by Lynn Kurland
“I vow, Robin de Piaget,” she said, frowning up at him with her fiercest frown, “that if another month had passed without some scratch on parchment from you, I would have finished your battles myself, then taken a switch to your backside for your lack of consideration!”
Robin pulled his mother into his arms and rested his chin on her head where she couldn’t see his smile over her words. She continued enumerating in great detail the lengths she had planned to go to in instilling in him the smallest smidgen of manners, punctuating her reproof with various and sundry tugs on his hair. Robin closed his eyes and smiled at the novelty of using his mother as a resting place for his jaw. Though he’d outgrown her quickly, it never failed to surprise him that he was taller than she.
Then next he knew, she was sobbing. She shook with her weeping and Robin soon found that tears were coursing down his own cheeks. Perhaps it was unmanly to miss a mother so, but he didn’t care. He loved her and damn anyone who wanted to mock him for it.
Gwen pulled back and began to check him over for injuries. He laughed as he submitted to her poking and prodding.
“I am unscathed, Mama,” he said with a gentle smile.
“You’ve grown so much,” she said, with a frown. “Making it, of course, very difficult to take you to task. Mayhap I should seek out my blade when I’ve serious business with you.”
“The saints preserve me,” he said with a laugh. “I promise, my lady, that I will fetch you a stool, that you might scold me from a like height.”
She shook her head with a sigh. “I vow I scarce recognize my sweet little lad whom I used to intimidate by looking down at him.”
“Aye, I know,” he said. “That lad went off to war to become a man.”
“You were a man before you left, son.”
Ah, how he wished he could agree with her! He sat her down in a chair, drawing up a stool and sitting before her. He gave her a brief recounting of his recent travels, leaving out the more unsavory parts, though he had the feeling she knew what he’d neglected to tell her. And while he talked, he kept one eye on the stairs leading up to the upper floors of the keep. There was no sense in not knowing just who was coming down to the great hall, was there?
His mother’s questions distracted him for a time and when he looked again at the stairs, it was to see a young woman coming down them. He blinked a time or two, wondering if that were his sister or a ghost of his mother. He heard his mother laugh softly.
“Uncanny, isn’t it?”
“Frightening is more the word I’d choose,” Robin said, drawing his hand over his eyes. “She has certainly inherited your beauty, but ’tis a pity she hasn’t inherited your sweetness.”
Robin felt a sharp slap to the back of his head and scowled up at Nicholas who strode across the room and picked Amanda up to spin her around. Robin’s frown deepened as Nicholas brought Amanda over to the fire. She was weeping. Well, let her weep. She had always loved Nicholas the best anyway and that was just as well, as Robin couldn’t abide her sharp tongue or lack of manners.
“I see you haven’t forgotten how to scowl,” Amanda said, making him a deep, mocking curtsey.
“I’m not home ten heartbeats and already you’re irritating me,” Robin snapped. “Do you lie awake nights dreaming of how to torment me?”
“I wouldn’t spare you the effort, Robin.”
Nicholas laughed and pulled Amanda behind him as Robin rose with a growl. “Rob, you’re pitifully easy sport. Don’t let her rile you. She’s already told me I’m hopelessly soft and need a few more hours in the lists each day. Now, give the lass a kiss of peace and let us have harmony for once between you two. Five years have passed and I would hope you would have matured. Come from your hiding place, Amanda, and don’t plunge anything sharp into Robby’s belly while he’s trying to behave.”
Robin gave Amanda a quick hug, fierce enough to silence her for a time, then kissed her briefly on both cheeks. “Now, begone, wench, lest I remember the insults I must needs repay you for.”
“Nick,” Gwen said, reaching up to take his hand, “run fetch Anne from the chapel, would you? She’s been out there for some time now. ’Tis far too cold for her.”
“I’ll go,” Robin said, rising and pushing his brother aside before there could be any argument. “Nick would only fuss over her and that would irritate her.”
“Don’t you hurt her feelings,” Amanda warned, poking him sharply in the arm on his way by. “You’ll answer to me if you do.”
Robin toyed with the idea of strangling his sister, then thought better of it. For one thing, his hands were so slippery with nervous sweat, they likely wouldn’t have been able to get a good grip on her neck. Perhaps later, when he was calmer.
Though why he was so bloody nervous was something he couldn’t answer. It wasn’t as if he were seeking an audience with the queen. This was merely Anne of Fenwyck, the pale-haired girl who had grown to maturity in his home, who had been so painfully shy that he’d hardly noticed her.
He groaned as he slammed the hall door shut behind him.
When had he become such a liar?
He strode across the courtyard, pulling his cloak more closely around him. Bloody frigid country, this England of his. Why had he been fool enough to come back? He should have rather gone south to Spain. He had previously passed many months there quite happily. Indeed, he could have found himself spending his days lazing in bed with the countess who had once taken a fancy to him, strolling along the shore at night, enjoying the cool ocean breezes.
But those shores were a world away and it didn’t serve him to think on them. He stepped up to the chapel, put his hand on the door, and took a deep breath. Would she be pleased to see him? Or would she ignore him, brush past him, and leave him standing there like a fool?
