Marigold's Marriages (13 page)

He smiled. “I certainly will not forgive you, in fact I sincerely trust it wasn’t just the champagne. Marigold, I found it exceeding agreeable to have such an ardent wife.”

She colored. “You are a very skillful lover, sir. A woman would need to be oddly cold not to respond,” she said. A codfish, in fact, she added silently.

“It wasn’t the champagne, and I think you know it.”

Her cheeks were very pink. “Yes, I do.”

“You thoroughly enjoyed our wedding night, did you not?”

“It would be pointless of me to deny it, when every minute last night proved otherwise.”

“As it would be equally pointless of
me
to deny that I find you one of the most perfect lovers I have ever known.”

“I—I am?” Her eyes widened.

“Why are you so surprised? Surely you sensed as much?”

She longed to know how she compared with Alauda, but knew it would not be wise to ask. Besides, why remind him of his mistress at a time like this? Picking up her sponge, she squeezed warm, rose-scented water over her shoulders and breasts. “You forget how long it had been since I last shared Merlin’s bed,” she said then.

“I’m certainly reaping the benefit. What a fool Merlin Arnold must have been,” he added, watching the water trickle over her skin.

“He didn’t make me feel as wonderful as you did last night,” she said frankly, her courage returning a little.

He bent down to draw a fingertip across one of her nipples. “You’re very tempting right now, Marigold,” he said softly. A thrill of anticipation warmed her, and her nipple tightened at his touch. He went on. “Have you ever shared a bath?”

“Shared ... ? No, I haven’t.” But I’d like to, oh, how I’d like to.

“It’s very pleasing, very pleasing indeed,” he murmured, pulling off his neckcloth, and then sitting down on a nearby chair to take off his footwear.

“But what of the servants? Sally may return!”

“Every servant in London knows better than to open a door behind which newlyweds may be ensconced.” He tossed his coat, shirt, and waistcoat aside, and then undid the buttons of his riding breeches.

It was not long before he stepped into the bath with her. The scented water splashed over the sides as they made love again, and at the ultimate moment, Marigold was so swept away in ecstasy that she cried out.

A maid who was feeding the birds in the garden glanced up at the window, then giggled and ran inside.

The journey from London had been tiring. Now it was late evening, and sunset’s long shadows stretched across the countryside. Marigold’s head lolled against the carriage’s rich green leather upholstery as she gazed out at nothing in particular. She wore a forget-me-not blue velvet spencer over a white muslin gown, and an artificial knot of the same flowers adorned the underbrim of her straw bonnet. Blue ribbons were tied beneath her chin, completing a fresh but fashionable appearance of which she was very well pleased. Privately she again thanked the capricious lady of fortune and fashion who had so providently canceled her order.

Opposite her, Rowan lounged on his seat. He wore a dark mustard coat and beige breeches, and a brown silk neckcloth burgeoned above his brown-and-beige striped waistcoat. His top hat and gloves lay beside him as he too gazed out of the window with a faraway look in his eyes. They had talked a lot at the beginning of the journey, and had eventually fallen into a companionable silence.

The Wiltshire scenery was now one of sweeping chalk escarpments, almost bare of trees, and rich river valleys, like the one through which they now drove. It was very beautiful and mellow, and not at all the place for anything so dark and wicked as an ancient druidic curse. The carriage negotiated a bridge, then the road swept sharply away to the north, skirting the eastern end of an escarpment toward a neighboring valley. The escarpment now blocked the sun’s fading light, and everything became suddenly more dark.

Rowan glanced out as if looking for something. At last he saw it. “The gates of Romans at last. It’s only another two miles now.”

She looked out too, and saw a sharp turning between high hedges. She caught a glimpse of plain stone-pillared gates, then the carriage had driven on too far. “Romans is a rather odd name,” she said.

“There are remains of ancient fortifications on the escarpment, and it has always been believed that they are the remains of a Roman fort. The house is just below the summit, and the eastern reach of the lake is at the foot of the hill. The lake is about two miles long, and curves around the foot of the escarpment from Avenbury Park.”

“It must be a very isolated house,” Marigold said, thinking of the escarpment.

