Oh." Oliver blinked his eyes heavily. "Much rather do away with the Hawkesmoor, Ranulf."
"What did he do to you?" Ranulf leaned forward curiously. Something had occurred between the Hawkesmoor and Oliver to drive the latter from Ravenspeare Castle, but so far Oliver wasn't telling.
Oliver flushed and buried his face in his tankard. "Let's just say I bear the man a grudge." When he set down the now empty tankard, his eyes had cleared and his voice was less slurred. "What about Ariel?"
"Oh, don't worry about my sister. Once she's been shorn of her horses and her husband, I'll deal with her. She'll remember her place again."
"Not sure she ever knew it," Oliver remarked with unusual sagacity. "But if those horses of hers are so valuable, won't you need her to run the breeding program?"
"She'll run it." Ranulf's lips thinned. "She'll run it for me. I intend to keep a stallion and a mare from the stud, as seed for a new strain, and ship the rest off to the Hook of Holland as I did with the mare. My agent'll find buyers for them there."
"Mmm." Oliver nodded. "And you'll have Ariel back, widowed, her dowry returned to Ravenspeare…"
"Precisely. And I swear that my sister will never leave Ravenspeare land, if I have to keep her in shackles." Ranulf refilled his glass from the dusty bottle on the table beside his elbow.
"No more husbands, then?" Ranulf shook his head.
"So where does that leave me… vis-a-vis your sister?"
"Wherever you wish it to, my friend."
"I've a score or two to settle with that young woman," Oliver mused, a nasty glint in his eye.
"Then you may settle them with my blessing." Ranulf reached over and punched his friend's upper arm. "You may have exclusive rights to my sister, Oliver. But first we have to get rid of the Hawkesmoor."
"So what's this party, then?"
Ranulf's eyes narrowed. "One of my specials, Oliver."
"Oh-ho. That why you're in town?" Oliver managed to look relatively astute.
Ranulf merely nodded. "I've a little game in mind, and while we're playing it, the Hawkesmoor will suffer an accident. And this time," he added with a savage frown, "there'll be no interference from my busybody little sister." He drained the contents of his glass, his charcoal eyes spitting remembered anger.
Then he continued, with a small dismissive shake of his head, "But while we're busy in the Great Hall, Oliver, you will be busy in the stables. Nine o'clock tonight. You'll drive the animals to the livery stables in Huntingdon. They're primed to receive 'em. My men will take them from there to the shipyard in Harwich in the morning."
Oliver grunted. "Poor compensation for missing one of your special parties, Ranulf."
"Never mind, you'll have my sister soon enough to make up for it." Ranulf pushed back his chair with a scrape on the sawdust-littered door. "There are men on guard around the stables. Make sure you come prepared to deal with them. Fortunately you won't have to contend with those damn dogs. They've gone with Ariel on retreat."
Oliver's grin was wolfish. "I claim the right to collect the widow from the Kelburn woman… comfort her in her bereavement."
Ranulf laughed. "We'll see. I'm off now to choose the toys for my party this evening."
"You sure the Hawkesmoor and his friends will play? Your little games aren't likely to appeal to that stiff-necked clan of Puritans."
"They'll play," Ranulf said confidently. "They'd play because they'll think they might be able to influence the proceedings for the good. They won't be able to stand aside, turning a blind eye to the plight of my pretty toys."
"Oh, what a reader of men's souls you are, Ranulf."
Oliver chuckled and snapped his fingers at a passing potboy, gesturing to his empty tankard.
"You won't be able to do your part if you're befuddled, man."
Oliver chuckled again. "Don't worry, Ranulf. I'm a past master at sobering up when the need arises."
Ranulf knew that this was true, so he merely raised a hand in salute and went on his way to a small house on the far side of Midsummer Meadow where he could pick and choose the toys for his special party.
Simon rode down the narrow track to the drainage cut. The reed-thatched cottage stood on a knoll above the dike. Even when he reached the gate, he hadn't decided exactly how he was going to deal with the situation. Arguing with Ariel would accomplish nothing. Neither did he see much profit in taking the caveman route. Hauling her off by her hair, while it had a certain appeal in his present mood, would cast him in the role of villain, and he'd had enough of that from Ariel.
Even when he dismounted, tethered the piebald to the fence, and started up the path, he hadn't formed his opening words.
But his feet took him up the narrow path running between orderly rows of winter cabbages and root vegetables. At the door he hesitated. Then he raised his hand and knocked.
Almost immediately the door was opened. Sarah stood on the threshold, a coarse apron wrapped around her gaunt frame. Her hands were stained with some kind of greenish dye, and she wiped them on her apron as she regarded him gravely.
"Good morning." The conventional greeting spoke itself. Her expression didn't change, but she stepped back, holding the door wider in invitation. He felt a stab of relief. She knew why he had come and she was not denying him entrance.
Simon stepped into the square room. He knew immediately that Ariel wasn't there. "You're alone?"
Sarah nodded again and closed the door. She gestured to the settle by the fire and went to lift off a cauldron of green bubbling water from the swinging hook above the flame.
Simon reached to help her with the heavy pot. "Is that dye?"
She smiled and set the cauldron down away from the fire. He watched as she prodded the contents with a pair of wooden tongs, then lifted up a length of woven cloth to the light. Simon glanced interrogatively to the spinning wheel and loom in the corner of the cottage and again she smiled. The cloth was ad her own work.
It was astonishing, he thought, how she managed to communicate. It was almost as if she threw her thoughts at him. He remembered again the uncanny moments in Ariel's bedchamber when she had touched his face. She had that same look in her eye now, questing and yet full of a deep knowledge.
Something flickered at the periphery of his vision and he turned his head to the table. Slowly he rose from the settle and went over. He picked up Ariel's bracelet, holding it in the palm of his hand. Absently he rubbed his thigh, which had been aching like the devil since Ariel's departure had brought an end to her ministrations.
"She is with you, then?"
Sarah nodded and fetched down a bottle from a shelf above the range. She uncorked it and poured a glass of some dark liquid, which she handed to Simon.
It had a strong medicinal smell, reminding him of some of Ariel's less pleasant tasting potions, but he drank it anyway. He was in the house of a trio of leechwomen, and presumably Sarah was aware of his discomfort. She was aware of so many things.
Simon sat down on the settle again, then stretched out his leg to the fire as he poured the bracelet from hand to hand, watching the glow of the ruby nestling within the furled silver petals of the rose, the deep fire-shot green of the emerald swan.
"I have come to fetch her," he said, his eyes still on the bracelet. "Her place is with me. She cannot run away from that." Now he looked up, across at Sarah, who was seated on a low stool on the other side of the fire.
Her eyes seemed to look right into him.
"I would like her to come back of her own accord… because she wants to… but…" He paused, returning his attention to the bracelet. "But whether she wants to or not, she must come back."
Sarah watched him play with the bracelet as he talked. And she remembered again how the child had played with it for hours, babbling his baby talk, sucking the charm, cutting his teeth on the fine gold links. The man was frowning down at the jewel as he tossed it from hand to hand, running his fingers sensuously over the curve of the serpent's head, the smooth roundness of the pearl apple.