Wondering about it was almost enough to make him wish he’d had a bit of a wash before he presented himself to her.
He opened the door before his thoughts turned him in any more circles. He slipped inside the dimly lit structure, then closed the door behind him silently. He’d forgotten what a small place this was, but perhaps ’twas large enough to serve his family’s needs. Robin stood still until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. At least his years of moving quietly would serve him now. He would have a look at mistress Anne before she was even aware of him, and see if his memory had served him well or ill.
He found her immediately. One of his greatest strengths in battle was his sharp eyes, eyes that could distinguish the color of a man’s eyes at fifty paces. And those eyes were currently riveted on the figure kneeling at one of the side altars, before St. Christopher, protector of those who went to war.
Robin didn’t allow himself to ponder the significance of her choice.
He took a pair of steps forward, then stopped, finding himself rendered immobile. He held his breath, wondering if he were seeing a vision or if the sight of the beautiful woman in the deep green gown before him were real.
It could only be Anne. He would never mistake that cloak of pale golden hair for anyone else’s. The candlelight flickered over it as it fell over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall of spun gold. Her slender hands were clasped and resting on the altar before her. Her head was bowed, her lips moved soundlessly. Robin almost went down on his knees himself. Never in his life had he seen such a picture of tranquility, of goodness, of purity. Gone was the homely little girl with freckles, too-large eyes, and ears that didn’t seem to fit her face. In her place was a serene, lovely young woman.
He slowly walked to the front of the chapel and felt his way down onto a bench near her. He struggled to think of something clever to say—or at least something that wouldn’t leave him sounding as witless as he felt.
By the saints, he’d never expected just the sight of her to leave him breathless.
He couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Just looking at her seemed to ease his heart. For the first time in five years, he felt the tension ease out of him.
And it was because of the very woman he had promised himself he would avoid.
6
Anne felt a breeze blow over her hands as she knelt at St. Christopher’s shrine, but she ignored it. For all she knew, ’twas her father come to fetch her and she wanted to put that moment off as long as possible. So she held her breath, kept her hands clasped before her, and waited for the inevitable, impatient clearing of a male throat.
The footsteps halted far from her, though, and she sighed in relief. Her fear of discovery was a foolish one anyway. Her sire never would have come to look for her here; it was her sanctuary alone. The other soul who had joined her was likely someone come to look for a little quiet as she had. With any luck, they wouldn’t even mark her.
She bowed her head and continued with her prayer. It brought her peace, this ritual of hers. It was her daily trek to the saint’s shrine to offer prayers at his feet, prayers that Robin would be kept safe, that he would return well and sound. She did not dare pray for the true desire of her heart. It was a miracle no saint could bring about, no matter his power.
Her leg trembled as she knelt on the hard wooden floor, but she didn’t move. For all she knew, her sacrifice might mean the difference between Robin’s life and his death. Though he would never know of it, and likely wouldn’t care if he did, Anne made her offering willingly.
And when she was finished with Robin’s needs, she spared a moment or two for her own.
Let me stay at Artane. Let me stay but another day or two.
She didn’t dare pray for anything more. No saint could deter her father any longer than that.
She heard the footsteps begin again and come toward her, but she ignored them. It was likely Miles come to fetch her, or one of the twins. They could wait for another moment or two while she finished a few more supplications.
When she could truly bear the strain of kneeling no more, she crossed herself and opened her eyes. Getting to her feet would be difficult, but not impossible. Perhaps a bit of aid wasn’t too much to ask for.
“Miles, if you please—” she began, turning her head to look at her visitor.
Only it wasn’t Miles she saw.
It was Robin.
She couldn’t have been more surprised if St. Christopher himself had been made flesh from her most fervent prayers. She gaped at the very man she had been praying for. It was impossible to look away. She could only hope she didn’t look as foolish as she was certain she did. She made a small effort to close her mouth, but that was all she could manage.
By the saints, he was the last person she had expected to see that morn.
He sat on the long bench nearby, crushing her cloak beneath his heavy thigh. Anne took in the sight of him, marking the changes. His dark hair was long and unruly, falling over his forehead and into his eyes. His face was no longer the face of a boy, round with softness and charm. Five years had changed a young knight into a hardened warrior. His features were tanned, weathered, and very grim. His shoulders were broad, his empty hands wide and strong. His boots were caked with mud and his clothes were travel-stained.
She suspected she had never seen a more beautiful sight in her life.
She met his eyes but could read nothing in his gaze. He merely stared at her. She could readily imagine what he might be thinking, though, for she had been long in the chapel and the place was very cold. Her nose was likely red and her hands pale as death. It wasn’t a sight guaranteed to bring a man to his knees pledging his body and soul.
Anne knew she had no choice but to rise. Perhaps in the effort, she might find some bit of wit remaining her. She turned away and put her hands on the shrine, praying she could manage to gain her feet. Robin was the last person she wanted to have see her weakness. She clenched her teeth together and tried to lever herself up using her good leg and her hands to push herself away from the altar. The action served her little but to force the blood of shame to her cheeks. If she wasn’t careful, she would be sprawled at his feet.
This was not exactly how she had envisioned her next meeting with the young lord of Artane proceeding.