“Yes, but originally it was just a hunting tower for the Norman lords of Avenbury, then in later medieval times a house was added. About thirty years ago my father decided to improve it into a gentleman’s residence, but due to the construction, a rather awkward feature had to remain. The only internal staircase is very steep, narrow, twisting, and unsafe, especially for ladies, and the only solution that didn’t involve tearing the whole place down was to construct a great balcony around the upper story, with an external staircase at the back.”

“You mean, that’s the only comfortable way upstairs or down, even in winter?” Marigold asked in astonishment.

“So it seems. It’s inconvenient, but although all tenants are informed, it doesn’t seem to deter them. They take the place because of its situation.”

“Does Romans belong to your estate?”

“Yes.”

“Who lives there?”

“No one, it’s been empty since the last tenant left in the autumn.” He sat forward to look up toward the shadowy escarpment. “That’s odd, I could swear I saw lights.”

She craned her neck to look. Romans itself was impossible to make out, but the faint glow of lighted windows gave its position away. “Yes, I see them too.”

He sat back. “My agent must have found a new tenant.”

The carriage descended into the new valley, where the sun’s last rays lay in banded lines. Marigold’s first glimpse of Avenbury village could only be described as eerie. She was ready to see the famous standing stones, but wasn’t prepared for the reality of a place so steeped in mystery it was second only to Stonehenge.

The light was strange, sometimes rich beams of crimson and gold sunset, sometimes deep shade, and Marigold felt almost spellbound as she gazed out of the carriage window. A summer mist was beginning to rise, adding so much to the air of mystery that when she saw a strange tall shape at the roadside, her imagination carried her away into thinking it was a very tall man shrouded in a long cloak. The form loomed so suddenly out of the gathering shadows that her instinctive fear was of a highwayman, but then she saw it was a standing stone, and a primitive shiver of fascination ran through her.

Rowan’s voice made her start. “Behold the first sentinel of Avenbury.”

“It—it gave me quite a shock,” she said, thinking how foolish she must sound.

Rowan smiled. “The stones are carved from local sandstone. There are boulders of it scattered all over this part of the world, and they should properly be called sarsens, but because from a distance they resemble flocks of sheep, they’re called graywethers.” He smiled. “Yet another piece of useless information from my endless store.”

She smiled too. “It isn’t useless information, I find it all very interesting.”

The carriage drove on, and another stone appeared, taller and more lozenge-shaped than the first. It stood on the inner bank of a water-filled moat about twenty feet wide, and curving away into the mist beyond, all lining the moat, stretched more stones. She had been told the henge enclosed the village and much of Avenbury Park, as well as the small common that stood at the actual center of the circle, and as the carriage drove on, she saw this was indeed so.

When the common came into view alongside, she saw ghostly sheep grazing on the close-cropped, lawn-like grass. There was a mystical atmosphere, as if echoes of the far-forgotten past were still sounding faintly in the modern air.

Rowan spoke again. “I see Avenbury already begins to exert its mystery upon you.”

“Yes, it does.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I had quite a shock when I saw that first stone. I thought it was a highwayman.”

“Something so modern? I would have thought that at the very least you’d expect a druid.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“How very pragmatic you are.”

“That’s the nature of this particular beast,” she replied.

“And a very agreeable nature it is too,” he murmured.

Smaller stones now lined the road as if it were a processional way, and then she saw cottages, a steepled church, and an inn, with a lantern hanging outside. The village had grown around a crossroad, at which the carriage turned west. Almost immediately, Avenbury fell away behind, and the common land appeared again. Marigold gave a start as Rowan reached up with his cane to rap loudly on the carriage roof. The coachman immediately applied the brakes and reined the team in.

Donning his top hat and gloves, Rowan flung open the door, and alighted. The mist swirled around him as he turned to extend his hand to her. “Come, it’s time to answer all your questions.”

She slipped her fingers into his, and stepped down. About one hundred yards away, in the very center of the henge, was the ancient oak tree Rowan had mentioned. It was surrounded by an almost protective inner circle of much smaller stones, which were blue instead of the gray of the great circle, and its leafy shadow was so dark and long that it disappeared into the mist that rolled very slowly in from the moat and the lake at Avenbury Park. Someone whistled, and she turned. A boy and his dog were rounding up the sheep, to drive them into shelter for the night.

