Chapter Fifteen

Lord William was so unnaturally calm when he announced his mother's imminent visit that it sent a chill directly into Margaret's bones.

In truth, the news would have been alarming in any case. Lady Eluned never visited Ruardean, nor was she known for her spontaneity of movement. But when he said that his lady mother would arrive in two days, he did so with an air of nonchalance and a preternatural stillness of body that caused the hair at Margaret's nape to prickle to life.

She recognized this stillness in him. She had learned to look for it. It came over him rarely, and only in moments when a subject of both great importance and great risk was introduced. It was infallible – a telltale sign of what mattered most to him, of what schemes he feared would fail without his full attention. Without exception, it came over him whenever his mother was mentioned.

The announcement sent the household into a controlled frenzy. The servants cleaned until their hands were raw, and the austringers hunted until they were too weary to stand. When Gwenllian had visited, the preparations were all joyful anticipation. But now the air tasted of an all-consuming purpose laced with fear, an indicator of how Lady Eluned had ruled this place.

Margaret found she was not immune to the mood.

"I have spoken to the best brewer in the Welshry, and she has promised to bring her finest mead, aged this full year," she assured William. "It is golden as though it were made of the autumn sun, and tastes like Heaven itself."

He did not curl his lip and ask her, with a lazy mockery, if a comparison to Heaven was not sacrilege. He only thanked her, distracted, before turning to the steward to ask after some other vital preparation. There was an energy radiating from him like nerves on the night before battle. She felt it as a high-pitched hum, a ceaseless vibration rippling across her skin day and night.

And then, the evening before his mother's party was to arrive, he stayed in her bed deep into the night.

It was unusual; he had always made a point to lay next to her no longer than he must. His habit was to come to her bed, turn her flesh into fire, and then leave her limp and sated as he bid her good eve. His nightly exit was a reminder that what was between them was transactional, as prescribed by the physician. Every day she told herself to be glad of it. It made her part easier to play. Easier to keep her hands to herself and her mouth from his skin, to pretend her mind was not alive with thoughts of the things he did to her body, and all the things she wanted him to do.

But tonight, he lingered. His shoulder pressed against hers as their breath calmed. He did not kiss her sweetly, hands tangled in her hair, and then leave. Instead he lay with an arm warm and heavy across her belly, his thumb idly stroking the curve of her waist, his eyes fixed on the tumble of her curls. He stayed that way a very long time – so long that she finally felt emboldened to speak.

"Does it trouble you," she dared to ask, "that Lady Eluned comes so unexpected?"

His lashes lowered, a lush half-moon of darkness against his cheek. She watched, but the little pinch of restraint did not come to his lips. The stillness did not come over him.

"Aye, it troubles me," he answered, with a rueful twist to his mouth. "I know not what it means."

"You do not like uncertainty."

He shook his head just barely, a brief whisper of his hair against the linen. "Nay, I like uncertainty very well," he said, his voice a soft rumble beside her. "There is opportunity in uncertainty. It is disadvantage I mislike."

Somehow her finger was tracing his chin, a gentle stroke as they whispered confidences in the dark and the glow from the hearth painted his skin. It felt secret, special, like those wooden beads pressed into her palm.

"But wherefore would you need advantage of your mother? She is no enemy set against you."

There was a tiny waver at the line of his lips, an erosion of confidence that might be her imagination – or might only be a trick of the firelight. But she felt it shiver through him, a distant thread of lightning on a far horizon, there and gone in less than a blink.

"Few know she is an enemy until it is too late." He smiled as though it were a pleasant thought. "Nay, she is not my enemy. But naught she does is without purpose, and I must wonder at her purpose in coming here. I think she seeks to catch me unawares."

Her brows drew together in confusion. "To what end?"

"Who can say?" He was brushing a lock of her hair against her skin, a slow sweep across her collarbone. "Mayhap she would see for herself how Ruardean fares under my rule."

His tone was idle, but the deep stillness had returned as he said it. And she knew, suddenly and surely, that this was his great fear: that his mother would look closely and find him wanting. That he would be judged unequal to the task. That she might think that he should not be lord of this place.

A distant part of her brain seized on this knowledge, grasped at it with greedy hands, shouted at her to think well and use it against him just as he had unwittingly advised: his uncertainty was her opportunity.

