The Silver Rose (30 page)

“Did you want something, Becket?” Simon inquired, sipping his claret and regarding his visitor with scant interest.

“Oh, I just came to see how my bud was faring.” Oliver approached the bed. “You’ll grant a lover’s right to be concerned, I trust.” He glanced over to Simon, who hadn’t moved from his chair, seemingly hadn’t moved a muscle. Oliver’s eyes narrowed. This lack of response to his barbed comments was most unsatisfying. He returned his attention to Ariel.

“Not a beauty, my little bud,” he mused. “No, you’d never call her a beauty, but quite an appealing creature, when she’s well. A fever, of course, can turn any beauty into a hag. And I fear our patient is no exception.” He brushed a finger over the girl’s damp face. “Lank and waxen.” He shook his head, tutting. “None of us can understand what made her act so foolishly. Can you, Hawkesmoor?”

Simon didn’t deign to respond. He quietly sipped his claret, stretching his feet to the fire, and waited for the moment when he would have no choice but to pick up Oliver Becket’s glove.

“No, none of us can understand why Ariel would jeopardize her horse for a Hawkesmoor. Falling through the ice is not unexpected, the chit is always rash and impetuous with her own safety, but to put her horse at risk . . .” He shook his head solemnly and drank from the glass in his hand. “No, not Ariel. And most particularly not for a lost cause.” He laughed. “The gyrfalcon’s attentions to your face could hardly have made matters worse, could they?”

“I daresay she surprised us both,” Simon observed dispassionately.

Oliver stepped forward toward the fire, then something in the other man’s eyes halted his advance. He lounged against the bedpost. “Do you truly appreciate her, Hawkesmoor? Have you learned what she likes? Have you discovered that little beauty spot on the underside of her—”

“You are a bore, Becket.” Simon interrupted him, his voice still mild. “In fact, I would say you are about the most tedious and inconsequential little man I’ve ever come across.”

Oliver’s face flushed darkest red. His hand went to his belt, to the dirk in its scabbard. The other man watched him, unmoving.

“Don’t imagine she’s yours, Hawkesmoor,” Oliver declared, his voice thick with vitriol. “She belongs to us. To her brothers and to me.”

“Really?” Simon’s eyebrows lifted. His voice sounded mildly curious, but his blue eyes were as hard and bright as glacial ice. “And to think I thought she was my wife.”

Oliver’s dirk was suddenly in his hand. He advanced on the seated man.

Simon didn’t move, and his eyes remained fixed on Oliver’s face, holding Becket’s drunken, squinting, aggressive stare. “You’d draw on an unarmed man,” he stated softly.

“You have a dagger,” Oliver snarled. “Draw it and we’ll throw for first strike.”

Simon laughed, a quiet, scornful sound. “I fight my battles on the field, where they belong, Becket. Not in the chambers of sick women.”

Oliver’s dirk flew through the air, passing a bare inch from the seated man’s face before burying itself in the wooden post of the mantel. Not by so much as a twitch did Simon indicate that he was aware of the weapon’s path.

“Such an incontinent temper you have, Becket.” Simon leaned forward and pulled the dirk free. He handed it back, hilt first, to its owner. “I believe you would do well to cultivate a cool head . . . at least in your dealings with me,” he added thoughtfully.

“Do you threaten me?” Oliver was discomposed, blustering, but it was clear he could find no graceful path of retreat.

Simon shook his head. “I rather thought that was your territory, Becket.”

Oliver spun on his heel, caught his foot in the fringe of the tapestry rug, nearly fell but righted himself by grabbing on to the bedpost again. He half stumbled, still off balance,
to the door. “You won’t have her,” he declared over his shoulder, his little eyes squinting malevolently. “You won’t have her, Hawkesmoor.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

What in God’s name had Ariel seen in him? The thought that that venomous fool had known Ariel before he had stung Simon.

Which little beauty spot had he meant? She had one on the underside of her right breast, and another little cluster tucked beneath the curve of her right buttock. . . .

