So Great A Love Read online

  She told herself she was being silly, she had taken leave of her usual practical good sense. She reminded herself that she had embarked upon a desperate course, that she was defying not only her father's personal wishes, but the strictures of the Church and the accepted rules of society, and thus she had good cause to feel uneasy. Then she told herself once again, very sternly, that she was safe at Bowen. Still, Margaret knew she held important information that she was duty-bound to pass on to the king as quickly as possible. She began by questioning Catherine while they worked together.

  “According to my father, Lord Royce is close to King Henry,” Margaret said.

  “Since they were boys.” Catherine responded somewhat breathlessly, as she was stretching to reach the top of the shutters at the tall windows along one side of the great hall. She found little dust, but a feather fell away from the long-handled duster and drifted downward. Catherine sneezed hard.

  “Then, I suppose it would be easier, and likely much quicker, for Lord Royce to get a message to King Henry than for me to send a letter directly to the king,” Margaret said.

  “Probably.” Catherine lowered the feather duster and stared at her friend. “No matter who appeals to the king on your behalf, I doubt if he will intervene with your father.”

  “I need to contact the king about a matter other than my refusal to marry Lord Adhemar,” Margaret said.

  “Oh?” By her tone and her raised eyebrows, Catherine plainly expected an explanation.

  “Please don't ask what it's about,” Margaret begged. “It's safer for you not to know.”

  “Safer?” Catherine glanced around until her gaze settled on Aldis at the other side of the hall, where she was supervising two maids in cleaning out the great fireplace. “I can keep a secret.”

  “No one knows that better than I. I'll tell you this much; it's something Gertrude told me, which I believe the king ought to know,” Margaret said. “If I write a letter, will you send it to your father along with your own note, and ask him to forward it to King Henry as quickly as possible?”

  “Of course, I will,” Catherine said. “And you needn't tell me the contents if you would rather not. But Margaret, why not send the letter to my father instead of to the king? Let him read it and decide what ought to be done. Perhaps Father can take care of the problem without bothering King Henry, who by all accounts is still grieving over his sons.”

  “That's the second time recently you've given me good advice,” Margaret said. “I've been so frightened and upset, I haven't been thinking clearly. I'll never forget all you’ve done for me.”

  “We can't send any message to my father until the snow stops,” Catherine remarked, looking out the window, “so take your time writing the letter.”

  Margaret tried to compose the letter in her head as she worked, but neither the information she wanted Lord Royce to consider and perhaps relay to the king, nor the steady pace of housework, absorbed all of her attention, for there was another subject intruding upon her thoughts.

  She could not stop thinking about Arden. More than a dozen years in the past, when Arden was a handsome young squire and Margaret a maiden fostered at the same castle of Cliffmore, she had developed a secret fondness for him. It was a weakness she never dared confess to anyone, not even to Catherine, and she always took great care that Arden himself should not guess at it.

  From confidences whispered when she and Catherine were alone Margaret had known all about Catherine's girlhood tenderness for Tristan, the son of the baron of Cliffmore. Yet never was Margaret able to speak, even in a whisper to the friend of her heart, about her own feelings for Catherine's brother.

  Perhaps her interest in him had developed because Arden was so different from her. The young Arden was always laughing, frequently impetuous, and boldly willing to accept any consequences of his impetuousness without shame or fear. But that was all on the surface of his character and Margaret sensed there were secret depths to Arden, waters so deep and dark she was almost afraid to speak to him, lest she be pulled into an undertow too swift and dangerous for her to survive it. For that reason she took care never to touch him, though she had often been close enough to do so, and she had longed to feel beneath her fingertips the hard, youthful muscles and the warmth of his tall, broad-shouldered body. Drawn to him while at the same time frightened of the longings he stirred in her, she had been struck dumb whenever he was near.