Without her permission, her fingers closed around his wrist. She held his hand where it rested near her heart, warm and solid.

"She will see how well it prospers," she said with a firmness that surprised her. "She cannot fail to see it. One day I will weep with gladness to have a son so devoted to his duty."

He gave no answer to this. But the stillness in him melted away beneath her fingers, and she tasted gratitude in his kiss. That was answer enough.

It was only later, after he left her alone in the bed, that she realized she had not once offered prayers or taken any pains to hide the workings of her mind. She lay awake for hours, trying to decide if that was a mistake.

When Lady Eluned arrived, it was hard to imagine why she should be so feared. She had a formidable confidence and a sharp eye, but overwhelmingly gave the impression of a gently aging and perfectly harmless woman. There were streaks of silver in her hair and when she smiled at her grandson, the joy gathered in lines that wreathed her eyes. Young Henry clearly adored her, and anyone would be hard-pressed to see her as anything more than a doting grandmother with a dignified bearing.

Margaret had met her just once before, shortly after she and William were married. It was an afternoon at court, and they had barely spoken at all. On that occasion, Lady Eluned had merely swept her too-observant eyes over Margaret in a swift and cold assessment. Then she had lifted her brows in what appeared to be either surprise or light contempt, and murmured to William that she hoped he knew what he was doing. It had felt ominous, and so dangerous that just the memory made Margaret queasy.

Now, years later, Lady Eluned did not seem so very terrifying. Intelligent and watchful, to be sure, and Margaret would do well to maintain a vigilant guard – but this stately woman did not seem nearly the danger that Margaret's youth and imagination had made her out to be.

Indeed, the only deep unease Margaret felt was when she saw the cool formality between mother and son. What warmth was between them was no more than would exist between friendly but distant acquaintances. Her unease only grew when she realized she was seeing the light again, as she looked at them. It surprised her, gradually appearing as a glow between the two of them – not light all around, but compact and contained, packed like hard earth. It hurt her eyes even as she refused to look at it. She had resolved to ignore it, now and in future, and forcibly turned her thoughts to how best to please this soft-hearted grandmother.

As she walked through the manor, Lady Eluned handed a honey cake to every child she saw, smiling with true warmth and asking after their families. She applauded young Henry's clumsy attempts at swordplay and gave him a book of Welsh tales that transformed his face with boyish delight. She asked Margaret to show her the renovated chapel, looked with pleasure at the sight of the espaliered pear trees in the garden, and greeted members of the household as old friends. All of Ruardean seemed to slowly exhale with relief, basking in the lady's evident approval.

On the third day, just as Margaret had convinced herself there was naught to fear, Lady Eluned asked her to join her in the orchard. Beneath the trees there was a small table set with a chess board awaiting them.

"I fear I have little talent for the game," Margaret lied when she saw it.

"Little talent is better than none," Lady Eluned replied with a smile, and poured the wine herself as she invited Margaret to take the first move.

The servants and attendants, including Constance, were keeping what seemed an overly respectful distance. The musician played from a spot so far away that Margaret could hardly discern the tune. It left a wide buffer of privacy around their place at the chessboard – by design, she would later realize.

They conversed quite pleasantly. They spoke of the wine that Lady Eluned's husband imported to England from his lands in France. Even now he met with a merchant in a nearby town to discuss the latest vintage. William had taken Henry and gone to meet him there, leaving the women alone for a day. For all William's fears about his lady mother's harsh judgment of him, Margaret could not help but think that this visit was not about him. It was about her . These hours alone together seemed to be contrived, a way for his mother to take the measure of the new Lady of Ruardean.

For that reason, Margaret endeavored to put her most pleasant self forward.

"How glad we are that you have come to us," she ventured in a tone mild enough that she could hope it hid her true interest. "You are always most welcome at Ruardean, lady, and not only when Henry is here to greet you."

"You think I have come only to see my grandson." Lady Eluned's response was every bit as mild, her eyes on the board as she moved a pawn and smiled vaguely. "But that is chance, you see. I did not come for him."

Margaret waited for an explanation, but there was none. The silence went on long enough for her to make her next move, fingers closing lightly around her rook as she debated whether or not she should try to win. And then Lady Eluned spoke again.

