by Rue Allyn
She lifted the bar and walked out the door before she could fall at his feet and beg him not to be an obstinate fool. Trust. She would trust he knew his mind and not try to change it. She would survive this too, but she wasn’t sure why.
• • •
“I am fast coming to believe that you might trust me and are heartily sorry for any previous lack of faith.” She’d offered that olive branch, and he rejected it. Because of a promise to God. She herself said faith in God was right. What was faith if not a promise kept? Heaven forefend he should fail to be completely honest and trustworthy, no matter how it hurt them both.
Frustrated, Talon urged his mount to greater speed. But no matter how hard the gallop, he could not outrun the knowledge that he had lost Larkin after all. He tugged on the reins. The horse slowed. Talon let the beast choose his own pace. But regret and sorrow stewed in Talon’s blood.
He’d seek Amis if his friend hadn’t left for court weeks ago carrying messages from Talon to the king and a letter that Larkin wanted sent. The replies could arrive anytime. Talon prayed he would receive the king’s response before Larkin left Hawksedge. That way, he would at least be able to assure her that Edward recognized her as Lady Rosham. With royal acknowledgement in hand, she could then petition the archbishop for annulment of her marriage, if that is what she desired. He wished he knew what she wanted. Were it possible, he’d give it her along with his undying love. But that oath stood in his way, and he could give her nothing but the chance to regain the name and home the earl and Le Hourde had stolen from her.
He shook his head, feeling as lost and aimless as his horse’s ramblings had been in the past moments. He raised his head to take his bearings and saw the abbey rising beyond the hill. Mother Clement would help. She had saved Larkin’s life and given wise counsel when suspicion for the earl’s murder fell on Larkin. Could she advise him on how to heal his heart?
It wouldn’t hurt to try. Afterward, he might seek the anchoress’s blessing on his pilgrimage.
That small spark of hope urged him onward. He arrived at the abbey as Mother Clement was leaving.
“Lady Abbess, I beg speech with you,” Talon said from atop his horse, not willing to give her a chance to refuse.
She cast him a brief look, then hurried onward. “I cannot.”
“But I am desperate.” He sent his mount to walk beside her.
“You may wait if you wish, but Dame Margery’s need is desperate as well. Moreso, I suspect, since she is dying.”
“The anchoress is dying?”
“I have medicines for her.” The abbess indicated the basket on her arm. “However, I do not believe they will cure anything but the pain she suffers.”
Talon dismounted and quickly caught up with Mother Clement on foot. “I am sorry to hear that. For I had intended to seek her blessing as the villagers do. She will be missed.”
Mother Cement nodded. “Come with me then. When I have made her as comfortable as possible, we will see if she can speak with you.”
As they walked, Talon explained his problem to the abbess.
“Why do you not seek dispensation from your oath of the archbishop?”
“Larkin suggested that.”
“She is an intelligent young lady. You should listen to her.”
“Even did I seek and receive dispensation, Larkin would still be my stepmother. God and the church forbid anything more than friendship between us.”
“Hmmm. Her marriage could easily be annulled. I do not believe it was ever consummated.”
He knew it had not been. Larkin had gifted him her maidenhead along with her passion. But he would not tell anyone, though he suspected the abbess might understand. “Since there is no proof that she is Lady Larkin Rosham, Countess of Hawksedge, any petition would be rejected. Even if the proof existed, I would not ask her to petition for annulment. Her claim to Rosewood Castle is stronger if she remains Countess of Hawksedge.”
“And why does the strength of her claim to Rosewood Castle prevent you from confessing your love to her?”
He goggled at the abbess. “I never said I loved her.”
The woman smiled. “No, you did not. Not to me, and I suspect not to Larkin. Do you not think she deserves to know your feelings? Do you not think you should work together to gain a life of joy instead of going separately into misery? She deserves to have your trust that she will ask no more of you than you ask of her. And God will not thank you for misguided devotion that results from rejecting the gifts he has given you.”
“But, you don’t understand.”
Mother Clement held up her hand; they arrived at the anchorage. “You must wait to explain yourself, for Dame Margery deserves all my attention now.”
The abbess produced a large key from a pocket within her habit. Using the key, she unlocked the chain that kept the anchorage door closed and entombed Dame Margery.
“Are you allowed to go within?”
“To aid her passing from this world, yes. Wait here.”
He heard the rise and fall of the women’s voices as time passed, but eventually the anchoress spoke from the window. He could see Mother Clement beside her, an arm around Dame Margery’s shoulder, offering support.
“What troubles you, my son?” The anchoress’s voice was weak and raspy.
Talon stared for some time at the cloudy eyes that saw the terrifying and the beautiful in his face. He marveled at the serene expression that, in the past, had become a rictus of fear at the sight of him.
“I cannot help you find what you seek if you do not tell me what it is.”
What did he truly seek? All his life, he’d wanted to come home, to be welcomed at Hawksedge Keep. Yet he’d given up all hope of that without a thought because he wanted more a world with Larkin in it. He longed to share that world with her, not simply to know of her from a distance. He wished to share each day, each night with her. He would die a happy man if he saw her face with his dying glance.
