The Silver Rose (34 page)

And he was a Hawkesmoor.

She would leave as she’d always intended to do. And short of kidnapping her from some secluded spot in Holland, he would have little redress.

Chapter Eighteen

A
RIEL WAS CHANGING
into her riding habit the next morning, in preparation for a ride with Simon, when the sounds of commotion drifted up to her window from the court below. Buttoning her jacket, she went to the window and looked down. A group of riders in royal livery had just clattered over the drawbridge. Ravenspeare servants rushed to greet them, and as Ariel watched curiously, Ranulf and Roland came down the steps from the Great Hall.

The lead rider dismounted, bowed to the earl of Ravenspeare, and handed him a rolled parchment as he began to speak in a manner that seemed more like proclamation than ordinary discourse.

Ariel opened her window and leaned out, her curiosity now well piqued. Other guests were swarming from the hall, and she saw Simon and his friends among them.

Ranulf glanced up at her window. He cupped his hands around his mouth and commanded in ringing accents, “Sister, come down.”

Ariel stepped back from the window, hastily tugged on her boots, and went to the door, Romulus and Remus nudging her knees in their anxiety to get there first. “No, I think you’d better stay in here.” She pushed them back and closed the door firmly on their protesting howls. She ran down the stone stairs, across the now deserted hall, and into the court. The melee of guests moved aside, creating a path for her as she made her way to the group in the center.

“What is it?”

“A gift, my dear sister,” Roland informed her, and the note of sardonic amusement in his voice instantly put her
on her guard. Whatever had amused her brother was at her expense.

“A wedding gift from Her Majesty,” Ranulf declared, turning to look at her, his eyes bright with malice. “Such an honor, my dear sister. Not only has Her Majesty gifted you with betrothal presents, but now she has sent you the most magnificent wedding gift.” He stepped aside and gestured with a wide flourish to a liveried groom who held the bridle of a sway-backed, dirty-gray nag. The beast stood with lowered head, blowing miserably through foam-flecked lips.

“My lady, Her Majesty also wishes you to accept the saddle and sheepskin as a token of her good wishes for your future happiness,” intoned the gentleman whose elaborate braided livery signified that he was the leader of the gift-bringing party. He laid an indicative hand on the sheepskin saddlecloth that had seen many a better day and the worn tooled leather of the saddle itself.

Ariel stared at the beast. “That is
not
a horse!” Simon put his hand on the back of her neck, a seemingly casual gesture of affection, but his fingers tightened in a warning that she was for the moment too astounded to heed. “No.” She shook her head definitely. “That poor creature belongs to some other species altogether.”

“Ariel, be careful.” Simon spoke softly but urgently against her ear. “The queen will want to know exactly how you reacted to her gift.”

Ariel stiffened. Swallowed. Glanced up at him and met his deadly serious gaze. “I can’t,” she mouthed, her own eyes brimming with laughter.
“How
can I?”

“You must.”

Pressing her fingers to her lips, she turned back to her gift’s waiting escort. “I am deeply honored by Her Majesty’s condescension,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of laughter and indignation. “Such a . . . such a . . . magnificent animal,” she managed in a rush before laughter got the better of her. She turned her head into Simon’s chest, her shoulders shaking.

He turned her firmly back to face the still-expectant messengers. The leader was beginning to look a little askance. She bit her lip hard and stepped forward to stroke the animal’s damp neck. “I beg you will tell Her Majesty how overwhelmed I am by the generosity of her gift, sir. And the saddle is . . . is . . . I am beyond words.” She buried her scarlet face in the gelding’s neck.

“You must ride him at once, my dear Ariel.” Roland said. “How better to demonstrate your appreciation than to put the horse through his paces? When you return, you will be able to write to Her Majesty with a full description of how her gift rides.”

Ariel raised her head slowly and stared at her brother, who met her horrified expression with a bland smile. She turned appealing eyes to Simon, who said heartily, “What a splendid idea, Ravenspeare. Come, Ariel, let me put you up. We were going to ride out anyway, so now you may do so on Her Majesty’s gift.”