"I have forgotten to say that Lady Nan sends her warmest greetings to you, my dear. I had it from her own lips."

Margaret's fingers squeezed the rook too tightly. She could not fathom why Lady Eluned had concealed until this moment the fact that she had so lately visited Lady Nan. Her mind whirred with speculation, but she made sure to blink in gentle confusion as she looked up.

"I did not know you have come to us from Aderinyth. I hope she and the child are well?"

A renewed warmth came into Lady Eluned's face as she smiled in response. "Very well, by God's grace – and by your prayers, of course." After a moment her eyes fell to the board again, prompting Margaret to move the rook she still held. "Do you yet grow weary of your prayers, I wonder?"

There it was. There was a neutrality in the words that was too precise, too perfectly colored with concern. Margaret had known the matter of her heresy could not be ignored, but she was terrified she would say the wrong thing, address the wrong concern or sound too indifferent to this subtle inquiry.

After a frantic bit of consideration, she opted for the mildest of truths.

"The penance laid on me is heavy, and in faith there are times I think it were better to give myself to serving others in place of mouthing prayers. Yet gladly do I submit myself to the Church's command in hopes that the dishonor I have brought to Ruardean is quickly forgotten. I pray for it each day."

She said it all while looking at the rook she had placed, trying in vain to ignore the sliver of her heart that inexplicably wanted this woman's approval.

"I understand the Bishop of Stowell will have windows in his cathedral to rival the magnificence of Rome." Lady Eluned cast an apologetic smile in Margaret's direction as she moved her knight to capture the rook. "He has wanted them for some time, and will forevermore gloat of how he won them. But his smugness is easily endured when I tell myself it secures your place in Heaven."

For the briefest moment Margaret considered correcting her, saying that penance would grant only the possibility of Heaven, or else that her sins were so great and the price so small. But she discarded the usual overzealous nonsense in the face of such an intriguing admission. Better to find common ground.

"You do not like the bishop?" she asked, adding a touch of surprised innocence. "I have thought… I think he does not like my lord husband."

"He is a Mortimer," the older woman sniffed. "Cousin to Lord Roger, who despises me. Ever will Roger Mortimer hope to humble me, and ever will his cousin the bishop seek to please him. Is certain their only regret is that Ruardean has lost no lands in making your penance, for they would dearly love to diminish this estate." Her eyes flicked briefly over Margaret. "It is rare they are given an opening."

It had the flavor of a gentle warning, and even gentler reprimand. The ivory chessman was cool beneath Margaret's finger. She stroked it, a nervous touch as she avoided the other woman's eyes.

"My sins are yet more grave, if they have given opportunity for such a villain to move against my lord husband." She clasped her hands together in contrition and spoke in muted tones, careful not to overdo it. "I am heartily sorry for it, lady. I would not see him injured for all the world."

Lady Eluned's response was a startling flood of compassion, warm as an embrace.

"Nay, child, never think it," she soothed, like a mother to her babe. "Had they not sought to strike a blow against Ruardean, your heresy would have been named a harmless confusion, overlooked and forgotten. Instead they saw a chance, and took it. The fault is mine, and so must the apology be. My actions long ago, not yours now, have caused the injury."

It was so reassuring that Margaret almost let out a relieved laugh.

"Kind lady, if you have given them motive and I have given opportunity, then let us speak no more of fault or blame." Her heart lightened as she turned her attention to the chessboard again. "Nor do I want any apology."

"Then I will give you none, do you protest so prettily. But I can hope you will accept a warning, my dear."

So equable was her tone that Margaret briefly thought she had misheard. "A warning, lady?"

"Indeed." Lady Eluned was perusing the board now, distracted. "I warn you to be mindful that every creature leaves a scent where it passes, and that this is how the hunter finds the prey."

What an alarming thing to say. Yet the lady remained perfectly amiable as she softly cried, "Ah!" with satisfaction, and captured Margaret's last pawn.

"I will heed this warning," Margaret said with a gently furrowed brow. If there was one part she could play to perfection, it was the befuddled innocent. "Though I confess I little understand it."

