Free The Silver Rose by Jane Feather Page B

his stride. He drank well himself, Ariel noticed, but without apparent ill effect. His cheeks weren’t flushed, the scar on his face didn’t become more livid, and his sea blue eyes were as clear as ever. He spoke to her occasionally in his melodious voice, mere pleasantries whose response required no effort on her part, but in general he confined his attention to his own friends, ranged around the top table.
    The Hawkesmoor and his cadre, in their dark clothes, in their air of controlled containment, stood out among the increasingly disorderly throng. Faces grew flushed, collars were loosened, erect postures yielded to slovenly slouching over the board, but Simon and his ten companions only seemed to sit more erect, to become more noticeably sober with each refilled goblet.
    “Damme, Hawkesmoor, but if you aren’t as much of a sobersides as Cromwell himself!” Ralph leaned forward to poke Simon’s sleeve with a greasy finger, his gray eyes slitted with drink and malice and stupidity. “The devil take the king-killing bastard and all his men.” He laughed heartily, flinging himself back in his chair. “A toast! I propose a toast. Death to the Puritan. Hellfire to the regicide!” He raised hisgoblet, his hand shaking so violently that ruby drops spilled upon the white cloth.
    A silence fell over those who could hear Ralph above the noise. All eyes rested on Simon Hawkesmoor and his friends. Oliver Becket drew his goblet closer to his mouth as if ready to drink the toast. His eyes met Ariel’s with a mocking glitter.
    Ranulf leaned over and punched his young brother on the shoulder. It was no light blow and Ralph swayed in his chair, spilling yet more wine. “Unmannerly churl,” Ranulf snarled. “This is a wedding, we want no long-past politics here.”
    Ralph flushed darkly, half pushed back his chair, preparing to strike out at his brother, but Ranulf’s eyes held his and finally with a mutter he subsided, reaching for the decanter to refill his goblet.
    The conversation, such as it was, picked up again. Oliver smiled to himself, whispered something to Ranulf, and the two laughed heartily, and it was clear to Ariel that their laughter was directed at the Hawkesmoor, who it seemed hadn’t moved a muscle throughout the incident.
    “Aye, it’s a wedding!” Roland declared. He was the most sober of the three brothers. “And time for the groom to take his bride on the floor.”
    A roar of approval went up at this and the strains of Sir Roger de Coverley came from the musician’s gallery in invitation. Ariel looked expectantly at her bridegroom.
    Simon smiled at her, but it was a small, self-deprecating smile that took her aback. This new husband of hers, for all his ugliness, was an overwhelmingly powerful presence. Such a look of uncertainty sat uneasily on the brow of a man who seemed utterly in control of himself and his surroundings. He spoke softly.
    “Forgive me, Ariel, but I make a poor dancer these days. You’ll not want to hobble around the floor keeping time with a cripple.”
    Ariel felt the color rushing into her face. She heard thesniggers around the table, the rustle of whispers as folk asked what had been said, felt rather than heard the titters of false sympathy as they were told.
    “I am not overly fond of dancing myself, sir,” she said, glaring around the table. “I am as like to tread upon your toes as you are upon mine.”
    “That may be so,” Simon responded, his smile now warm. Her swift championship surprised him. “Nevertheless, one of us must dance at our wedding. I dare swear Lord Chauncey will stand up in my stead.” Laughing, he indicated one of his companions. “Jack is as nimble footed as any maid could desire, my dear, and I can safely promise there will be no missteps.”
    “If Lady Hawkesmoor would do me the honor.” Lord Chauncey rose, bowing, extending his hand. “I shall be delighted to take the groom’s place on the floor.”
    “And in his bed, too, I’ll be