“No!” Ariel whispered desperately. It was one thing to force herself to murmur platitudes, quite another actually to mount the pathetic excuse for horseflesh. Forgetting the queen’s observant messengers, she turned, ready to flee, but Simon anticipated her, stepping in front of her.

“Come, my dear. Let me put you up,” he repeated firmly, catching her around the waist. Before Ariel could open her mouth in further protest, she found herself seated upon the worn, slippery leather saddle, and the nag beneath her let out a kind of creaking sigh like worn-out bedropes beneath the weight of a giant.

“I do not believe Her Majesty would expect me to ride the horse until he’s recovered from his journey,” she said. “See how tired he is.”

“Oh, he’s well up to a canter across the fens,” Ranulf declared. “We’ll all accompany you.”

“That won’t be necessary, Ravenspeare,” Simon put in
swiftly. “Ariel and I had already planned to ride into Cambridge this morning. My groom is bringing my horse now.”

On cue, the man appeared, leading Simon’s huge, ungainly piebald. Simon mounted. “Lead the way, Ariel.” He positioned his horse behind the nag, so that when Ariel nudged her mount’s flanks, the gray had little choice but to move forward toward the drawbridge with the piebald nosing its rump.

Ariel, who had been terrified the animal would either refuse to move or collapse to its knees with exhaustion, could only be grateful for Simon’s foresight, even as she cursed him for forcing this ridiculous embarrassment upon her.

Once off the drawbridge and out of sight of the crowd in the court, she demanded, “How could you compel me to ride this?”

“You had no choice.” He brought his mount alongside the gray, who immediately slackened pace without the prod behind. “You can be sure the queen has at least one observer among the guests who keeps her informed of the proceedings, and she will certainly demand a full report from her messengers.”

“But . . . but . . . but this is not a gift, it’s an insult!” Ariel wailed, trying an experimental encouraging kick to the gray’s withered flanks.

“Not according to Queen Anne,” Simon declared with a grin. “As you are discovering, my dear, our dearly beloved sovereign is of a frugal temperament when it comes to acknowledging the services of her loyal subjects. I expect that pathetic beast was destined for the slaughterhouse and she thought of a better future for it . . . while it still had breath in its lungs.”

“Breath is a debatable point,” Ariel said. “I do not believe in cruelty to animals, Simon, and I will ride it no farther.” She drew rein, which was hardly necessary since the animal was barely moving anyway, and dismounted. “If you insist upon going into Cambridge, then your horse will have to carry us both. He’s powerful enough.”

“Without doubt. But what are you going to do with Her Majesty’s gift?”

“Tether him and let him graze until we come back.” Ariel suited action to words, looping the nag’s bridle over a spindly thornbush beside the dike. “If he’s still extant when we return, which seems unlikely, I’ll put him out to pasture.”

“But you will write Her Majesty a suitably grateful letter of thanks?” Simon leaned down, holding out his hand.

“I shall endeavor to express my feelings in such a way that she won’t have the faintest idea what I mean.” Ariel took the proffered hand and sprang lightly upward, settling onto the saddle in front of Simon. “Why are we going into Cambridge?”

“I thought I might buy you a wedding gift.” He slipped one arm around her waist and took the reins in his other hand.

Ariel was too surprised to say anything immediately. “I think I’ve had enough wedding gifts for one day, thank you,” she managed eventually, trying to make a joke but wondering if instead she sounded merely ungracious. She was very aware of his body at her back and his breath whispering against her bare neck. It would be so natural to lean into his casual embrace, but instead she drew herself upright, stiffening her back, reminding herself that she was once more in possession of her senses, once more on track. The time for romantic dalliance with her husband was over, brought to an end by the loss of the mare.

Simon frowned as she drew away from him. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she returned with a light laugh. “What could be?”

“I’m asking you.” When she didn’t respond to the dry comment, he clicked his tongue and the piebald moved forward, his long, loping gait lengthening as he broke into a canter, clearly unhampered by the double weight.

“What kind of wedding gift?” Ariel inquired after a minute, trying again for a tone that would break the sudden tension.

“I thought you didn’t want one.”