"Do you not?" Lady Eluned flicked her brows upward, amusement playing across her features. "I will explain, for I would be certain sure there is no confusion. It began some years ago, when first I heard rumors of the corruption of the Templar knights. Unnatural rituals, ungodly practices." She waved a dismissive hand before reaching for her cup. She was perfectly composed, as though she spoke of the weather. "Unlikely and absurd. And so did I describe these rumors, only for a lady – you know Maude de Beauchamp, I think? Well, she whispered to me in all secrecy that it must be true, for she had it from you direct. And all know you are so very good that you would never give out lies about men of God." This was punctuated with a faint, polite smile. "You chose well in Maude, my dear. The story has spread by now to all of Christendom. It flourishes especially well in France."

Margaret could only stare as her pleasant smile slowly collapsed. Her heart had seemed to stop in the midst of this speech, and now came violently back to life.

"But I–" It was not difficult to stutter with astonishment. She had not dared to hope her wild inventions about the Templars would reach beyond England. "Never did I think–"

"But all ladies, virtuous or not, gossip," Eluned continued, speaking over her. "So I little thought of it until this summer past, when my lord husband asked me what offense Ruardean had given to the shipbuilders of Provence. The price of a ship in that place was raised tenfold when they learned of his ties to Ruardean." Now her smile was tight, her eyes hard. "It wanted little effort to discover that you had made generous gifts to an abbey there. I thought it strange – so many worthy causes, yet you choose a distant abbey mired in conflict so severe that it is almost at war with the ship merchants of that coast. Now those merchants believe Ruardean sides with the abbot against them." Here she drew her brows together in mild consternation. "But I dismissed this too, for I could not think why you would want ship merchants in Marseilles to loathe Ruardean."

Because when the crusading army found the mountain pass closed to them, there would be little choice but to take the host to the Holy Land by sea. And if Margaret could not stop it, she could at least create obstacles enough to hinder them, and bleed their coffers dry.

Not that she wanted Lady Eluned to know anything of it. It was troubling enough that she had uncovered this much.

"Nor do I wish to make enemies, by Mary do I swear it!" Margaret declared with a smoothly startled distress.

She prepared to extol the abbey's many virtues, their exceptional scriptorium that was in desperate need of repair – but she was stopped by the tight pinch that had come to Lady Eluned's lips. It was a familiar little indicator, inherited by her son: the sign of patience stretched perilously thin.

As though Margaret had not spoken, Lady Eluned sipped her wine and continued, ever pleasant.

"Unfortunate, I thought. Strange, and worth noting – but no more than that. And then some days ago, Lady Nan was visited by the messenger from Lincolnshire. Oh no, my dear," she soothed in her lilting Welsh tones, as alarm flared through Margaret. "You must not think she betrayed you. She never would. It was but chance that I was there when the messenger came. Your true misfortune is that I am not as trusting as Nan. When she said she sent a purse of coins to aid some girls who had escaped the brothel, and then refused to say anything more on the matter… Well, I fear I have not lost my habit of looking after Lady Nan. I had the messenger followed. And the coins."

The pinch in her mouth was gone, replaced by a look of satisfaction. It was the unmistakable contentment of the hunter with its prey dangling from its lips. "So many places it took me! So many connections, such diverse schemes. And at the end of it all…" She lifted her hand gently, palm up. "You."

The very air had turned leaden, impossible to breathe. Across the dead silence between them, a trill of laughter floated by, carried from the circle of ladies who sat just out of earshot. Margaret turned her head to see them. She saw Constance in a rare high humor, engrossed in conversation, oblivious to this disaster. How blithe, how fortunate she was. For now.

"What a strange tale," she said flatly, knowing only that it was vital not to say too much, not to give even more away. She kept her gaze on the distant ladies. "And what do you make of this deception that you claim to find?"

"An excellent question. What think you I should make of it, Lady Margaret?"

There was an edge to the words, the quiet kind of threat that was meant to cause cold sweat and nightmares. Any answer Margaret gave was like to become a weapon, that was plain enough. It no longer perplexed her why William should dread being at a disadvantage to this woman.

"I know not what you wish me to say," she replied in carefully controlled tones, determined to hide her panic. "I think me you have come here to tell me something, not to hear me speak."

"Very astute." Lady Eluned inclined her head to acknowledge it, then returned her attention to the board. God save, she was so calm and assured, so thoroughly in her element. She moved her queen, and spoke with a voice that was soft as silk. "One day, does God will it, you will hold your own child in your arms. Then will you think on this moment, and better understand. There is such savagery in a mother's heart that it would amaze you."

