by Lynn Kurland
Unfortunately, his feud with Baldwin of Sedgwick had lasted much longer than a single afternoon, and he suspected that was why it pricked at him so. Baldwin had arrived at his father’s gates almost at the very moment those gates had been finished. Baldwin’s uncle had sent him along to foster, though at the time Robin couldn’t understand why he’d bothered, as Baldwin had been nigh onto winning his spurs. But come he had, and he’d been as unhappy to arrive as Robin had been to see him at the gates.
There had been instant animosity between the two of them and in his more logical moments, Robin had realized that Baldwin hated him for his birthright. Robin would be, after all, Baldwin’s liege-lord in time. Rhys had no use for Sedgwick, or its inhabitants, so their cousins had little need to worry about losing their beds at the moment. Robin had never seen the place, but he’d heard tales enough of its wretched condition to have wished to avoid it as well.
But even had he possessed the glibness to say as much, he suspected Baldwin wouldn’t have heard it. The miserable brute had taken every opportunity to goad and annoy Robin until Robin had been relieved to escape his home and go off to squire with another lord. He’d gone off, glad to be free of torment and determined to acquire skill with the sword that would leave Baldwin stumbling in surprise the next time they met.
Robin straightened and sighed deeply. He’d trained himself well, he’d become a man and now perhaps ’twas time he put his childish memories to rest. Baldwin would not best him. He could avenge himself easily of any slight. Perhaps he would go home, walk the paths of his youth, and do his damndest not to think on memories that still afflicted him. He could avoid Baldwin easily enough.
And perhaps he could also avoid that other soul that continually haunted the edges of his thoughts.
He didn’t want to think on her. He didn’t want to see her in his mind’s eye. And he surely didn’t want his pulse to quicken at the thought of being in the same keep with her.
Anne.
By the saints, he’d never expected that her father would snatch her away so unexpectedly.
Though why it should have come as a surprise, he didn’t know. She was ten-and-nine, surely old enough to have been wed a time or two already. He should have done something about that, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t have—for more reasons than he cared to admit.
He began to run again, forcing his legs to pump hard against the dirt. He shoved away his thoughts, praying the exercise would tire him enough to escape them until the business of travel could consume him. Home he would have to go, but the less he thought about it ahead of time, the easier it would be for him.
Or so he hoped.
3
Anne made her way carefully down Artane’s passageway, doing her best to avoid her father. She hadn’t seen him about that morning and for that she was grateful. Perhaps he would become distracted by other issues, forget about her, and leave. Perhaps Rhys would persuade him that he would do better to spend his energies training his stepdaughter’s husband in how to look after Fenwyck’s holdings than seeking an already-trained lord for Anne to wed. Perhaps a handsome nobleman would stumble through Artane’s gates, look on her, and profess undying love.
Perhaps she would grow a new leg and enough beauty to hold such a man.
She sighed and paused before Rhys’s solar. With any luck Artane’s lord was within and hoping for a bit of conversation. There wasn’t a queue of souls waiting without to see him, so perhaps she might have her desire. There was much she could discuss with him. ’Twas possible he might have knowledge of a place in which she could hide herself until her sire forgot he had a daughter for sale.
But she hadn’t put her hand up to knock before Rhys’s angry words cut through the wood as if it hadn’t been there.
“Why?” Rhys demanded. “Why do you persist in this, Geoffrey?”
“Persist in what?” Geoffrey answered. “Finally finding a husband for her?”
“Aye,” Rhys said. “Her future is here!”
“With whom?” Geoffrey asked shortly. “Robin?”
“Aye, Robin—”
“Then where is he?” Geoffrey demanded. “Where was he when she was twelve and of a marriageable age? Where has he been the past seven years when he could have made her his bride? Where is he today?”
“He is off—”
“Aye, off,” Geoffrey snarled. “Off doing the saints only know what whilst my daughter grows older by the hour.”
“She belongs here,” Rhys insisted.