  She was five years younger than Arden and so she held no feminine interest for him. Toward Margaret, Arden was scrupulously polite. She envied the warm, protective affection between Catherine and Arden for, on the rare occasions when she saw Eustace, Margaret received no hint of love from her own brother.

  When Arden left England to travel to the Holy Land to join the neverending war against the infidel forces, Margaret put her tender thoughts of him firmly out of her mind while, at the same time, consoling Catherine as best she could for her brother's absence. A few months later, Margaret was called upon to comfort Catherine again, when she was distraught over Tristan's departure on the same great adventure. A short while after Tristan's going, Catherine returned home to Wortham Castle when her mother died, and Margaret's heart ached for the dear friend who had suffered three great losses in so short a time.

  Finally, Margaret left Cliffmore Castle to return to Sutton, there to quarrel with her father and brother about the arrangements they had made for her future and, having lost the quarrel, to wed Lord Pendance. Once she was ensconced in Pendance Castle in distant Cornwall, her girlhood seemed far away and, except for the once or twice a year when she exchanged letters with Catherine, she refused to think of more carefree days, or of Arden, whom she was certain she would never see again.

  But now she was staying in the manor belonging to Arden, and it seemed to her that he was everywhere. She could not get him out of her mind. Her sense of his presence was so unnerving that she began to wonder if Arden was dead and if his spirit had returned to say a last farewell to his home. She told herself the notion was a trick of her own unruly and disturbed thoughts. Arden had stayed away from Bowen for more than a decade, a fact which suggested his spirit would not yearn to visit there.

  As she worked with Catherine, directing the servants and cleaning and polishing, Margaret discovered she liked Bowen Manor very much. It contained little in the way of luxury, yet everything about the house and its surroundings was sturdy and well planned. Bowen was not large, but it was built on a compact scale that Margaret found far more pleasing than the huge, drafty spaces of either Sutton or Pendance Castles.

  Bowen had a well-proportioned great hall that boasted a large fireplace in the center of one long wall. Several windows on the opposite wall were glazed with pale yellow, diamond-shaped panes that let in a warm, southern light. Thanks in large part to this soft light, the hall was so pleasant a place to be that the men-at-arms gathered there for every meal, with Sir Wace at the head table. Groups of men were often to be found in the hall between meals, polishing their armor or leather harness, playing at dice or board games, or simply sprawling before the fireplace to talk, all activities that might in another manor have been carried out in the barracks. At Bowen, the chosen spot was the great hall.

  A short staircase led up from the entrance end of the hall to the solar. The lord's chamber opened directly off the solar on one side and, on the other side, a corridor gave access to four small guest rooms. It was in two of these rooms that Catherine and Aldis had taken up residence with every sign of perfect contentment.

  There was a chapel that opened off the entry hall below, though it was bare and unused, since few priests ever came to Bowen, except when Royce brought one with him from Wortham Castle on the visits he made twice a year.

  Bowen Manor was snug against the worst weather and for the most part it was self-sufficient, thanks to basement storerooms filled with preserved food; and, apparently, it went unnoticed by the world outside the dense forest. For all of these reasons, Margaret was delighted
with it.

  Their housecleaning chores completed in late afternoon, the three young women took advantage of Bowen's small bathhouse, which was located just outside the kitchen door, between kitchen and laundry. There they washed away the dust of travel and of housework, and shampooed their hair. Margaret added to her toilette a large splash of her own perfume. Aldis had packed the tightly stoppered vial among the few belongings of Margaret's that she had gathered to remove from Sutton, and Margaret was glad to have the fragrance at hand, for it was a special concoction of her own making.

  After they were clean they hastened, laughing, through the falling snow to the kitchen and along the passage into the great hall, where a fire burned and the tables were being laid for the evening meal. Then on to the solar they hurried, where they sat before their own, private fireplace and all three combed their hair until it was dry and shining.

