moment they were unclouded. Her gaze moved slowly over the three faces bending over her. With a supreme effort she raised her hand and touched Jenny's tear-wet cheeks. Her hand moved to Ariel, who bent her head lower for the benediction, clasping the hand, pressing a kiss in the palm.

Then Sarah turned her eyes to Simon. She reached up and touched his face as she had touched it twice before. Then she kissed her own fingertips and pressed them against his mouth.

Instinctively his fingers closed over hers. He stared down into her face, and incredibly she smiled at him, a smile of deep, abiding pleasure as if what she saw she found good.

And Sarah's thoughts were as unclouded as her eyes. The son must not know his mother. The mother died at Ravenspeare hands and the son must not know that. It was time for the blood and the violence, and the passions that only flared to destroy, to cease.

Her hand moved blindly toward Ariel again, grasping her wrist with astonishing strength. Her fingers grappled with the bracelet with sudden urgency, as if there was something she had to do, and quickly.

"What is it?" Ariel whispered. "The bracelet… you want the bracelet?" With feverish fingers she unclasped it and Sarah took it with that same strength, crushing it in her hand. The bracelet connected the blood of the past. The bracelet would go with her to the grave, together with the secrets it carried.

Again Sarah looked at Simon. And then her gaze traveled slowly and lovingly over the faces of her daughter and the girl who was all but her daughter as they clung together beside the only mother either of them had ever known. She let her hand with the bracelet fall to her side, but her fingers remained closed tightly over it. Now her eyes clouded, but that same smile was on her lips.

It was Ariel who leaned over and closed her eyes. "There are no words," she whispered, taking Jenny in her arms.

Simon rose slowly and awkwardly to his feet. He looked down at the dead woman, at the glitter of gold between her closed fist. Why? Why the bracelet? His own elusive memory played hide-and-seek, and yet he knew in his blood and bones and sinew that the woman Sarah had taken a secret to her grave that was almost his, but that she would not have had him share.