“As what? Dowager aunt to Robin’s score of children sired on anyone but her? I will not give her to a second son, Rhys, nor a third or fourth. The heir she will have, and ’tis obvious yours is uninterested!”
“If you would but give the matter more time—”
“She must marry, Rhys, and the duty falls to me to find someone who will have her.”
“Many would take her, and gladly,” Rhys said angrily. “If you could just see past—”
“See past what? A crippled girl with little beauty and a youth that fades with each passing day—”
Geoffrey’s words were abruptly silenced. Anne suspected Rhys had just planted his fist in her father’s mouth, for there was a bit of garbled noise, then a great amount of cursing from both parties. Furnishings made great sounds of protest as they were apparently trodden asunder. Anne knew that such unruly behavior would bring along the lady of the house, and Anne could not bear to see Gwen at present.
She turned and fled back down the passageway as quickly as she could manage. What she wanted to do was walk along the seashore until her hurt receded. Unfortunately such a journey was far beyond her capabilities after the rigors of travel, so she settled for the battlements. The climb there would be taxing enough.
No guard stopped her as she slowly mounted the steps, nor did anyone deny her access to the walls. She crept along the parapet, clinging to the stone. Her balance was less than perfect on the ground; being that far above the earth was greatly unnerving. But it was much less unnerving than being below and listening to others discuss her, so she suffered the unease.
She stopped at a likely spot and turned her face toward the sea. The wind blew her hair back over her shoulders and whipped itself against her cheeks. It was only then that she realized her face was wet. She hadn’t meant to weep. Indeed, there was little to weep over. She knew her father hadn’t meant to be cruel. She suspected that his concern for her warred with his desire to see his holdings pass to a suitable son-in-law. But it was never pleasant to have her flaws noted and considered so openly.
What hurt the most was knowing that he likely spoke the truth about Robin. She knew he did not love her, despite what his father might have wanted him to do. Fool that she was, she couldn’t help but wish things were different. Perhaps if she had been beautiful. Perhaps if she had two straight, serviceable legs. Perhaps if she had looked more like Amanda than she did herself. The only thing she could say in her favor was that she didn’t possess the gap in her front teeth that her father sported. But that was small comfort when faced with the truth of things.
Robin could have wed her years ago if he’d wanted to.
But he hadn’t.
And that left her with a path before her that grew more intolerable by the footstep.
She drew her sleeve across her eyes and stared out over the water. The wind blew fiercely, but the chill was a welcome one, for it brought some semblance of calmness to her soul. Perhaps her sire had no choice but to look beyond Artane. ’Twas a certainty he had to find someone to manage his holdings. The man to whom his wife’s daughter was wed could not manage his gear, much less any lands. She was the only hope of holding Fenwyck and perhaps her sire was only doing what he must.
Ah, but the foolish dreams of her heart. It was the letting go of those that pained her the most. Anne stared out over the sea, watching it wash in against the shore ceaselessly. She wondered if her heart’s desire watched the same thing and what the thoughts were that consumed him.
Was it possible he spared her even a brief thought now and then?
Nay, she decided grimly, it was not. His thoughts were of war, bloodshed, and bedding as many women as possible. She’d heard more tales than she could stomach of the swaths he cut through not only England but Normandy and the whole of France. He likely spared her no thought unless it was one of relief that he must needs not endure her presence.
“The dreams of my heart,” she whispered, “are too foolish even for me—”
“Anne!”
That shout almost sent her toppling. The curses that followed left her with no doubt that her father had found her.
“What do you here?” Geoffrey demanded. “And talking to yourself as if you were mad? Bloody hell, girl, think! Would you have that gossip preceding you to every hall in the north?”
“But—”
“Come below,” Geoffrey said curtly, but his hand on her arm was gentle. “We’ve aught to discuss.”
Anne waited until she’d reached the upper passageway before she put the only ruse into play she could.
“I feel faint,” she lied. “Might I hie myself to Amanda and Isabelle’s bedchamber for a time, Father? I will join you once I’ve recovered.”