Simon’s jaw clenched as he fought to control the surge of irrational fury, the wave of disgust at the thought of Becket’s slimy fingers discovering the beauties and the tiny imperfections of Ariel’s body.

Ariel moved, mumbled, kicked the covers from her. Her robe was translucent with sweat, clinging to her breasts. It was tangled around her waist, and her belly and thighs and the honey gold triangle at the base of her belly glistened with perspiration.

Simon wetted the cloth with lavender water and bathed her skin. It seemed to ease her, and her hectic murmurings ceased. He found a clean shift in the linen press, scented with the dried rose petals sprinkled between the garments. He bent over her, easing the soaked robe up her body, lifting her on the palm of his hand as he freed a fold caught beneath her bottom. In the grip of fever, she seemed weightless, insubstantial, easily held on his hand.

He maneuvered the garment over her head, and bathed her skin again with the cool, fragrant cloth before slipping the clean shift over her head, drawing it down her body. The sheets were damp beneath and above her, but he didn’t know how to remedy that until Doris returned.

The girl came back within the half hour, the hounds prancing at her heels. “I’ll bring clean sheets, m’lord,” she said when Simon explained the situation. She took away his tray and returned with an armful of clean sheets and reheated bricks.

“Surely she doesn’t need those? She’s hot enough as it is.”

“We need to break the fever, sir,” Doris informed him knowledgeably. “Lady Ariel told me how to do it when me mam had the childbed fever. If you could lift ’er up . . .?” she added tentatively.

Simon lifted Ariel bodily from the bed. Her eyes fluttered open for a minute, but he could see no recognition in them and it frightened him. He sat down, holding her on his lap, listening to her vague mutterings, feeling her limp, boneless fragility. If this was what laudanum did, it was no wonder she had resisted taking it.

“There y’are, sir. It’s all clean an’ fresh, m’lord.” Doris gave a last pat to the pillows.

Simon laid his burden back on the bed, and Doris packed the hot bricks against Ariel’s inert body, then drew up the covers, piling on an extra quilt. “Will that be all, m’lord . . .? Oh, an’ Edgar said as ’ow the roan’s doin’ well as could be expected. ’E’s cauterized the wounds and put salve on ’em, and the mare’s quiet.”

“Thank you.” Simon drew a guinea from his pocket and gave it to the maid with a smile. “Good night, Doris.”

Doris gazed at the glittering largesse in wide-eyed astonishment. Then she bobbed a curtsy and took herself off at a run, almost as if she expected the coin to disappear into thin air if she stayed.

Simon’s hand returned to his pocket. He had felt something else when he’d reached down for the guinea. He drew out Ariel’s bracelet and held it up to the candlelight. What was it that had so disturbed the woman Sarah when she’d looked at it on Ariel’s wrist? It was almost as if she’d seen some significance in the jewel.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one who found it strangely disturbing. It was very odd.

He dropped the bracelet onto the top of the dresser and turned back to the bed. He yawned, aware of a deep physical fatigue. But where was he to sleep? Slipping into the furnace created by Ariel’s fever-ridden body and the phalanx of hot
bricks was not in the least appealing. Before Malplaquet, he could have slept easily in a chair, or even on the floor, wrapped up in his cloak. But then he’d had a different body. A supple, youthful, straight and strong frame unaffected by a little discomfort.

He thought longingly of his own cool, fresh bed in the chamber across the hall. But a promise was a promise.

He locked the door. Then he made up the fire, threw some more coltsfoot into the skillet, blew out all the candles, and with a resigned sigh removed his coat and boots and lay on top of the covers beside the now gently snoring Ariel. He drew the side of the topmost quilt up over his body, rolled onto his side facing Ariel, flinging a protective arm over her, and sank into oblivion. The dogs settled in front of the hearth with synchronized sighs of satisfaction.

Edgar bathed the roan’s wounds again and renewed the paste of saltwort to guard against infection. The mare whickered feebly, her head hanging in surrender to the pain of the man’s ministrations. Edgar laid a thick blanket over her flanks to guard against drafts, filled a pail with bran mash, and set it down in front of her. She snuffled but turned away.