Margaret cleared her throat. "This is what you have come to tell me?"

Lady Eluned looked at her, waiting, commanding her full attention before speaking. "I have come to tell you that if you persist in this, I shall slice you into pieces and have you for my supper."

There was an unfathomable well of menace beneath the polite tone, the bland smile. It was all too easy to imagine her sitting down to a plate of thinly sliced human heart.

"Persist," Margaret echoed in a voice she barely recognized. It was imperative to know exactly what this woman had discovered, the extent of the exposure. "Persist in what, precisely?"

"In hiding Quinten of Livonia in England, to begin," she answered easily. "Near Gravesend, I believe?"

Margaret struggled not to flinch. She could think of nothing but William's voice in the dark, the inadvertent warning: Few know she is an enemy until it is too late . What did one say in the moment the mask was ripped away? She did not know. For her life, she could not fathom who to be or how to behave in this moment. She could be only Margaret, outwitted and fearful of showing it.

"Risk yourself, Margaret, and I would only think you a fool. But you risk the fortunes of my family, and Ruardean. You risk my son." Her look was full of warning. "And that I will not allow."

Margaret stayed still, afraid to move, her mind a blank. She watched Lady Eluned's steady hand lifting the cup, the red silk of her sleeve rippling gently in the summer breeze. It was a magnificent gown, the kind that would swallow many women whole. Probably she had chosen it especially for this moment, to impress and intimidate. It almost matched the red of the chess pieces, which now outnumbered the white on the board.

She only realized she was furiously studying the chessboard in search of her next move when Lady Eluned said, half-amused, "Nor did I invite you to play chess to observe your strategy. I only wanted to play. Sometimes a game is but a game."

"Your warning is no game, lady."

"In faith, my dear, it is not."

There was no more amusement in her now, no polite veneer. The sweet grandmother was gone entirely. Margaret looked up at the cool grey eyes, so like William's, and saw that beneath the calm was a cold and deadly fury, a snake poised to strike. And she knew – she knew without a doubt that there was naught left to her but to ask for mercy. Only a fool would try to outwit such a foe when at so thorough a disadvantage.

No artifice. Plain words. It was the only remaining move, so she fixed her mouth to it.

"Do you take this tale to the bishop and he believes it," she began, "There will be no forgiveness granted to me. Not at any price."

"There will not," Lady Eluned agreed, and said no more.

"Please," she breathed, suddenly close to tears. But it had no effect. "They will show no mercy if I am found guilty of the same heresy again. You cannot want such misfortune for Ruardean."

This did not move Lady Eluned at all. She only continued her implacable stare in silence, until Margaret had to push past the panic that was gathering in her throat to speak. "There will be no penance, no absolution, do you not see? They will say I am unrepentant."

"And they would not be wrong, would they?"

"Lady, I beg you," she burst out in desperation. "They will burn me as a heretic!"

"Threaten my son and I will light the pyre myself."

It was a promise, cruel and clear and full of truth. And Margaret saw at last that this was the heart of it, of her. This was not manipulation, or posturing. William's mother had not come to Ruardean to find fault in him. She had come to protect him. From his wife.

"I do not seek to harm him!" The words left Margaret's lips with no warning. There was a burning in her throat now, the press of angry tears. "I would not. Never. On my soul do I swear it."

But that was a lie, wasn't it? She had known it would harm him. At times she had even hoped for it. Now, though, to think she might endanger him made her feel ill.

"You weaken his position by intent. You seek to blacken his name. You have spent years in the attempt." Lady Eluned leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table and her chin on interlaced fingers. Her threat delivered, she now grew relaxed, thoughtful. "All this have you done beneath his nose, and he is the most capable and watchful man I know. It is a rare fine wit you possess, Margaret. Come, raise your eyes to me."

She did, bracing herself to see hatred in the other woman's face. But there was none. There was only interest, and a sense of danger held at bay – the weapon withdrawn, if only temporarily, to make way for curiosity.

"I think me your true purpose has little to do with my son. Any injury you may do him is incidental, is that not so?"