Her father looked momentarily confused, as if she had upset his finely laid plans. Anne took advantage of it and put her hand to her forehead, hoping to affect a look of true suffering.
“Very well,” Geoffrey said reluctantly. “We’ll talk later.” He walked her down the passageway, then deposited her in front of the bedchamber. “Come to me when you’ve recovered.”
And that will require at least a fortnight, Anne thought to herself as she sought refuge behind a closed door. She put her ear to the wood and listened to her father’s footsteps recede. Once she knew she was safely sequestered, at least for the moment, she rested her forehead against the door and sighed deeply.
Perhaps it was time she had a good look at her plight and resigned herself to the truth of it. The desires of her heart made little difference when she could no longer deny that Robin wasn’t going to thunder up on his black steed and rescue her from a clutch of greedy suitors. Her choices seemed to be either to wed where her father willed it, or find a way to remain at Artane as something other than a daughter-in-law.
She pushed away from the door with a deep sigh and hobbled over to the bed. She sat, then lay back and stared up at the canopy. She would have to wed. There was no other choice. Her father’s lands were too many and her dowry too rich a prize for her to escape her fate. The only thing she might possibly control was the timing of her journey to her matrimonial prison. Her father had had her at his mercy for nigh onto half a year with no success in finding her a mate, for she had done her best to discourage the lot of them. Perhaps she could barter with her sire for a remaining half year at Artane if in turn she gave him her most cooperative self when she returned to Fenwyck.
She suspected her sire could care less about her willingness to behave, or lack thereof.
But it was worth a try. And until she thought of a way to persuade him to her way of thinking, she would avoid him.
And she would pray for a miracle.
It was well past sunset before she forced herself to leave the chamber. She shunned supper and company below, and made her way to the lady of Artane’s solar. She had passed innumerable hours there and the memories were warm and pleasant ones. Surely a new idea or two would occur to her there. Her sire likely wouldn’t look for her there either and that added reward was too powerful a lure to resist. And with any luck, she would find that chamber empty as well. Unfortunately, Gwen had a number of ladies and foster daughters who lingered there, so the chances of it were slim.
Gwen’s ladies Anne could have borne, as well as any number of other maids, but she had to admit as she made her way upstairs that she would be less than pleased to see Edith of Sedgwick. It wasn’t that Edith was particularly unpleasant. It was that Anne felt sure Edith envied her her place in Artane’s family. As Anne wasn’t certain how much longer she would enjoy that place, she couldn’t bear the thought of having it frowned upon.
The passageway and stairwell were dark as Anne passed through them, but that was not so unusual. The keep was a drafty place at times with the winds from the sea assaulting the walls continually. Torches often went out. Anne made her way down the passageway from memory and stopped before the solar door. She frowned. It was usually kept closed yet it stood ajar.
And then she heard a faint jingling sound.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she stifled the urge to bolt. She quickly entered the solar. It was empty, but somehow that didn’t please her as much as she’d thought it would. Then again, perhaps quiet was just what she needed. She turned to shut the door.
Then she paused, her hand on the latch. Best to leave it open, perhaps, while she brought the fire back to life. Then she would make certain the chamber and passageway were empty.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was home. No harm would come to her. She walked to the hearth where embers still burned weakly. Kneeling on the floor, she leaned over and blew, trying to bring the fire back to life. She sat back after a moment or two, looking about for a bit of wood or peat to toss on the flicker of fire she’d coaxed out.
The door slammed shut. Anne heaved herself to her feet, then spun around, wishing frantically she had a sword and the skill to use it. What had she been thinking to come here alone?
“Who’s there?” she called, cursing the tremble in her voice.
No one answered. She let out her breath slowly. As if she should have expected an answer.
Then reason returned to her. The torches had been out, hadn’t they? ’Twas naught but the breeze. Doors closing with vigor was a common thing in the keep.