  “What a terrible snowstorm,” exclaimed Sir Wace, stamping snow and ice off his boots as he came through the front entrance and into the great hall below. His voice carried up the steps to the solar as he addressed the men-at-arms. “It's the worst I’ve ever seen. No man nor beast will venture out tonight. Not even the wild Welsh tribesmen would care to cross the border and cause trouble in this weather. I dare say it's safe to reduce the number of sentries on duty. There's no point in subjecting more men than necessary to such cold and the chance of frostbite. But the rest of you, seek your beds early, for there will be mounds of snow for you to shovel tomorrow.”

  Up in the solar, Margaret and Catherine looked at each other and smiled.

  “What a nice man Sir Wace is,” Margaret said. She leaned forward on her stool, turning her head so the heat of the fire would finish drying her hair as she continued to comb it. “And what a lovely place Bowen is. It feels the way I have always imagined a real home ought to feel, a safe shelter, with friendly people in it. Cat, thank you for bringing me here.”

  “I have never before been here in winter,” Catherine said. “My father and I come each spring and fall and I love it in both of those seasons. There’s an apple orchard outside the western wall of the palisade, and in spring the fragrance from the apple blossoms is wonderful. You would like it at that time of year, on a sunny day, with the trees all in bloom and the bees going about their work. And then, in the autumn, the apples are ripe, and the grain in the fields near the river is golden when it's ready for harvest. And we always go into the woods gathering nuts to store for the winter.”

  “That's my favorite season at Bowen,” Aldis said in a dreamy voice. “Golden, russet autumn is so beautiful here.”

  “I would love to see Bowen then,” Margaret responded, adding with a wistful sigh, “I could be content to live here for the rest of my life, far from ambitious nobles and demanding men.”

  She fell silent, looking around the solar, with its freshly scrubbed wooden floor and four narrow windows topped by rounded arches in the Norman style. The thick glass in the windows was as clear as the glassblower's art could make it, with only slight ripples. The glass was specially chosen to let in as much daylight as possible, for the solar was traditionally the room where the women gathered to work at spinning or weaving or embroidery. The windows were fitted with shutters that could be closed to keep out the cold. At the moment they stood open to admit the last of the fading afternoon light.

  The solar had enough space for a loom to be set up with the light coming in over the weaver's shoulder, but there was no loom, nor even a small embroidery frame. With no lady of the manor to ply her needle or her shuttle, the windows served only to provide a view of dancing snowflakes and of the drifts piling up high against the inner side of the palisade. Still, seldom-used and bare as it was, the solar offered a feminine sanctuary that Margaret appreciated.

  Like the men-at-arms, the women also went to bed early and Margaret lay snug for a second night in the lord's chamber, curled up beneath a thick quilt, with a charcoal brazier to warm the room. She smiled into the dark when the wind rattled the window shutters. In the morning she would locate ink and parchment and write her note to Lord Royce. Meanwhile, there was nothing she could do about her secret information.

  “No man nor beast will venture out tonight,” she murmured. “Sir Wace has said so, and I trust Sir Wace.” Secure in the knowledge that neither her father nor Lord Adhemar could reach her in such weather and pleasantly tired after the vigorous exertions of the day, Margaret sank into the deepest, most profound rest she had known in more than a month.

  * * * * *

  The snow was falling so heavily that Arden missed the turning onto the track that led to Bowen. Only when he was several yards beyond the giant boulder that marked the track did its snow-covered shape register in his weary mind.

  “We must go back,” he said to Michael and Guy. “Turn your horses. The path we want is behind us.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Guy. “It's growing dark, and if we lose our way, we'll die out here.”

  “And no one will find us until spring,” Michael added. “When I was in the Holy Land, I longed for English weather. Now I'd give all I own for a few moments of blistering sunshine.”

  “I said, turn back!” Arden shouted. “No matter how long it takes, we will reach Bowen before we stop.” He usually allowed the men attending him great freedom to speak their minds, but not tonight. He yearned for warmth and shelter from the unrelenting storm no less than his companions. The difference between him and them was that Arden knew that, for him, there was no safe or comfortable place to stop, not even when they reached Bowen Manor. For him, there might very well never be a place where he would find peace.

