by Lynn Kurland
That would come last.
Once all the rest had been seen to.
Edith put a restraining hand on Maude’s arm, and held her trembling limb still. “You’ve naught to fear,” she said soothingly. “I daresay Robin will not allow this to happen.” And if he does, all the better for my plan. To lose a love would be painful. To lose a wife, perhaps a wife with child?
It was almost enough to send shivers down her spine.
“Think you?” Maude asked, lifting up her tearstained face. “Think you truly?”
“I’m certain of it. Now, off with you and make no mischief. I will see to it all.”
Maude nodded, less happily than Edith would have liked, but at least she was seemingly in agreement. Edith laid back once Maude had left the chamber and gave herself over to contemplation of this new turn of events. Perhaps Maude’s attention could be turned to the other children.
A handful of dead lads and lasses.
She smiled. What a lovely wedding gift that would be.
She rose to dress. If she wanted to be at the wedding, she would have to make haste.
27
Robin continued to walk blindly down the passageway, ignoring his father’s continuing commands that he stop. Well, at least he couldn’t hear Fenwyck behind him bellowing out any more threats of death and dismemberment by means of a very blunt sword and other painful implements. Had he been in different straits, he might have found Anne’s sire to be quite imaginative.
But he wasn’t in different straits.
So he continued to walk, lest he be completely unmanned by breaking down and sobbing. By the saints, all that he had struggled for the whole of his sorry life had been ruined.
His father found him lacking.
There were simply no words to describe how badly that hurt, how deep the agony went. Robin couldn’t breathe. He could only walk and hope that when he stopped, the pain would stop. He had no idea where he was going. All he wanted to do was escape from his father’s condemning glance.
An eternity later, he found himself in the chapel. It wasn’t where he wanted to go, but it was where his feet seemed bent on taking him. He strode to the front and sat on a bench near St. Christopher’s shrine. He stared at the likeness grimly, wondering why Anne had bothered with all her prayers there, kneeling on that cold floor. What had they served her? To acquire a husband whose fondest desire was to run from the scorn in his father’s eyes?
And from that sprang his second greatest hurt: the scorn he would no doubt see in Anne’s eyes.
Should he ever have the courage to look in them again, that was.
She’d seen him in his fully flawed glory that morn. She’d watched him be reduced to a lad of seven or eight summers by the censure in his father’s voice, watched him do nothing but stand there and whimper at his father’s chastisement. If he’d been a man, he would have hauled Anne into his arms, told his father to go to hell, and arranged for the wedding himself.
Instead, he’d let himself be ordered about like a whipped whore’s bastard and trudged off to his father’s solar to receive his due. By the bloody saints, he was a man full grown! He hardly had need to listen to his father’s lectures. He’d known immediately that marriage was the only course of action. In truth, he’d known that before he joined Anne in her bed. He was beginning to wonder if he’d known it before he’d locked her in his father’s bedchamber with him alone as company.
He dropped his face into his hands and groaned. This was not how he would have had it. He should have courted her. He should have swallowed his pride and asked Nicholas for ways to woo her. He should have humbled himself and gone to her sire to ask for her hand. Perhaps he himself wasn’t much to rejoice over, but his inheritance was vast and his skill with the sword unmatched. He suspected that he might even manage to keep her lands producing as they should if given the time to prove himself on that sort of battlefield.
And if nothing else, he should have gone down on his knees before Fenwyck and assured the man that Anne was loved and would be treasured above all else.
Not that Fenwyck would believe him now.
Nor, he suspected, would Anne.
He shook his head in disbelief. It was barely dawn, yet his entire life had been changed already. Anne’s too. It wasn’t how she deserved to be wed—with swords at their backs.
Her ring.
Robin jumped to his feet. That at least he could provide her. And perhaps that small token might salvage at least some portion of the morn for her. She might not believe that he loved her, but surely the ring would say something, wouldn’t it?
He started toward the back of the sanctuary, then froze. His father stood leaning against the door, his face fixed in an uncompromising frown.
Well, damn him, it wasn’t as if Robin planned to escape. He started toward the door and almost immediately found himself facing a drawn blade.
“Oh, by all the bloody saints,” Robin said in disgust.
But his sire didn’t move. His adopted sire, Robin corrected himself. The man whose approval meant everything to him didn’t move. The condemnation. Robin saw in Rhys’s eyes was almost enough to break his heart.
Had he had a heart to be broken, that is. Robin turned and resumed his seat on the bench. And as he did so, he felt his heart chill and harden. Perhaps this was for the best. Perhaps wanting to please his sire had been a foolish dream. Indeed, he suspected it was. He was likely well rid of it.
In fact, perhaps he was well rid of his desire to please Anne as well. Aye, he thought as he sat on the bloody uncomfortable bench at the front of the chapel just a handful of paces from where she had knelt the saints only knew how many times praying for him, perhaps all the events of the morn had come about for a reason. What had possessed him to believe that giving his heart to anyone would serve him?
Nay, ’twas best that he keep it protected. He would do as his father willed and wed with Anne.
And then he would be off once again to do his manly labors.
In France, perhaps.