The altar was not the steadiest of crutches and her leg trembled so badly that Anne felt herself begin to waver dangerously. Instantly strong hands were at her waist, steadying her, lifting her.
Her mortification complete, Anne jerked away. The motion almost sent her stumbling in truth.
“By the saints,” she gasped, “I don’t need aid!”
Robin cleared his throat. “Well, I just—”
Anne straightened and looked at him with as much dignity as she could muster. It wasn’t much, but her pride was all she had left at the moment.
“I was perfectly capable of rising on my own, thank you,” she said as tartly as she could manage. This was the very last thing she needed—to have Robin look at her as if she were incapable of standing without aid.
Robin was beginning to scowl. It wasn’t a good sign, but Anne was too embarrassed to care.
“Fool that I am, I thought to ply a bit of chivalry on you,” he said gruffly.
“I already said I didn’t need your help.”
“I wasn’t trying to help you,” Robin returned shortly. “I was trying to maul you. Does that improve your humor any?”
Anne blinked furiously. She’d be damned before she’d let his ill-concealed pity cause her more humiliation. She pointed toward the door. “Your disrespect damns us both, so begone.”
“I’ll leave when I bloody well please—”
“Now,” she snapped. “For the last time, I don’t need your help, nor do I want it.”
“I never suspected you did,” he returned just as hotly. He brushed past her and strode away with a curse that left her ears burning. She waited until he was gone before she picked up her cloak and pulled it around her, willing herself not to break down and weep. Her leg was throbbing and her heart felt as if it had broken in uncountable pieces.
That was not how she had planned it, the reunion with the man she loved. She was to have been elegant and regal, bestowing her best smiles upon him as she sat gracefully arranged in a comfortable chair. He would have knelt at her feet, apologized profusely for having stayed away so long, then showered her with praises about qualities she hadn’t even imagined she possessed.
Now, with but a few harsh words spoken, she had ruined everything. Perhaps it was just as well. If she shunned Robin, he wouldn’t have the chance to shun her.
She walked stiffly to the chapel door, trying to work the cramp out of her leg. It was impossible. The chapel had been colder than usual and she would pay the price in agony for the rest of the day and far into the evening.
She stepped out into the frigid air and closed the door behind her. She jumped when she saw Robin standing next to the door. He merely glared at her. She ignored him and started for the steps. Damn, who was the imbecile who had decided there should be all these steps up to the chapel door? Then she had at least eight wider ones to face before she would gain the great hall. She suppressed the urge to sit down and weep.
She saw Robin move toward her and quickly held up her hand.
“I do not need—”
“Stubborn baggage,” he muttered under his breath as he put his cloak around her shoulders. “At least now you will not freeze as you take all afternoon to cross the courtyard.”
Anne blinked back tears. “You needn’t wait. I never asked you to.”
He didn’t reply, he merely descended the steps in time to her painful movements. Once she reached the ground, he stepped in front of her and took his sweet time adjusting his cloak over her own. Anne might have thanked him for the chance to catch her breath had she not been so embarrassed. She pushed him away and started across the courtyard, her eyes fixed to the ground before her. A single false step and she would sprawl face-first in front of the only man whose opinion mattered to her.
She looked up to judge the distance and saw Nicholas come striding out of the great hall. He loped down the stairs with his easy
gait. It was a lazy stroll that was so completely him that Anne felt herself begin to smile. How different Robin and Nicholas were. Robin was all fire and fury, roughness and strength; Nicholas was as serene and lethal as a finely polished steel blade.
And to be sure Nicholas possessed charm Robin never had, and likely never would. Even in his youth, Nicholas had been able to produce a look that had entranced every female from his mother down to the crustiest keeper of the larder. Anne had benefitted more than once from Nicholas’s ability to beg an apple or two and succeed. Robin could have begged for cloth to staunch a life-threatening wound and Cook would have just kicked him out of her way as if he’d been an unsavoury tablescrap. Robin did not possess Nicholas’s pleasing ways.
“You fool,” Nicholas exclaimed, casting a baleful glance his brother’s way. “Can’t you see she’s in pain? Here, Anne, let me carry you back to the hall. You shouldn’t be out in this chill.”
“Leave her be,” Robin growled. “She’s not a cripple.”
“She’s a woman, dolt,” Nicholas said, pushing Robin aside. “Women need to be cared for; something you never have learned.” Nicholas put his hands on Anne’s shoulders and smiled down at her. “By the saints, ’tis a pleasure to see you again. It makes me wonder what possessed me to go away when I could have remained at home and gaped at you.”
Anne felt an unaccustomed blush apply itself liberally to her cheeks. It was a very unsettling feeling, one she didn’t experience very often.
“Nicholas,” she said at length, at a loss, “what a flatterer you’ve become on your travels.”
“Flattery? Nay, ’tis but the truth.” He lifted his hand and smoothed it over her hair. “Anne, you steal my breath.”
And then Anne watched, open-mouthed, as Nicholas smiled at her again, a dazzling smile that fair knocked her to her knees. He put his hands on her shoulders, bent his head, and then, to her complete astonishment, he took a liberty she never would have anticipated.