Edgar was removing his leather apron when the door to the tack room edged open to admit a scrawny boy bearing a foaming tankard. “Lord of ’Awkesmoor sent this to ye, sir. In gratitude, like.” He proffered the tankard. “’Tis best October, mulled and laced with apple brandy.”

Edgar licked his lips. It was his favorite drink of a miserable winter night. “Well, that’s right kindly of ’im, lad. Thankee.” He took the tankard and turned back to the brazier with a little sigh of pleasure.

The boy tugged his forelock and disappeared into the night, the door clicking behind him.

Edgar sat down on his cot, stretched his legs to the brazier’s warmth, and took a deep appreciative gulp of the
mulled ale. The apple brandy hit his stomach with a fiery stab, then spread through his body, bringing a delicious languor to his limbs. He stretched out on the cot, propping the thin pillow behind his head as he finished his nightcap. But before he had drained the drink, the tankard fell to the floor from his suddenly nerveless fingers, splashing its contents onto the brazier, which hissed and spat. The tankard rolled to the far wall and Edgar’s head lolled against the pillow, his body inert.

Ten minutes later the door opened softly and a head peered around. The man listened to the deathly silence, then as quietly withdrew, drawing the door closed behind him.

“He’s out,” he whispered to the three men who stood in the darkness before the double doors to the stable block. “The mare’s in the fifth stall along.”

Thieves in the night, they slithered through the darkness of the block, counting the stalls as they went, their eyes growing accustomed to the dark unrelieved by so much as a gleam of starlight from the high round window set above the doors that they had closed behind them.

They found the mare. Hands ran over her belly, checking that she was the horse in foal. A halter slipped over her neck, and two men bent to attach pieces of sacking to her hooves. The horse whinnied in puzzlement until a nosebag filled with grain silenced her.

They led her out of the block, across the stableyard, through the paddock, and down to the river. A flat barge was moored at the narrow dock, and a man stepped out of the trees as they approached with the mare.

“Let me see.” His voice was a harsh, rasping whisper in the bitter night. He too ran his hands over the animal’s belly first, before checking the rest of her. He grunted with satisfaction. “This is the one, all right. Keep the blanket over her, I don’t want her getting chilled on the river.” He stepped back and gestured that they should load the horse onto the barge.

She went trustingly. She had never been given cause to fear
humankind. The hands that had touched her hitherto had only been of the gentlest; the voices she had heard hitherto had always been soft and caressing. And, indeed, she had nothing to fear from the earl of Ravenspeare, who watched sharply as she was led onto the barge and secured to the rail. She was too valuable a property to be treated with less than the utmost respect.

Chapter Sixteen

J
ENNY STOOD AT
the garden gate, listening for the sounds of Edgar’s gig on the cart track. It was still dark and her mittened hands were chilled holding the handle of her basket. She heard the cottage door open behind her.

“Edgar’s late,” she called over her shoulder to her mother. “It’s not like him.”

She turned and came back up the path. “You shouldn’t stand out in the cold in that thin robe, Mother.” She pushed Sarah back into the warmth, following her in and closing the door. “Shall I make some more tea?”

Sarah nodded. She went to the small window, frowning like her daughter. Edgar was as reliable as the moon’s cycle. If he said seven o’clock, it would be seven o’clock.

“I hope he hasn’t had an accident.” Jenny spoke her mother’s thoughts as the kettle on the hob steamed. “Overturned the gig or something.” She poured boiling water unerringly onto the raspberry leaves in the pot, and the fragrant aroma wafted upward.

Sarah brought mugs to the table and sliced bread from the quartern loaf on the board. She buttered the slices thickly and spread honey on the butter, handing one to Jenny.

“I might as well eat breakfast,” Jenny agreed, pouring tea into the mugs before biting into the bread. “I wonder if I should walk up to the lane, see if I can get a ride to the castle from a carter. Or maybe someone will have news if anything’s happened to delay him.”