Margaret resisted the sudden urge to look toward Constance. It was her friend who had reminded her, again and again, that she had embarked on this course not to spite William, but to serve God. Ruardean and its lord might come to ruin, but worldly wealth was not her concern. It was indeed incidental, and she admitted it with a faint nod of her head.

"By Mary, girl, you intrigue me," murmured Lady Eluned. "I would know the use of all these efforts. Wherefore do you deceive, and scheme, and harbor a heretic though it may cost your life? I cannot fathom what you gain from it."

She truly wanted to know. She would not understand, of course, this creature of power and politics. Likely she would scoff at the true reason. Almost certainly she would use any honest answer as a weapon if ever she needed one.

Yet Margaret found she could not resist the pull of the question, the novel sensation that she was learning to crave – the way it felt to give an exact truth, out loud. Without apology.

"Not for gain, but for the sake of my own belief." Even to her own ears, it sounded hopelessly na?ve. But it was the truth. It was what she believed. Her jaw hardened, her chin tilting up in defense, a defiance of the scorn that did not come. "To make war in God's name is abhorrent. To condemn a man because he questions the Church is cruel. How can I let it stand, if I might stop it?" She shook her head. "Not for riches or reputation, nor for Church or crown. Love one another, Christ said, and that is the command I follow. None other."

She looked full at Lady Eluned as she said it. There was no disdain that met her gaze, no confusion. There was only a face that gave nothing away, and it was so like William that Margaret could almost smile. Almost.

Finally Lady Eluned lifted her brows and observed, "So too are we commanded to bear no false witness, yet you lie as well as you breathe."

"A woman's life is pretending." The words slipped out as reflexively as any prayer. She looked at the woman across from her, and did not regret saying it. "I think me you know that very well."

"Oh, child," she sighed with a gentle shake of her head. She wore a look of weariness, all her years descending upon her at once. "That is not a life."

Margaret looked down at her own hands, fingers curled around a forgotten red pawn. This conversation must end, and soon. She felt dangerously close to tears.

Just as she thought it, Lady Eluned stood. Her brisk manner had returned. She held a hand up briefly, a signal to the watchful servants that they should not yet approach.

"See that the heretic is gone before summer ends." There was no weariness in her now, nor sympathy. "If he is still in England after Michaelmas, it will be as a corpse. I will see it done with my own eyes, do you understand? And then I will tell my son of your perfidy."

Michaelmas. Two months. It was almost generous, if a promise of murder could be called that. Her mind instantly leapt to the places she might safely send Quinten, all the ways she might keep it secret – details and considerations that seemed trivial in this moment, after what Lady Eluned had said.

"You…you will not tell William now?" It seemed an impossible reprieve. She looked up, mystified. "But why?"

"Do I tell him now, he is forced to choose between his duty and your safety. I cannot want such a burden for him. And far more important than that – if your foolish scheme is discovered, it is better he can deny all knowledge of it with honesty." She paused to look Margaret over. There was no scorn in her, just as there was no pity. "If you hang for it, you will hang alone. Let your faith be your companion in that hour, not my son."

Margaret was filled with both relief and a strong urge to shove the woman. But she only nodded, then uncurled her fist to let her fingers find the string of wooden beads William had given her. She had no thought of prayer, but there was comfort in feeling the smooth round beads. It soothed her, as much as she could be soothed in such a moment.

"He will discover your schemes," Lady Eluned said, low and soft, a trace of sympathy in her voice. "I would wager my own life that even now he is sniffing them out."

Margaret made no answer. She watched as the other ladies at last ventured close. One asked Lady Eluned if she wished to see the new hawks in the mews, or if she preferred to rest before the men returned. They were like solemn flowers, bright and pretty, lined up beside her as she drank the last swallow of her wine and set the empty cup beside the chessboard.

"Will we finish the game later?" Margaret asked her, striving for a semblance of courtesy as the others watched. At a glance she saw four ways the board might play out, at least one of which might allow her to win.

"I think not." Lady Eluned smiled, seamlessly transformed into a harmless grandmother, a congenial guest once more. "Better, I think, to leave you with all the possibilities before you."

She walked off with her attendants in the direction of the mews, with Constance leading the way. Margaret stayed a long time beneath the tree, staring at the board and considering her next move, counting her dwindling options.