Chapter 12: Bitter Wind
The mullioned windows of the bower where Margaret slept were open, but not a whisper of air passed through. Margaret, in her thinnest shift, twisted in and out of airless dreams on her bed. The covers were kicked to the floor hours ago. Dawn finally illuminated the haze to the east. The church bells rang Prime. The sound was enough to waken, but not rouse her, and she lay with an arm slung over her face, a dull headache forming in her forehead. She heard a cow lowing incessantly. Probably it had lost its calf in the darkness, she guessed. She wished it did not sound so forlorn. She would like to think she was the only lonely soul in the world, at least at that early hour, and that beast was stealing her self-pity. She tried to laugh softly at herself, but the ache in her forehead chose that moment to begin throbbing.
She rolled to her side and lifted the lid of a small carved and inlaid chest by the bedside. There were folded kerchiefs, her comb, some small jewelry, and other sundries. She found a tiny vial of lavender oil, and tipped out a drop onto a kerchief. She replaced the cork in the vial and put it down in the chest. She laid back on the bed and held the scented cloth near her face.
As every morning, she prayed silently for her betrothed, for herself and others, and she wondered sometimes, if she were not a little strange doing so.
Everyone had the Pater Noster and prayers at night. But in the morning, when her mind was clear, and she woke before most did, the quiet and the dawn drew her to a place she shared with no one. But since early Summer, God had been meeting her there. Perhaps He had been there all along, and she had not known it. But as she spoke wordlessly in her soul this morning, she was impelled to rise and go out walking. She ran a wet cloth over her face and neck and pulled on a plain dress and slippers. Her heart beat strangely although she was calm and she hurried down the steps.
She found her way out to the castleyard, and heard calling from the sentries at the bailey gate. Two of her father's knights-- she could see their shields-- were entering the gate. One of their squires led a riderless horse, which even Margaret could see had been ridden hard and not rubbed down. As they drew into the yard, she saw that one of the knights held a limp figure on the saddle in front of him. She ran forward as two men came running from the Hall to receive the man the knight passed down to them. It was Tamlyn.
He was brought, a man under each shoulder, into the hall, and laid on a bench. Margaret tried to get in between the knights who crowded around him, but they had seen hard-ridden men more than she, and eventually she waited on the fringe of the group.
Her father arrived, his face still dripping and his tunic unbelted. The knot of men opened, and Margaret jumped in alongside Lord Gregory, twining her arm about his. A knight said, "He is bruised and nicked, but not badly wounded. His clothes are all shredded in places. He was found a mile from here, his sweated horse standing over him. He must have been fleeing some attack, become exhausted and fallen. But what he was running from, we couldn't figure; no one would have pushed his horse that hard if they didn't have to."
Lord Gregory glanced at him. "Take him to the knights' quarters. Set a page to watch him, and I want two men to ride about and see what he was riding from. When he wakes, the moment he wakes, call me," said Gregory, turning away, then noticing Margaret on his arm. He patted her hand and left, returning to his chamber.
But Tamlyn did not wake that long day, nor the next morning. He was laid in Gareth's room, his gashes tended to; and on that second morning, Gareth looked at him and began to speak, seeing his eyes open. Tamlyn only lay staring. Gareth shook his arm, felt his forehead, and pulled him to sitting. Finally, Tamlyn's eyes turned to him. He arose and found in the wardrobe the chamberpot, which he stood before and used. Then he went to the washstand and used that as well. Then he stood, not seeming to know what to do next, his head already beginning to sag.
"He is in a daze," Gareth told Gregory. "Perhaps he fell hard from the horse. I'd give him a day or two." But it was many days, and Tamlyn did not change.
Lord Gregory's private chambers were replete with mementos of his Lady Varden. Her embroidered pillows mountained the high, wide bed they had shared; rugs of her design covered the floors. Fabrics she had chosen curtained the bedstead and hung the windows. If one squinted hard, one could imagine oneself in the forest of an afternoon, for leaves, flowers, branches, birds, deer and foxes were everywhere.
It had been a long time since Margaret had been summoned here for private family talk. She arrived as the servants were being dismissed and those who had exited first were already bending their heads together knowingly. She entered the door and Rivanone's handmaid went out, closing the door behind her with a heavy sound. Thank Heaven that Just and Rivanone were here.