  Chapter 6

  Arden guessed it was near midnight when they finally came to the palisade that surrounded the manor house and the outbuildings at Bowen. Knowing there must be a sentry on duty, he called out, identifying himself. After a moment he received an answer. It took another few minutes for the wide gate to swing open enough to allow Arden and his men to enter.

  “My lord,” said the sentry, “we didn't expect you, and Sir Wace decided we'd need only one man to guard the gate on a night like this.”

  “Don't disturb Sir Wace,” Arden said. “I remember where the stable is. We can see to our own horses. We aren't hungry; we brought food with us, but we are tired. All we want for now is a place to sleep. I can show my men to the hall and I'll speak with Sir Wace in the morning.” He nudged his weary horse and it began to move away from the gate. Guy and Michael followed him.

  “My lord,” the sentry called after him, “I think you should know – your sister, my lord – and her friends—”

  Arden paid no attention to the indistinct words. He was almost at the stable door and the sentry's voice was muted by snow and the wind.

  A short time later, with the horses fed and watered and only one stableboy awakened in the process, Arden and his fellow travelers entered the great hall of the manor. They found it pleasantly warm, heated by the fireplace in which banked embers still glowed.

  “'Tis clean and well-kept,” said Guy, looking around with appreciation for what he saw. “You have a good staff, my lord. They haven't shirked their duties in your absence.”

  “I must remember to congratulate Sir Wace when I see him tomorrow,” Arden responded dryly. As he spoke he unclasped and swung off his wet cloak, then bent his head and lifted his arms so Michael could remove his chainmail hauberk. His next words were muffled by the mail. “There are rooms above stairs that you are welcome to use if you like. I can rouse the servants. They'll be sleeping in the kitchen, near the fire there.”

  “Unused rooms will be cold,” said Guy. “There's no need to waken anyone. Like the servants, I would rather be warm by a fire.” From the saddlebag he carried slung over his arm, Guy pulled a thick blanket. This he spread on the floor near the fireplace. He then arranged his saddlebag as a pillow.

  “Leave space for me,” Michael said to Guy. He finished divesting Arden of his sword and belt, his armor and his
boots, then laid everything in a neat pile on the floor. “This is the best kind of campaign, when we have a roof over our heads at night, a steady fire to warm us, and the sure knowledge that we won't be ambushed while we sleep.”

  “Will you be joining us, my lord?” Guy asked. Having removed his wet boots and spread his cloak out to dry, he was already settled on his makeshift bed, with his feet toward the fire which Michael was building up anew using logs taken from a basket that was set at a safe distance from the hearth.

  “No,” Arden said. “Tonight I have a longing for privacy.” Out of habit he picked up his belt and sword, to take them with him. Leaving Michael and Guy to their makeshift beds, he headed for the short staircase leading to the solar and the lord's chamber.

  He guessed the fatigue that suddenly overwhelmed him was the result of finally reaching Bowen, of knowing he would be undisturbed there. He yawned mightily, grateful to be rid of the weight of his armor and of his boots.

  The manor house was silent around him. His feet made no sound on the freshly swept floor of the solar as he crossed to the door of the lord's chamber. It was an affectation to have such a room in a simple manor. Lord's chambers belonged in the tower keeps of castles, but the architect of Bowen Manor had built the house of solid stone and had added the lord's chamber for the first owner, who had wanted to be private with his wife.

  Arden could understand the earlier lord's desire for solitude. He craved it himself, after years of living always with others. The need to be alone, to burrow into the privacy of a personal lair like some wounded animal, was the reason why he had commanded the sentry at the gatehouse to let the seneschal and the domestic staff remain undisturbed in their beds. He’d have time enough to announce his arrival in the morning, time enough then to answer the well-meant questions of Sir Wace.