“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
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
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