After all, a man was expected to do his duty, no matter where that duty took him. Aye, he would travel as far away as he could and put all his energies into warfare where they were best suited. It couldn’t be construed as fleeing from his troubles. No one would suspect why he’d left. Anne would be free of her father’s desires to see her wed. She would remain at Artane and she would be happy. Robin suspected that was what she wanted the most anyway. And if that were the case, her ring would be better off left in the bottom of his box.
It had been a foolish idea anyway.
He heard the door open behind him, heard voices and footsteps but made no effort to identify them. He looked up as the priest moved to stand behind the altar. He frowned. Surely the betrothal would take place inside the great hall, not the chapel. ’Twas the custom, was it not?
And then his father’s scribe was ushered up to stand next to the priest. Robin smiled without humor. Well, it looked as if the betrothal agreement would be signed here before Mass. Perhaps his sire feared he would escape should he have had a bit of open ground between the hall and the chapel.
And then a heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder. Robin didn’t look up, for he knew to whom the hand belonged.
“’Tis time,” Rhys said.
Robin didn’t look at his sire. He merely rose and took his place before the altar, standing stiffly. He could have sworn he felt Anne’s presence before he heard her uneven steps coming down the aisle behind him. She came to a stop beside him. He hardly dared look at her and when he did, he wished he hadn’t.
She was so pale, she looked as if she might faint. Robin wanted with all his heart to reach out to her—his earlier resolutions aside—but he didn’t dare. If she pulled away or flinched at his touch, he wasn’t sure how he would bear it.
So he kept his face resolutely forward and hardened his heart.
It was the only way to protect it.
And then he felt control of his own life slip
through his fingers. The betrothal agreement was laid before him. He knew that ’twould be his father’s right to list his holdings. He wouldn’t have been surprised in the slightest if Rhys had retained all that Robin would have eventually inherited had things been different.
He lifted his chin. Rhys’s lands didn’t matter. He had his own lands, lands that he had inherited from Ayre. Those would have been more than sufficient to appease Anne’s sire.
Then again those and the choicest of Rhys’s own lands would likely have had the lout falling on the floor in a fit of rapture.
To his surprise, though, Rhys did not deny Robin anything that was due him. And when he heard no thump behind him, he assumed Fenwyck had known all along what Robin would bring to the union.
His true surprise, however, came from Fenwyck’s recitation. He would have assumed that many of Geoffrey’s holdings would have gone to his step-daughter and her husband. Apparently Fenwyck either distrusted the lad entirely, or he thought Robin capable of managing his fiefs.
Either that or Robin was considered the lesser of two unpalatable alternatives.
Not that Robin cared about Fenwyck’s lands. What Geoffrey didn’t realize was that, despite his rich soil, the true prize was the woman who stood next to him, the woman who was starting to sway a bit.
Robin almost reached out and put his arm around her.
But that would have meant he loved her and that wasn’t something he was going to admit to. Not now. Not when he planned to leave as quickly after the ceremony as possible—
“Robin, turn!”
The shout had him spinning almost before his brother’s words registered in his poor abused head. He and Nick had protected each other for years with that simple command. It had been instinctive to obey.
And then he felt everything slow as if the pace of the world had ground to a halt. He found himself with his dagger in his hand. He watched in amazement as a body came flying down the aisle toward them with arm upraised.
And then he thought he heard the jingle of a bracelet.
Robin took a step forward, his rage and frustration overcoming him. He had looked for this soul for days, cursed his own inability to flush him out. Now that he had him in his sights, he would accept no defeat. He thrust upward with all the anger that lay simmering beneath his hurt.
The hooded figure cried out, gurgled out a curse, then fell toward Robin. Robin shoved the body away and watched him collapse to the floor, a wickedly long dagger still clutched in his hand. A bracelet encircled the assassin’s wrist. Robin stared down at the figure, then looked at Anne.
There was a slash down the back of her skirt and blood splattered everywhere.
And then just as suddenly as events had slowed, they quickened until Robin could scarce keep up with what he needed to do. He took a step backward, grasped for Anne, and hauled her close. “Are you hurt?” he demanded frantically. “Did he cut you?”
She only shook her head and clung to him.
Robin wrapped his arms around her and held her head against his chest with her face turned away so she might not see. Nicholas knelt next to the body. He gingerly turned him over. Robin couldn’t stop a gasp at the sight.
It wasn’t a man.
It was a woman.
And one not unfamiliar to him.
The young woman looked up at Robin. “Failed to stop it,” she managed, then gurgled her last breath.
There was absolute silence in the chapel. Robin looked about him and noted the expressions on the faces there. Shock for the most part. Even Fenwyck looked to be taken aback.
“A servant, Artane?” he managed.
“Aye,” Rhys answered slowly. “But recently recommended and retained, though.”
Robin wondered if now would be a good time to mention that Maude was a lord’s daughter. Or that Robin had a very personal, intimate acquaintance with her.
Not that it was something he remembered with fondness. Looking back on it now, he wondered how he had ever found himself in her bed. She was greedy, grasping, and tenacious.
Or had been, rather.
