Chapter Twenty-Eight

They brought her back to the abbey, just in time for the noon devotions to begin. She bypassed the church and went to the cloistered garden where so many months ago she had said the rushed goodbye to her friends. Remembering them, hoping for them – that was the only kind of prayer that appealed to her anymore.

There was little to do but watch the shadows lengthen, feel the last breath of winter on her face, and wait. She wished she could be at Ruardean for these hours. She missed it terribly. Not the bounty of the hall or the lush comfort of her chambers, but the people. Father Benedict in his chapel, and the quietly vigilant guardsmen at the gatehouse, all the boisterous families in the Welshry and the village. They would be planning now for the spring planting, looking at the last of their winter stores, preparing for the Shrovetide feasts.

Somehow it had become her home – truly, a home. There was so much warmth there, and she had only let it in after too many years spent in the cold. That was the forgiveness she should ask for. Not for some imagined slight against the Church or crown, but for holding herself apart from them, for thinking of them as necessary sacrifices to her greater good.

She sat on a bench amid the last remnants of snow and closed her eyes to conjure the image of it: the forecourt full of people, handfuls of flower petals showering down, and him standing tall within the high stone walls.

Keep him safe, she thought. That was all, just that fervent wish. It was the truest prayer she had said in months.

When she opened her eyes and saw him, she was certain it was only a kind of madness. Or perhaps there was a merciful God in truth, who gave her such a clear vision of him one last time.

But then he moved. He stepped forward, away from the cloister's arched columns, crossing the muddy garden toward her. The late afternoon light showed his face clearly. He was real. Not a hopeful dream. Her heart began to race.

"You have come in haste," she observed, striving for calm. There was sweat on his brow, mud splattered up to his knees. It seemed an ominous sign, yet he was far from frantic.

"I bring news."

She closed her eyes briefly, overwhelmed by the sound of his voice after all this time. News. He brought news. Of course it would be him. Who better to bring her fate to her? She opened her eyes to find he had stopped a few paces before her, pulling off his gloves, squinting a little against the sun.

"So soon," she said. It had been only a few hours since she had left the inquisitors. She had thought it would be at least a day, for form's sake. "Never tell me you have learned the verdict before any others even know it is decided?"

His mouth curved, a private amusement. "I learned it even before it was made."

"Naturally." She wanted to hate his arrogance as she used to, but now she was glad of it. It was easier not to weep or dissolve into a babbling heap when he was so sure of himself. "And am I to be banished or imprisoned? Or perhaps I will only lose my troublesome head."

"Most dearly do I value your head, Margaret." The faint smile vanished, and all of him went still, looking down at her. "Nor could I be glad if it were lost, or sent away from me."

She dropped her eyes. His gloves were tucked into his belt for safekeeping, and she stared at the well-worn leather of them, wondering who his new squire was. That was easier to think about than her head, or how he valued it. But she took a bracing breath and made herself speak.

"Tell me." Before she lost her courage. Before her senses returned and she remembered to be afraid. "Say what my punishment will be, do you know it."

"There is no punishment for one found innocent." He said it quite seriously, and a faint snort of laughter escaped her. But he disregarded that. He was in earnest. It was no jest. "You are declared guilty of ignorance and insolence, but not heresy."

It was as though he spoke in some outlandish tongue. She seemed to stare for a very long time at the hem of his cloak, the muddy droplets that marked the fabric, until it moved toward her and he sat beside her, his hand lowering to rest beside hers on the bench.

"I do not…" Her thoughts formed sluggishly, her mind struggling to keep up. "You learned the verdict. Before it was made."

"I bought it." She felt his shoulder lift in a shrug. "It was for sale, at a trifling cost. And it was a galling thing, to see men judge your honor when their own was so easily bought."

She shook her head as she finally comprehended, afraid that he truly thought his coin had put everything to rights, as it so often had. "Such men cannot be bought with trifling sums." It was a simple fact, and she dreaded to think that he believed he had made her safe somehow.

Something of her panic must have shown itself, for he brought his hands up to hold her face, forcing her to look in his eyes as he said, "On my honor and by my hope of heaven, Margaret – you are found innocent. I did not leave the cathedral until it was declared, and the word sent by royal messenger into the hands of the king."

There was a faint line between his brows she had never noticed before, the ghost of countless past frowns etched there on his skin. Below it were his eyes, large and grey and entirely serious as he told her this impossible thing. And though she knew the price too high and the odds too low, she also knew it must be true or he would not say it. He was William of Ruardean, after all, and naught was impossible for him on this earth.

"But…" she faltered. "Do you tell me it is ended?"

His hands pressed lightly against her cheeks, firm and insistent. "It is done, Margaret. The guard has left the gate. I am come to bring you home." When she could only blink at him, his touch lost its firmness. "If you wish to come."

Through her haze of disbelief, she suddenly she saw that he was not as sure of himself as she had thought. This was even harder to understand than her purported innocence.

Her hands found his where they held her face, and covered their warmth with her own.