“How did you come to this place?” he finally asked, wondering in the same breath why he asked. Why hadn’t he answered the anchoress’s question.
“Our heavenly father led me here, child. But that is not what you wanted to know.”
Was he so obvious? And how could he ask what he really wanted to know: What kind of man will I be if I renounce a promise to God no matter how hasty and ill considered? Is my love for Larkin God’s gift? Is it right or wrong to pursue that love, when I made promises that should prevent me? He couldn’t ask those questions of an old woman who knew more of prayers than people.
“I came for a blessing.”
“Are you certain you deserve one?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know your own heart?”
What nonsense was this? “Are your blessings not freely given to all who seek them?”
“Aye, but I do not think my blessing is what you truly seek. You spend too little time in chapel and will not see what you seek unless you pray.”
Talon admitted that single-mindedness often blinded him to possibilities. As for the rest, she was wrong. He knew what he wanted. Larkin. He did not mind dedicating his life to God, but he wanted to do it with Larkin by his side. “I tell you I came for a blessing, and you do not believe I seek one. Why think you I came here?”
“I know not. For that, you must search the heart.” She began to sway.
“I know my own mind. I want a blessing from you.”
“Aye, then. Blessings on your mind, my son.”
“You have your blessing. Now leave Dame Margery be, she is weary.” Mother Clement made to close the window.
Talon braced his arm in the window frame that held the shutter ajar. “Nay, that is not what I want.”
The anchoress leaned heavily on Mother Clement. “I told you, did I not, that you must search the heart first?”
“You mistake me.”
The dying woman looked closely at him, and her eyes widened as they had on the first day that she’
d seen him. “Nay.” She hid her face in the abbess’s shoulder. “I mistake thee not. All rests within the heart. You told me so yourself.”
Abandoning the battle to close the window, Mother Clement half carried Dame Margery to her bed. When the anchoress was settled, the nun began to pray. “Hail Mary, full of grace...”
Talon turned from the anchorage in disgust with himself for seeking solace where he knew none could be found. He should know better than to seek anything from another. He gained what he had on his own and would keep it on his own. He promised God his life for Larkin’s recovery form Le Hourde’s attack. To imagine that promise displeased the Lord was nonsense. Wasn’t it?
He let his mount graze and settled himself against a nearby tree trunk. Dissatisfied he might be, but he would not leave anyone, nun or princess, to deal with death on her own. He was not a cruel or callous man. Even though keeping the vow he’d made felt like the greatest cruelty known to man.
Sometime later, Mother Clement emerged from the anchorage. “She is gone.”
“I will pray for her soul.”
“Are you satisfied with the blessing she gave you?”
“Nay.”
“Remind me what she said.”
“That I must spend more time in the chapel, but I would find what I most desired in the heart. It makes no sense.”
“Perhaps. There is more, and now that she is gone, it is for me to tell. Come, walk with me. I must tell the other nuns of Dame Margery’s passing and ask their help with the vigil and burial.”
He took his horse by the reins and paced beside her along the abbey wall.
“Dame Margery was a dear friend. We came to this abbey at nearly the same time as girls.”
“Then your care for her is twice as understandable.”
“I would do as much for anyone. I only wish I could have done more for her.”
“How so?”
“I was unable to save her from the cruelty that disturbed her mind. I told you once that Dame Margery became anchoress here after she’d been raped and lost her child.”
“I remember.” Talon tried to be patient, but he really wanted to get back to Larkin.
“What I did not tell you was that she only believed the child, a son, died.”
“The boy lived?” Perhaps if he prompted her, the abbess would get on with this story and he could go. Spend time in the earl’s chapel and perhaps begin to understand the anchoress’s words.
“Aye, ’twas thought best by all concerned that Margery not have any worldly tie to hold her back from the true communion with God that an anchoress seeks.”
“’Twas wrong to take that decision away from her.” Look at the decisions that had been wrested from him because of the actions of others. Now he had done the same to Larkin.
“Perhaps, but ever since the rape, she had bordered on madness. You saw her early reactions to you.”
He pressed his lips together over the illogical hurt those rejections had caused. “Aye, and I’ve never understood. Why would even one slightly mad like Dame Margery fear me so much?”
“Perhaps ’tis because you resemble your father.”
“I do bear the earl some resemblance. Why would that bother the anchoress?”
“The earl might be your father, but so might any of the three other men that raped Margery when she was a novice.”
Talon stared at her. “I don’t understand.” He had difficulty forming the words, comprehension just beyond his reach.
“You are Dame Margery’s son.”
“Nay! My mother was ...” Understanding grew, and acceptance settled within him. “How did I come to live with the earl as his son?”
“The earl’s first countess—the woman you believed was your mother—was Margery’s sister. When Margery became pregnant, she told what happened. Sadly, she could only identify one of her attackers.”
“The Earl of Hawksedge.”