Aye, even with shorn hair, she was unmistakable. Robin watched Nicholas close Maude’s eyes, then look up at him. Robin knew his brother knew. Though he likely could have counted on Nicholas’s silence, there was little point in it. The tale would come out eventually. He might have been a coward that morn, but he would be such no longer. ’Twas a man’s right and privilege to be truthful, no matter the cost.
He could only hope the cost wouldn’t come too dear this time.
“She’s no servant,” Robin said heavily.
All eyes turned to him and Robin wished heartily that he could sink into the floor. Even Anne pulled back to look at him. Robin looked away from the crowd, avoided Anne’s eyes, and settled on staring over the altar only to meet the condemning gaze of the priest.
Bloody hell.
“One of your lovers, perhaps?” Geoffrey said, his voice laced with scorn.
Damn the man. “Aye,” Robin said shortly.
“Maude of Canfield,” Nicholas supplied. “It would seem, Rob, that she wasn’t overfond of the thought of your nuptials.”
“Well,” Rhys said grimly, “at least we have our assailant.”
I’m thrilled, Robin thought sourly. What impeccable timing.
“And she’s blond,” Geoffrey added, no less scornfully. “We know where your tastes run—”
“Enough,” Robin said, glaring at his future father-in-law. “My past is my own and no affair of yours. You insult your daughter and I’ll have no more of it.”
“I intended to insult you,” Geoffrey said curtly.
“Then do so in the lists. I’ve no stomach for a fight with words.” Robin turned to the priest. “Wed us. Now.”
“But,” the priest said, gesturing to the cooling corpse behind Robin.
“Now,” Robin growled. “We’ll forgo Mass today.”
“Perhaps that’s wise,” the priest agreed. “Especially in light of . . . well . . .”
“Oh, by the saints, cease with your babbling!” Fenwyck bellowed. “Get on with the bloody ceremony!”
Robin gritted his teeth and wondered if clouting his lady wife’s father in the nose could possibly worsen the events of the day. There he stood with blood on his hands and clothes with a dead lover at his heels.
And then he heard someone begin to be violently ill.
He turned to see Isabelle being heartily sick. Miles was trying to help, but turning very green very quickly. The twins had clapped hands over their mouths and Amanda’s eyes were beginning to roll upward in her head. Robin watched as Nicholas caught her before she slumped to the ground.
And Anne began to weep.
At least they wouldn’t have to stand there and listen to any more recitations of holdings. Robin signed the contract with a curse, then shoved the quill into Anne’s shaking hands. He doubted anyone would recognize her name as her own, nor would they believe it hadn’t been signed under duress. Nevertheless, the contract was made before witnesses and ’twas legitimate. Never mind that several of the witnesses were too far gone in various states of incapacitation to be useful.
“The blessing,” the priest began.
“I doubt it will help,” Robin said grimly. He put his hands on Anne’s shoulders, ignoring the blood that covered him, and kissed her very briefly. He pulled back, fully prepared to bolt and make for France.
Then he noticed his bride.
She was looking at him.
He couldn’t tell if her expression revealed abject horror or complete misery.
Or was that wry amusement?
The sight of her stunned him so, ’twas as if he’d never before seen her. And as he looked at her, and realized that she was indeed his, he began to question the idea of France.
It was, after all, a very nasty place to be in winter.
He considered. He could remain at Artane. The lists were fine. He could ensconce himself there for great stretches of t
ime. At least that way he could look on Anne from afar now and again.
The lists. Aye, that was the place for him. Soon, before he began to entertain any other foolish thoughts.
Such as being Anne’s husband in truth.
He reached out and swept her up into his arms before anyone, mainly Anne, could protest. Without comment, he turned and stepped over Maude’s body and approached his mother.
“See to Anne, will you?” he asked.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Fenwyck demanded.
“To the lists.”
“Go if you like,” Rhys said, “but your mother won’t be here to tend Anne.”
Robin blinked. “She won’t?”
“I won’t?” Gwen echoed.
“You won’t,” Rhys said shortly. “We’re leaving.”
“But we just returned home,” Gwen protested.
“Fenwyck has invited us for a lengthy stay,” Rhys said.
“I have?” Geoffrey said, looking less than delighted about the prospect. “I don’t remember that.”
“Children,” Rhys said, “collect your things. We’ll leave within the hour.”
Robin let Anne slip down to the ground and she took a step away from him with more enthusiasm than he would have liked.
“You’re leaving?” she asked Gwen, sounding quite horrified by the prospect. “Now?”
“Not a bad idea,” Geoffrey said, coming to stand behind his daughter. “No use in staying for the bedding anyway, especially given that she isn’t a virg—”
Robin let his fist fly. He watched himself plow that fist into his father-in-law’s face and wondered absently at the wisdom of it. Fenwyck lay sprawled on the floor, apparently too stunned by the blow to move. Robin smiled in grim satisfaction.
“Speak disparagingly of my wife again,” he said, wishing Fenwyck would heave himself to his feet so he could brawl with him truly and repay the lout for several annoying things said to Anne, “and you’ll not find me so lenient.”
Fenwyck groaned, but did not move.
Robin sighed regretfully, then took Anne’s hand. “Come, Anne. Let us leave the rabble to their plans.”