"In all the world, William, there is naught I could wish more." She had not meant to weep, but now there were tears blurring her sight of him. It was because she was thinking of all the things she should have said to him, that she wanted to say but could not find words for. "If you will have me there, at your side. If you can bear such a wife as I have been."

His thumbs brushed the tears from her cheeks. He shook his head, then leaned close – closer than she had thought he would ever be to her again – and put his lips softly on hers.

"I would have no other, ever," he assured her. He drew back to see her, the line between his brows deepening as he spoke. "But do not weep, nor come to me as a beggar. I want you, Margaret. And if you will want me when you have learned the cost of it, then I would have you declare and demand it. I have no use for meekness, nor a selfless martyr."

This confused her so much that it startled a laugh from her, and stopped her tears. She did not want to pull away and ask his meaning, or how he could ever think she would not want him. She only kept her face close to his, breathing his breath, glad of his warmth, waiting for him to kiss her again. He meant to, she knew. His mouth was moving closer, her heart pounding with anticipation when she became aware of the growing noise of people. Men's voices nearby – a strange thing in this place where men were so seldom seen.

He pulled away from her, his hands tipping her face up. "No tears now. Do not give them that satisfaction."

There was a stirring at the corner of the garden. One of the sisters was approaching rather uncertainly, keeping a fair distance when she stopped and said, "Lord William, I know you want no interruption. But there are men who would speak with you, and will have no delay."

His brows raised. "It is Edmund himself? Then if you and your sisters will not object, bring him here. It is only a moment's business."

She nodded and turned to disappear in the direction of the entrance. He did not turn his face back to Margaret, or offer any explanation. She was very far from tears now, and studied his profile with a growing unease. "What business is this?" she finally asked.

"The cost," he said simply, with a slight shrug that was meant to convey indifference.

But she saw the tension in him as he leaned back and stretched his legs before him, a perfect imitation of relaxed unconcern. Even still there was something of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Some part of him was enjoying this.

Hugh de Vere appeared a moment later, with two men who were only vaguely familiar to her. And while Hugh held the same balance of tension and amusement that William did, the other men were clearly put out. It was when the older man furrowed his brow in anger as he came forward that she recognized him.

"Lord Mortimer," she said, and it startled him out of his aggressive approach. He stopped, and only William's hand pressing lightly on her forearm stopped her from rising in greeting.

Edmund, that was his name. She had last seen him years ago at court arguing with his brother in some far corner of the tilt yard. He seemed no less hostile now, though her greeting had checked him. That he came here, of all places, and in this hour – it caused a formless fear to gather in her breast. The cost, Willam had said.

"Lady Margaret," he nodded, courteous despite his obvious impatience. "I am full pleased to see you are well, and your tribulations ended at last. Your pardon, for I have come in all haste to speak with your lord husband."

"Speak, then," William urged, in that deceptively genial manner he employed when he particularly disliked someone. But he did not rise, nor look inclined to offer refreshment. "And continue your haste, for I would not ask my lady wife to suffer this place a moment more than she must."

Mortimer clearly wanted more than just a hurried word whilst standing in a muddy garden. He glanced toward Margaret as if hoping she might leave them. But nothing could induce her to go when William's fingers held her wrist in such a grip.

"The quitclaim." Mortimer gestured to the man next to him, who seemed to be a clerk of some kind. "It makes no mention of Ruardean. An oversight, to be sure, but one that can be remedied immediately."

William made no answer. He only looked at the man with a steady kind of patience in his eyes, waiting. Hugh de Vere stayed quiet as well, engrossed in a critical appraisal of the mud on his boots. Gradually, Mortimer's expression hardened until he wore a look of deadly warning.

"You swore before witnesses," he said, his voice low and full of threat. "All the properties in your possession, on your honor and before witnesses."

"On my honor, I have given them to you." William gave an apologetic smile and a nod toward the parchment the clerk held. "The properties named there are what I swore to you, without exception."

"Ruardean–"

"Is not in my possession. Already had I relinquished any claim to it before ever I made you that promise. And aye," he said with a calming gesture, "you will say it is a foul trick, for I knew well what you believed, and what you wanted most from this bargain. But I will say you had only to speak to the lord chancellor, or even to ask me to promise Ruardean by name, and put it in writing before the deed was done. Then would you have known the truth of my holdings."

"There was no time for writing it out, as well you–"

"As well you should know a bargain made in haste is a bargain made suspect."

Mortimer looked as though he had been slapped in the face, insulted beyond measure, yet could not do anything about it. There was such malice in the way he looked at William that Margaret, confused by this speech, wanted to step between them – little as it might do to protect him.

But after a long and tense moment, Mortimer's face changed. The anger did not subside but an appreciation came into his features, the recognition of a worthy foe.

"Never think I will forget." He said it calmly, almost thoughtfully. "You will pay for this."

"I have naught left to pay with," William said most cordially. "You are welcome to apply to the new lord of Ruardean for what rights you think should be yours, but I think you will not wish to make Ranulf of Morency your enemy."

