Marigold's Marriages (17 page)

“I will not require an escort, thank you,” she said, as he helped her to mount.

“But, my lady, you don’t know your way around.”

“I know enough to ride one way and then retrace my tracks. I’ll be quite all right.”

“Well, if you’re sure ...” he said doubtfully.

She kicked her heel before he could deliberate further, and the mare scattered the gravel of the drive as she rode swiftly away. In a moment Robin and Jenny were flitting from tree to tree beside her. “Quick, quick,” sang the wren.

At the lodge the lodgekeeper snatched off his hat respectfully on seeing who rode past. “Good morning, my
lady.”

“Good morning,” Marigold called back.

For some reason she expected the birds to lead her toward the village, but instead they went in the opposite direction. “This way, this way,” Jenny urged, skimming low over the road as it crossed one of the four causeways that gave access over the wide moat. Almost immediately the birds left the road and turned toward the escarpment around the foot of which Marigold and Rowan had driven the day before. The land began to rise steadily out of the valley, and after a while she reined in, unable to resist the temptation to look back at Avenbury.

The scene below was laid out like a patchwork, with the great henge easy to pick out as it swept around the village and the common. The water in the moat shone in the sunlight, and the standing stones seemed almost white. The little flock of sheep grazed again near the great oak, watched over by the boy with his dog, and the mellow sound of the church bell echoed through the shimmering summer air. At the crossroad in the village, she could see how the overturned wagon was blocking the way.

Her attention moved to Avenbury Park. The house was a jewel in the filigree of its formal Tudor grounds, and the standing stones and moat had been skillfully blended into the design of elegant formal flowerbeds and topiary trees. A wooden bridge led over the water to the lawns that swept gently to the serpentine lake, which she could now see wound eastward along the foot of the escarpment.

She noticed a small boathouse among some weeping willows, and a jetty where a flat-bottomed skiff was moored. The reedy shores were ideal for the immense variety of ducks and other waterfowl that had converged on one of the few stretches of water in this chalky region. As she watched, something disturbed the birds, which rose in a noisy flock, then settled again a little further along.

Robin and Jenny were impatient. “Hurry, hurry! Must see!” cried the wren, swooping low above Marigold’s hat.

“See what?” But the two small birds flew swiftly on, and she had to urge the mare after them. Where were they taking her? What were they so anxious she should see?

The escarpment air was sweet with the scent of wild thyme, and blue butterflies danced above sward that was lavishly sprinkled with wildflowers. Sandstone boulders were dotted around, and did indeed look like sheep, Marigold thought, conceding that to call them graywethers was actually very appropriate. A few windblown hawthorns and the occasional rowan tree had found root in the thin layer of soil that covered the white chalk, and clumps of yellow gorse bloomed here and there. Skylarks tumbled high above, their wonderful bubbling song rippling across the warm mid-June sky. Oh, how criminal to name someone as disagreeable as Alauda after such a glorious songbird, Marigold thought as she continued to follow Robin and Jenny.

It wasn’t long before she realized the birds were leading her toward the eastern end of the escarpment, where Rowan had told her there were ancient fortifications believed to have been a Roman camp. The closer she rode to the edge of the summit, the more oddly undulating the land became, and at last she saw that the dips and rises in the land were linear earthworks created countless centuries before. Whoever occupied this site would not only have found it easy to defend, but also a superb lookout point.

Robin and Jenny dipped down into a hawthorn bush that grew out of a tumble of graywethers right at the edge of the descent, and when she reined in next to the bush and looked down, she saw she was directly above the house and former hunting tower called Romans. The grounds were flanked by curtains of trees that stretched right down to the foot of the escarpment, but the house enjoyed a fine uninterrupted view.

It was a three-bayed stone building, with a fine wrought-iron veranda extending all around the ground floor. A matching balcony surrounded the floor above, and the original square, ivy-covered hunting tower still rose sturdily from one end. The incline from here on the summit down to the house was very steep indeed, but the quarter of a mile or so from the house to the valley was much more gentle, with open grounds and a long drive that curved down to the road along which she and Rowan had driven the evening before.