She brushed her hands on her dress. Coming here had been a mistake. What she needed was to be abed, not wandering about the keep like a restless spirit. She took her courage in hand and crossed the chamber with as sedate a pace as she could manage. She left the solar and started down the passageway.
And she could have sworn she heard the same tinkling sound.
Perhaps ’twas nothing, but her imagination more than made up for it. She gasped, pulled up her skirts, and limped for the stairway as quickly as she could. Voices coming up from below were like a light beckoning at the end of a tunnel. Anne stumbled down the stairs, wincing each time she had to put her weight on her leg. How she hated autumn with its chill!
She tripped over the last step and would have gone sprawling had strong arms not been there to catch her fall. Rhys set her back on her feet, then frowned as he saw her face.
“Anne,” he said, “what ails you, daughter?”
“Nothing,” she said weakly. “I think I’m overtired.”
Rhys hesitated, then nodded and bent to kiss her forehead. “Off with you then, girl. A good night’s sleep will serve you well.”
She nodded and limped down the corridor to the chamber she had always shared with Amanda and Isabelle. She closed the door behind her, leaned back against it, and sighed. What she wanted to do was lay abed for the next fortnight. Unfortunately, she knew that would only make matters worse. As unappealing a task as it seemed, she would have to rise each day. If she didn’t, her leg would tighten and take her days to have it be useful again. She walked across the chamber and sat down carefully on the bed.
And all her troubles had come about because she, at the tender age of nine, had been dared to ride an unbroken stallion and she’d done it, just to silence Baldwin who had called her uncomely. The memory of being flung down in the lists was still very fresh in her mind. She could still see the horse stumbling and stepping on her leg, shattering the bone in her thigh. Ah, the agony of not being able to faint . . .
“Anne?”
The door opening startled her. Anne turned around to look at Amanda. “Aye?”
“Merciful saints, what befell you?”
“Nothing,” Anne said. “I’
m merely weary.”
Amanda came and sat next to her. “’Twas a hard day for you, Anne. Come, let me put you to bed.”
Anne didn’t protest. She allowed Amanda to help her into bed and tuck the blankets up to her chin as if she’d been a small child.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Amanda said with feeling. “These have been the longest months of my life.”
Anne smiled dryly. “I’m sure they haven’t been. The race for your hand is on, Amanda. Even the men my father has brought to inspect me can do nothing but babble about your beauty.”
“Then they are fools,” Amanda said. “They view me as naught but a necessary evil they must endure simply to have my dowry. Guy of York was here a month ago and I vow I thought him ready to check my teeth and ask Father how much feed I would require each day.”
Anne laughed. “He did not.”
“Aye, he did. I called him a horse’s arse and bid him look for a mare in some other stable. They tell me they do not care about the lands and gold, but I can see them counting in their heads even as they cut my meat for me at the board. I’ll not be considered a mere bargaining piece.”
“At least you have the luxury of thinking thusly,” Anne said with a sigh. “I daresay even the vastness of my father’s holdings doesn’t compensate for my ugliness—”
“Cease,” Amanda exclaimed. “Anne, the last time you peeped into a polished mirror was when you were but ten-and-three. That was six years ago, sister. No one is fetching at ten-and-three.”
“Oh, Amanda, you know that isn’t true. You were as beautiful then as you are now. And look at Isabelle. The garrison knights can hardly breathe when she walks by them.”
Amanda looked at her helplessly. “Anne . . .”
Anne blinked back tears of humiliation. “I beg you not to speak of this more.”
“Foolishness,” Amanda said, but her tone was gentle. “Anne, I grew up envying your pale hair and green eyes, thinking you the most lovely creature I ever saw. Time has only increased your fairness. Your features are nothing short of angelic, your humor is ever sweet, and your goodness shines from you like a beacon. And if you’ll know the reason men have not offered for you in the past, I’ll tell you. Father has ever demanded the right of choosing your husband and your sire has always refused to grant it to him. Still they argue over this—”