The name silenced Mortimer at last. His jaw clamped shut, and a look of bitter frustration came into his face. After a very long and tense moment, he gave a tight little nod to Margaret – a wordless farewell – and turned on his heel.

As he strode from the garden, the clerk following swiftly on his heels, Hugh de Vere muttered, "I will miss you at court, Will, but I thank you for the excellent diversion." He clasped hands briefly, nodded to Margaret with a roguish grin, and followed the other men to the exit.

She watched them go, then stared at the place where they had been. Their footprints were in the soft, wet earth. The sounds of their departure rang in her ears as loudly as William's silence, as she digested what she had just witnessed.

"He held the strings of the inquisitors," she said at last through lips numbed with shock. "That is what you bought with Ruardean."

"With all but Ruardean," he corrected. "I could not let it be ruled by a Mortimer. It would grieve my mother, and my sister. And you."

She dared to look at him now, and found him watching her closely. "And so it is given to Morency. To Henry."

"Nay," he said. "To Gwenllian. I have asked that she entail it on her daughter, Alys. I think it has fared best when in the care of women."

It may be in Gwenllian's name according to law, but she was married to Morency. All men would pause at that name. It was well calculated: Mortimer was far more likely to content himself with the many other properties and let Ruardean go without a fight, rather than to tangle with the lethal Ranulf of Morency.

She wanted to stand, to pace the length of the garden, to let out the nervous energy that now seemed to fill her – but she could not make herself move away from him. It was growing cold now, the daylight beginning to fade. A flush had spread throughout her, all her skin radiating an incongruous heat. "Why?" she asked, and her voice was so thin, so afraid of the answer.

He was silent for the barest moment. There was a sudden intensity in his look, a stillness such as she had never seen in all her years of watching him.

"Did you mean it?" he asked. She watched him swallow. "What you said. In the cathedral."

Whatever fear she felt was echoed in his face, that breathless anxious fear that accompanied the leap into the unknown. But there was only one answer, and she did not hesitate.

"I love you," she said. It hurt as much as it thrilled her, the raw pain of a perfect truth from a heart prised open. "It is the only thing of heaven I know, or believe in."

"You married me for power," he said. "For wealth and status so that you may achieve–"

"I married as a fool and a coward," she declared. "Never think I am that same child now, William. I want no glory or praise, nor even life eternal if it is not with you." He still looked wary, as if he thought she only said what would please him. Her hands grasped his tunic, holding on to him with all her strength. "You have said you would not have a meek martyr for a wife, and on my life I will never be that again. Never, do you understand? If you would have me declare what I want without apology, then hear me when I say I want you ."

He was still as stone, staring down at her fists against his chest. She felt his breath turn quick, watched his lips part slowly, reluctantly, to let out the words.

"And will you want me when I am brought low? If my ambition swallows or abandons me, or… or if I grow mad with age?"

"William." She leaned close and pressed her lips to the line between his brows. "My love does not depend on riches or health, or any imperfection. I want who you are, who you have been, and by God's grace, who you will become."

His hands covered hers, heat enveloping her chilled fingers. "I can love you no less." A rueful smile curled his lips. "Full well have I tried for these many months."

If she tried to make light of it and laugh, it would come out as a sob. Instead she said, "I will pray each day that you can forgive me for these many months, and the injury my arrogance has caused."

He could laugh, and did. "As well say I should forgive the wind for blowing or the sun for shining." He looked at her now with that fond admiration she so little deserved. "It is your nature, Margaret. And I love it so well that I would not change it, nor treat it as a fault when I cherish it with my life."

She wanted to brush her cheek against his, to kiss him again and savor the feel of him. Instead she looked away, and spoke her fear.

"To lose all your inheritance to my folly…" She swallowed, the enormity of it almost choking her. "I fear a resentment will take root in your heart against me, that you must give so much."

Now his hands came to her face, turned her to face him and those clear grey eyes. "Do not think me some selfless martyr, Margaret. I am no less ambitious or greedy than ever I have been. I want not the world's esteem, but yours. And there is little that has relieved me more than laying down the burden of Ruardean. It is as much a reward in this world as the next."

There was only an utter sincerity in his face, so much that it baffled her. Perhaps she did not know him at all. "You do not want Ruardean?"

"I want you," he said. "All that you have been and will be, as you have said."

"It is your home."

"Our home, aye." He looked a little uncertain again, his hands falling from her face. "My sister will have need of a steward, and I think none can care for the place so well as we can. We will live there, if it please you to be married to a simple steward."

He looked genuinely worried that she might object to this. If not for the worried crease that had appeared again between his brows, she might have laughed at the very idea of rejecting such a proposal. Instead she leaned forward and kissed the slight pinch that had gathered in his lip.

"There is naught could please me more," she assured him. And then a laugh did escape her, a wild and free laughter at the thought of him loving her, wanting her. She felt his arms come around her – not a dream, but real, little as she deserved it.

"Then I will take you home now," he said, and kissed her soundly.

Home. Freedom, with him at her side, a life of love and service awaiting them. One miracle at least was real, and it was right here in her arms. She would not let it go.

THE END