“Well, it depends what it is.”

“Ah. Well, what would you like?”

“I don’t know. No one’s ever asked me such a question before. Ravenspeares don’t really go in for gift giving.” The serpentine bracelet on her wrist beneath her glove seemed suddenly heavy as she said this. The only valuable gift anyone had ever given her. And she didn’t like it, for all its strange medieval beauty.

“Well, Hawkesmoors do go in for gift giving,” Simon commented as they rode into Cambridge. “It’s one of the great pleasures of life, I find.” He turned his horse into the yard of the Bear Inn and dismounted, handing the reins to an ostler. Ariel slipped down unaided.

“Come fer the fair, m’lord?” the ostler inquired cheerfully. “On Parker’s Piece, ’tis.”

“Oh, a fair!” Ariel’s face lit up and for a minute she forgot her dragging depression. “I haven’t been to a fair since I was tiny. May we go?”

“By all means.” Simon smiled at her enthusiasm. This almost childlike eagerness was a new side to his bride and infinitely preferable to the resurgence of that stiffness she hadn’t shown since they’d consummated their marriage. She wasn’t exactly hostile, he thought, but she was definitely not the warm and amusing companion he’d been growing accustomed to. “But shall we break our fast at the inn first?”

“Oh, no, let us buy a pie from a pieman . . . and some roasted chestnuts . . . and we can drink mulled wine from one of the stalls.” She pranced ahead of him out of the inn yard, stopping in the lane outside as she remembered belatedly that her companion couldn’t match her speed.

Simon was perfectly agreeable to anything that took her fancy and allowed her to lead the way through the narrow streets between the high gray stone walls of die colleges to the expanse of grass that went by the name of Parker’s Piece. Braziers burned and the sweet smell of roasting chestnuts filled the cold air; hawkers called their wares, ringing their bells as they threaded through the crowd, who gathered
around morris dancers, mummers, dancing bears, and various freaks who drew gasps of fascinated revulsion. Ariel darted hither and thither, slipping through the crowd where Simon couldn’t easily go.

“There’s a woman with two heads over there.” After one of her forays, she returned to Simon’s side. “She couldn’t really have, could she?” She looked up at him in genuine inquiry.

“Why couldn’t she?” he asked gravely, entranced by an ingenuousness so unlike her customary down-to-earth self.

Ariel shuddered deliciously. “It seems impossible, but I saw it with my own eyes. How horrible. Fancy having four eyes . . . and two tongues. Shall I buy us some pies? There’s a pieman over by the mummers. Would you like venison . . . or beef . . . or kidney?”

“Venison.”

She darted away and then almost immediately turned back. “Oh, I don’t have any money.”

Simon dug into his pocket and produced a shilling. She disappeared into the crowd and he paused, leaning against a trestle table, resting his leg for a minute. Fairs were not his idea of amusement, but Ariel in her enthusiasm was amusement enough.

But something was wrong. Ever since he’d returned from the stag hunt yesterday afternoon, he’d sensed that she was troubled, off-key in some way. Oh, they’d amused themselves wickedly at the banquet and she’d been her usual wonderfully responsive self both then and later that night in bed. But her face in repose, when she didn’t know he was watching her, was tense, her mouth tight, her eyes shadowed with something he would have sworn was distress.

“’Ow about a fairing, m’lord?” A peddler stopped beside him, his singsong voice breaking into Simon’s reverie. The man carried a tray slung around his neck and pushed it close to Simon’s chest . . . too close for comfort. Dark eyes glittered in a swarthy countenance and he grinned, exposing a
black cavernous mouth with toothless gums. His tongue was startlingly red, poking between his grinning lips.

“See m’fairings, m’lord.” He rattled the contents of his tray. “Every one a genuine treasure.” He began to finger the trinkets, fixing Simon with a piercing stare that its recipient assumed was supposed to have some mesmerizing quality. “There’s jewels from the Indies, an’ a real live shrunken ’ead from the Africas.” He picked up the latter disgusting object, holding it up by a hank of black hair. “Shockin’ cannonballs they is in them parts. What d’ye fancy, m’lord?”