Margaret curtseyed. "My lord my father, you summoned me," said Margaret, wishing that she could crawl into his lap, like the younger Varda, thereby deflecting the brunt of what would follow. Her father took her hand and kissed her cheek, which was burning. Then he motioned her to sit by him, at a group of tufted chairs by the room hearth. God bless Rivanone, who immediately came and sat by her. Margaret wished her father would come to the point, for he stroked his bearded jawline with his thumb and forefinger and hesitated. Suddenly Margaret knew this interview was difficult for him as well. She dropped her eyes to her lap and prayed inwardly.
Finally Gregory cleared his throat. "The fact is, daughter, that when I promised you to wed our Sir Tamlyn of Braewode, no one was happier than I that you and he already loved one another, as anyone could see. It was a good match for many reasons. But, it was not at that time the case that-- his condition was such that-- that he is unwell, not suitable for marrying. I would be remiss to allow you to remain betrothed to him, in his present state. Thankfully, you and he are only betrothed, which our laws allow to be terminated by simple agreement, should adequate cause be found. Lord Just is well-versed in such matters, and we believe that such grounds can be demonstrated in the case of Tamlyn's state of mind. However, my daughter," Gregory's eyes, which had been fixed on a point on the carpet during this dissertation, rose to meet Margaret's, "I am not dead to the fact that you are strongly bound to him. What you did to win him makes that very plain. What say you to all of this?"
Margaret sat quietly. She was surprised at her own reaction, at the calm she felt, although she had known that this confrontation was inevitable and for days had dreaded its coming. Finally she spoke. "My father, I paid too dear a price for him to lightly dismiss him from my life. I understand that his state is disturbing. It is to me, perhaps more so than anyone, precisely because I do love him. But I respectfully do ask that he be given time. Our wedding date is not yet for many months, and he may well recover." She wished that her voice did not sound so plaintive.
Lady Rivanone took her hand. "Margaret, the longer you are betrothed to him, the more difficult it will become to be realistic about him. If your ties are broken now, it will not change Tamlyn's fate, whether he recovers or not. If you wait, it will be that much more painful for you to break it off later. And if he does recover, and he truly loves you, then he may return to seek you again."
Margaret couldn't believe it was her aunt saying these things. From her father, or Lord Just, she might have expected it, but from Rivanone...she had not anticipated the truth of her words, and found herself unable to speak, and wanting to scream. They were talking, and there was wisdom and knowledge and sense in their words, but it was all a roaring in Margaret's burning ears. She struggled to retain a grip on herself. If she cried, they would think her a child whose voice did not bear heeding.
Just was speaking. "We think it would be in everyone's best interest if Tamlyn returns to his home in Braewode. There is no better chance for his recovery than in his own home, surrounded by his family, who can care for him whether he gets better or whether he deteriorates further."
"Yes, and I am arranging for him to be escorted there, while he is still able to travel; and later, for all the wealth that is rightfully his to be taken ther
e as well," said Gregory. "As you know, I must away to King's Leigh even tomorrow, or I would accompany him myself, as rightly I should do. He is a noble son, and a hero of Briardene, and deserves honor; but I am summoned by the King. Lord Just must remain here in my absence. I will, however, send of the best of my knights to represent me, and enough persons to be sure he is cared for on the way."
"He is a noble son, and the hero of Briardene, and was promised the daughter of the Duke of Aldene; and now is being packed home, the engagement retracted," said Margaret, in a firm, even voice she herself had never heard. "Lord and Lady Braewode deserve no mere envoy, no third-party representation. If my lord my father, you cannot yourself go with him, then it should be me. It is I who laid claim to him and brought him out of the Realm in which he lived and was well, where he would never grow old or die. It is I and no other who ought to explain to Lord and Lady Braewode that their long-lost son is being returned to them but half a man."
There was silence in the room, except for the sparrows outside the window, whose chirping Margaret noticed for the first time. Just looked to Gregory, who looked very unhappy, pressing his lips downward thoughtfully.
"I don't like it, but. . ."