Rowan began to lead her toward the tree, but then she halted as a duck flew overhead. It quacked several times, and she gasped. “I’m
sure
that was Sir Francis! He makes a very distinctive noise.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow at such a fancy. “Marigold, the lake in the park is full to the brim with ducks of every shape and size, and I promise you that one mallard sounds exactly like another. Besides, why on earth would Sir Francis come here?”

“I don’t know, but I still think—”

“Please, Marigold, right now ducks are the last thing on my mind.”

He pulled her hand over his sleeve again, and they walked on. The grass was soft beneath their feet, and as they passed through the small circle around the oak, the leaves rustled as a breath of air swirled the encroaching mist. She was reminded of that moment by the cherry tree, but this time there was no sign of Robin.

Rowan halted beneath the outspreading branches, then leaned back against the tree trunk. “First, I’ll tell you all I know of the curse. It commences with a legend. Before men, there were birds, who were all under the protection of Taranis, the god of thunder—”

“Taranis?” Marigold interrupted. “Why, that’s the god Perry and Bysshe were trying to raise.”

“No doubt because of Bysshe’s dratted volume of Stukeley.”

“Yes, I think it was. Anyway, forgive me for interrupting. Please go on.”

“Right. One day Taranis grew bored, and to amuse himself he turned some of his birds into people. That is how the human race is supposed to have begun. Anyway, in the sixteenth century, long after Taranis had faded into folk memory, a man came here to Avenbury who, with a dozen followers, secretly celebrated the old god’s rites again. This man was named Aquila Randle, and he was a doctor, philosopher, alchemist, and druid. His druidic power is said to have come from his possession of a potent talisman known as the anguinum, through the use of which the entire village fell under his influence.”

“Anguinum?” Marigold had never heard the word before.

“It’s also known as the serpent’s egg or druid’s stone, but I have no idea what it actually is, or was.”

“Go on.”

“My ancestor, the first Lord Avenbury, had a beautiful sister called Jennifer, and Randle wanted her as his wife.” Rowan smiled, and said almost as an aside. “She really was very beautiful. A portrait of her was recently rediscovered in an attic at the house. Anyway, that is incidental. Randle used the anguinum upon Lord Avenbury, forcing him to do his bidding, but Jennifer not only despised and feared Randle, she also loved a handsome young squire by the name of Raddock. She begged Randle to release her, but he refused, so she threw herself on her brother’s mercy.

“At first Avenbury resisted her pleas, but then his wife, who was with child at the time, begged him to reconsider, and because he loved both women, he agreed to let Jennifer marry Raddock instead. Randle was furious. He arranged a terrible druid ceremony at the dawn of midsummer, right here by this oak, which is a particularly sacred tree because of the mistletoe growing on it. Oak is a very hard wood, and mistletoe rarely chooses it, preferring softer trees like apple.

“That’s by the by. Where was I? Oh, yes, Randle’s druid ceremony. Using the anguinum, he imposed a spell on the village, so that those few who were not entirely converted to his beliefs would not awaken, then he compelled Jenny and Raddock to come to him. He meant to marry Jenny, kill Raddock, then lay hands upon the Avenbury title and lands by ridding himself of Lord Avenbury as well, but the latter realized what was happening, and came with a force to break up the ceremony.

“His armed intervention not only resulted in the immediate deaths by drowning of thirty-five of Randle’s druids, but also the fatal injury of thirteen more. The moat around the village has four evenly placed causeways that to this day provide access to the henge—we drove over one when we arrived—and Lord Avenbury stationed his men at these strategic points so the druids couldn’t escape, except by jumping into the water, which is very deep.

“There was panic, many drowned because they became entangled in the water lilies that have always grown here, and which are my family’s emblem. To make Randle’s dismay complete, he lost the anguinum in the confusion. This resulted in Taranis’s magic being somehow reversed, so that not only did he and his twelve remaining followers become birds again, but also Jennifer and Raddock. She became a wren, and Raddock, naturally enough, a robin. They are supposed to be birds to this day.”