Just visible beyond one of the curtains of trees, was the eastern extremity of the lake, and a jetty like the one at Avenbury Park. To the rear of the house, just before the steepness of the incline became too great, there was a small walled apple orchard, with a white summerhouse where someone was seated. It was a gentleman, but all she could see were his gleaming top boots and the newspaper he was reading.

Hoofbeats carried on the air, and she looked down the drive to see a horseman riding slowly up the drive. She immediately recognized Rowan. As he disappeared from her view at the front of the house, Robin and Jenny hopped urgently from branch to branch of the hawthorn bush.

“Follow us! Follow us!” the wren urged in her odd tic-tic tones, then she and the robin flew down the hill toward Romans.

Marigold gazed uneasily down the steep slope. Was it safe to attempt to ride down? The answer was definitely not, so she hurriedly dismounted to tether the mare to the bush. She stole one last glance at the house, and was in time to see a maid hurry into the orchard to tell the man in the summerhouse that Lord Avenbury had called, then she began to clamber down the incline.

“Quick! Quick!” called Jenny.

“I’m doing the best I can!” Marigold protested through clenched teeth as she slithered a little. The rest of the descent proved just as fearsome a scramble, and she slipped once or twice, leaving grass stains on her riding habit, but at last she was by the orchard wall, in which was set a sturdy but weatherbeaten wooden door she hadn’t noticed from up the hill. The door was so overgrown with ivy and weeds that it had clearly not been opened in years, but Robin and Jenny fluttered to the top of the wall above it, and the wren urged her again. “Come here! Come here!”

“I can’t go through
that!”
Marigold whispered back. It was all very well for them, they could fly!

“Look through! Look through!”

Look through? It was a solid oak door! But then she saw a hole where a small knot had fallen out, and she put her eye to it to peer into the orchard. The view was very restricted, only a few of the apple trees and part of the summerhouse, and although she couldn’t see him, she could hear Rowan’s voice. It was raised in anger, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Of the other man she heard and saw nothing at all, although Rowan was plainly speaking to him. At length there was silence, and she caught a brief glimpse of Rowan striding away. The man in the summerhouse called mockingly after him. “You cannot win, Avenbury! I’m invincible!”

Marigold started with shock. Falk! So this was what Robin and Jenny were so anxious she should know! Her heartbeats quickened uneasily, and she drew back from the spyhole as if the door had suddenly burned her skin. She leaned against the wall, her thoughts in a whirl. What was Falk doing here? Then she remembered the overturned wagon. The new tenant’s sister. Alauda was coming here too! Was that what Rowan would have learned if he’d kept the assignation requested in the note? It was certainly why Beech had felt it prudent to tell Rowan in private about the “delicate” matter of his new tenant’s identity.

Suddenly there were two small squeaks of fear, followed by the whir of little wings, and she looked up sharply to see Robin and Jenny flying away. They fled up the hillside into a dense hawthorn tree, and disappeared. Marigold straightened warily as she heard the beat of much larger wings. A dark shadow passed over her as a black carrion crow landed where the smaller birds had been. It tilted its glossy head to gaze down at her, then began to flap and caw loudly. Fearing Falk would come to investigate, Marigold gathered her cumbersome skirts and began to hurry up the slope as best she could, hoping to reach the shelter of the hawthorn bush, but the crow followed, fluttering directly overhead, still giving its loud, croaking calls.

Long before she reached the bush, she heard someone trying to push open the door in the orchard wall. The ivy resisted for a while, then suddenly gave way, and the rusty hinges complained as the door was shoved roughly. Its hinges groaned as it swung out from the wall, then Falk emerged, and his eyes shone as he saw her clambering up the steep hillside about fifty feet above him. The crow immediately pulled away toward him, and disappeared over the wall into the orchard.

Falk smiled thinly. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lady Avenbury. Congratulations on your second marriage, my dear. Clearly I underestimated you.”

She was so rattled to find herself confronting him, that her voice seemed to have frozen. He enjoyed having her at a disadvantage. “What a pity your union with his lordship is doomed to be brief. Still, no doubt you will make the most of your few remaining nights together.”