“Aye. He and three friends had gone on a drunken revel the night before his wedding to Margery’s sister. When the countess found out what the earl had done, she insisted that you be raised as his heir or she would expose the whole sordid mess.”
“Women cry rape all the time, and few men are proven guilty.”
Mother Clement nodded. “But most of those accusations come from common women. Margery was already a woman of the cloth and on the eve of her own marriage to God. The church would not have tolerated even the implication that one of its daughters could be so violated.”
“So when the countess died, that is why the earl repudiated me.”
“Aye. He hated her and all women from the day she forced him to take you as his son. He hated women most for what he needed from them. So much so that I believe he spent as much time in prayer as he could in search of forgiveness for his hatred. His time on his knees increased with the death of each wife.”
“Do you think he, too, was mad? Larkin told me that Le Hourde confessed to raping and murdering three of the earl’s wives, including my mother. How can the earl not have known what his henchman did?”
“I do not believe he was mad. While he may have played a part in those deaths, none can say what that part was. Except perhaps Baron Le Hourde, who I understand died trying to kill Lady Larkin.”
“That is true. I must wonder now how many people Le Hourde killed, and if he might be the person responsible for the earl’s death.”
“Le Hourde would never kill the source of his good fortune. I believe the baron was the one to lead the earl into evil as a young man and continued to urge him to despicable acts as the two grew older. Why else would the earl gift a holding as rich as Rosewood to a landless knight of no rank, except to buy the man’s silence?”
“So you think the earl was capable of ordering the Roshams’s massacre?”
“Possibly. But Le Hourde could as easily have taken the initiative and decided to name the earl as the guilty party if the baron was ever accused. Larkin’s escape from the massacre was a complication, but as long as she laid no claim to her true identity, she posed no threat to either the earl or Le Hourde. When she sought aid at the abbey, I took that as God’s sign that I should help those souls betrothed to the earl and lend them aid to escape him.”
“The three women who disappeared on their way to Hawksedge for their weddings. You know where they are?”
“Aye. I helped them, just as I helped find you a new home when the earl cast you out.”
So that was why she’d always seemed familiar to him.
They walked in silence for a while. So much made sense now. But not everything. He needed to speak with Larkin, and he needed to understand what the anchoress—his true mother—had been trying to tell him.
“Mother Clement, thank you for telling me this. I must go now. I have much to discuss with Larkin.”
“There is one more thing I must confess to you.”
“’Tis not fit that you confess anything to me. Bare your soul to Father Timoras.”
“I have already done so. He suggested that as atonement for my sins, I take Margery’s place as anchoress.”
“Then I have no need to hear anything else of the past from you.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “Yes, you do. I helped Dame Margery murder the earl.”
“You!”
“I gathered the itchweed at her request and ignored the promptings of my conscience that told me she could only have one purpose for the weed.”
“So you did not know for certain that Dame Margery—my mother—planned to murder my father?”
“No, but I strongly suspected her purpose, and I could have prevented it by disposing of any candles she made that might have contained the itchweed oils. She would never know that I prevented her crime. But the earl would have lived to cause more harm, so I did nothing.”
“Why wait to confess until now? Larkin suffered much because of your silence.”
“Dame Margery was under my protection. I could not expose her, and I knew you would find the
means to prove Lady Larkin innocent. Will you have me tried and hanged?”
Talon thought of the mistakes he’d made by not considering the impact of his actions on others, Larkin most of all. If he had any hope of forgiveness, of working together with Larkin to solve their problems as the abbess had suggested, he must be lenient now. The world would lose much if the abbess were hanged. “I will not interfere with you becoming an anchoress. But do so within the week. Do you not, I will be forced to see you hang. Good intentions aside, you took the law into your own hands. You should have left punishment of the earl and Le Hourde to the king’s law.”
She bowed her head then looked up at him. “Thank you. As for leaving punishment of nobles to the king’s law, I have never seen or heard of that happening. The earl was too well protected and proof too scarce. But think carefully on what you said about good intentions, and ask yourself what you intended for Lady Larkin when you swore your oath to God.”
Talon bid the abbess farewell and spent his journey home contemplating her words as well as his mother’s advice. Even he could see that he played the hypocrite, chastising the abbess for good intentions gone awry when that was exactly what he’d done. His intentions had been good when pledging his life to God, but he’d failed to consider how that vow would affect Larkin and any love they might share. The only way to remedy the situation was to seek her forgiveness and beg her to work with him to solve their problems. He must trust her completely by confessing his feelings and accepting her decisions with a willing heart.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Larkin cursed the weakness that made her ignore her assertion not to see or communicate with Talon again. She’d been packing her few belongings, when Cleve arrived at her chamber door babbling that Sir Talon had gone mad and only she could sooth the knight’s mind.
She hurried to the earl’s chapel, where Cleve said Talon was, and found him amidst a holy mess— candles, candlesticks, altar cloths, a censer, and other emblems of faith were strewn about the room.
“What on God’s earth are you doing?”