"But her argument has merit," said Just. "Braewode will be insulted as it is, without adding this: that we do not represent ourselves properly. Tamlyn was engaged once before to marry Clewode's daughter, and after she eloped, Coltram of Braewode attempted to make some claim against Clewode, even though Tamlyn had gone missing for some long time. We do not need Aldene connected with any more ill rumor than there will inevitably be. The house of Braewode is not a high one, but well-connected, and wealthy, too."
There was a pause that seemed to last forever. Finally Gregory shifted in his seat. "In truth, I see no other way. Courtesy must be given its due." He didn't say out loud, that he thought a journey of several days with an invalid would change Margaret's feelings about him.
Rivanone said, "She will need a handmaid to go with her, she is old enough for her own anyway. I am in no condition for such a journey, myself." Margaret wanted to kiss Just and Rivanone, but kept her eyes steady on her father. He began to nod slowly, and Margaret knew she was going. Talk turned to the necessary arrangements.
Back in her own bower, there was no privacy. She slipped off to the rose garden and cried into a kerchief, not caring that in the opposite corner, a boy was spreading manure around the roses. She wasn't even sure why she wanted to go with Tamlyn, to meet his family and then tell them, Behold your son, half-mad...But she could not watch him ride away and never see where he went. She could not let a day that she might be near him slip away. And she could not let some other bring poor faded Tamlyn to be lost and pathetic in his own home. When her tears were spent, she turned for the chamber that belonged to Gareth. The knights' quarters were empty. She went down a cool stone passage with arched wooden doors on either side. No lady had any business here all alone, in the knights' bedchambers. A pageboy exited one of the rooms, and was taken aback to see Lady Margaret in these halls. Margaret asked him which room was Gareth's.
Wordlessly he showed her. "Wait here, lad, please," she said, and knocked on the door. There was no response.
"Probably Gareth is on the parade grounds. The knights are practicing for tourney. Probably just that...fellow in there...Sir Tame." The boy shrugged. Margaret lifted the iron latch and pushed the heavy door, which opened hard against a strong draft.
She saw Tamlyn seated by the wide open window, the plain curtains blown back and almost flapping in the breeze that blasted in. The wind had blown the quill and papers off the desk and threatened to topple the lampstand, which wobbled. Margaret approached him. He sat still as a rock in the wild wind. His face was not vacant, but rather intent, as though concentrating on something far away. She thought of closing the window, but decided not to, although it blew her hair around her. She called his name. He stirred, frowning. The boy hung back in the doorway. "Sievan, Tamlyn, my love, it is I, Margaret!" She almost shouted at him, and finally his eyes turned to her, and smiled so beautifully. She tried to return his smile.
"Margaret," he said, reaching for her hand, and for a moment he was there with her, and began to recede.
"Tamlyn, you must hear me," she said, kneeling before him and clasping his hand between hers. She rested her elbows on his knees and clung to his hand, trying not to lose him to the mists. "Tamlyn, others will come soon and tell you that we will no longer be betrothed, that until you are well you must return to the house of your father. Sievan, my love, no matter what happens, it is not my will to be parted from you. My heart will always belong to you, no matter what happens. I wish to be with you always."
"And I with Margaret," He searched for words and failing to find them, slipped away. “No, Margaret, for your own sake, no…” His eyes lost focus and seemed to look through her for a moment. Then his troubled gaze returned to the window.
“Tamlyn. Tamlyn!” she wrapped her arms round his waist and pushed herself between his knees, pressing her cheek against his chest. But he stiffened and grabbed her shoulders painfully, and held her away so that he could see her face. “What I gave you- give it not back to me. It was wrong, but don’t give it back!”
“What mean you, the r---“
He put a finger to her lips, silencing her. “Come not near me again- or-…” He seemed to freeze, and would no longer respond, but seemed to be in pain, his eyes closed.
“Is there not anything I can do? Sievan?”
Nothing. His hands slowly drew to his chest, balled as if in prayer.
She stood, not caring that tears fell down her cheeks. "Tamlyn, where you are now, I cannot grasp and win you." Then she leaned over and kissed the top of his head. She backed away from Tamlyn toward the door. An errant sparrow flew in through the window, hovered, and flew out again. Tamlyn never noticed.