Such words could only remind her of the white-robed figure with the staff in Jenny’s portrait.
Was
he connected in some way with Aquila Randol? She had to probe. “Doomed? Few remaining nights? Oh, Falk, surely you don’t believe that old tale about a curse?”

“It’s no tale, my dear, as I imagine you well know by now.”

“I pay no heed to such superstitious nonsense, and I must say I’m rather surprised at you, Falk.”

“Play the cynic all you wish, Marigold, it’s immaterial to me.”

“Why are you so sure I’m
playing
at anything?”

“Because it has been my mission to find out,” he replied.

“Mission?”

A pale smile twisted his lips. “You may have thought to outwit me by marrying Avenbury, but it will avail you of nothing. There will be no gain for you, my dear, whereas
I
...” He allowed the sentence to die away meaningfully.

“Whereas you what, Falk?”

“You’ll soon know.”

She felt a chill touching her skin, and pulled herself together angrily. He was toying with her, and she didn’t seem able to best him. Somehow she had to convince him she was a stronger, cleverer opponent than he’d thought.

She met his gaze full square. “And you will soon know that my second marriage will not only be far happier than my first, but will also endure for far longer. Rowan isn’t doomed, nor am I playing the cynic.” Oh, brave, defiant words ...

Falk’s eyes became virtual slits. “So, the cards are on the table, are they? I knew on the day of the will that you were not quite what you pretended to be, but be warned, although you may have the power, it is as nothing beside mine. I will crush you if you presume to oppose me.”

The power? What power? “Are you so certain you can defeat me?” With a huge effort she forced herself to keep meeting his gaze.

He found this amusing. “Certain beyond all doubt,” he said softly. “Someone may have filled your head with your own importance, but whoever it was mistook your small ability for something far greater.”

His confidence was frightening. She longed to run away, to put as great a distance between them as possible, but she knew she had to face him out.
He
had to be the one to bring the meeting to an end. He continued to look at her. “Well, my dear, aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

“Upon what?”

“My forthcoming midsummer marriage. The shortest night is appropriate for joyous celebrations that will go on from dawn to dawn. Don’t you agree? You may be sure that you and Avenbury are invited. Oh, and my nephew Peregrine, of course.”

Uneasy thoughts skimmed alarmedly through her mind. “Who is the bride?” she asked, although she was sure she already knew the answer.

“I will leave you to guess, my dear.”

“Jenny Avenbury?”

Slowly he took a silver snuffbox from his pocket, and made much of flicking it open. “My, my, I certainly did misjudge you, didn’t I?”

What else could she believe now except that she and Rowan had been right to connect him with Aquila Randol? “Was Randol your ancestor?” she demanded bluntly.

“Why, Marigold, what an unending source of wonder your perspicacity is proving to be. Perhaps I begin to understand my brother’s infatuation after all.” As he applied a little snuff to each nostril, his eagle ring caught the sunlight.

“You won’t succeed in whatever it is you’re planning, Falk. I will see to that.”

He chuckled. “The time has come, and nothing can turn it back. Just remember that I have warned you not to tamper with things that are beyond your capabilities and understanding.”

“And I now warn you. Leave my husband alone, or you will find out you have underestimated me more than you think,” she replied. She was amazed at herself. Inside she was little more than jelly, so where on earth was she finding her nerve?

Her manner suddenly annoyed him intensely, and he struck back with words that hurt her more than even he could have hoped. “His ring on your finger means nothing, my dear, for it is Alauda that he loves and she will be here later today. You will see little of him then, of that you may be certain.”

He smiled as for a moment she couldn’t hide what she felt, then he turned to go back into the orchard. He spoke again without looking back at her. “Oh, yes, be on your guard for the crows in these parts, they’re rather large and bad-tempered, and can be quite a hazard.” He stepped into the orchard, and dragged the door to again.

Marigold stared down at the torn ivy, which continued to tremble after the door had closed. Her mouth was dry and the small of her back damp with perspiration, but there was still something steely inside her. He had to be defeated, and there were twelve days in which to do it! Twelve days!