But Anna did not dare. “You wish only for me to agree so that you can see to your own pleasure.”
“Nay, I will ensure yours alone.”
“It cannot be done.”
Bartholomew chuckled. “Then dare me to do so, Anna,” he whispered, his suggestion making her shiver with desire. “Or moan on your own. The choice is yours.”
Did she dare to trust him?
She was surprised by how much she wished to do so.
But that would be folly. She fell under his spell, no more than that.
“Nay,” she said, and heard the tremor in her own voice. “Not that, sir. I cannot.”
There was a moment of silence then and she feared she had revealed too much.
“You must tell me who so injured you, Anna,” Bartholomew murmured finally and with heat. “And I shall see you avenged.”
It was a promise to thrill her heart, but not one to make her lose her good sense. Anna closed her eyes and recalled all the lovemaking she had ever overheard, then tried once again to moan with supposed pleasure.
They had an agreement, after all, and she would do her part to see both Percy saved and the reliquary relieved.
In the darkness, at least, Bartholomew could not see her blush.
Sunday, January 17, 1188
Feast Day of Saint Antony of Egypt
Chapter Six
It was clear to Bartholomew that Anna had been compelled to welcome a man and that against her will. The notion infuriated him, but there could be no doubting the meaning of her reaction to his own touch. She was not shy. Indeed, she was a bold maiden, more willing than most men to accept a challenge or a dare.
But when she was caressed, she recoiled in terror. He would have expected her to meet him touch for touch, to be as fearless abed as elsewhere, but she shrank from him in terror.
Even when they jested.
She had been raped. There could be no other explanation. He would have wagered his own life upon it. The notion sent fire through him, along with a need to see her revenged. He felt a cur for having teased her with a kiss, and a fool for not having guessed this secret sooner. Worse, he imagined that her dislike of French knights was rooted in this experience.
Aye, many a nobleman believed that pretty maidens in villages were there for his pleasure. The fact that it was commonly done did not diminish Bartholomew’s outrage that it had been done to Anna. It was wrong for any woman to endure as much, and he was appalled that Anna should have been so misused.
If naught else, his awareness of her past ensured that he gave her what she desired. He kept his distance in the great bed and held only her hand as they feigned the achievement of their satisfaction.
He was fiercely glad that he had made her laugh, even a little, in such circumstance.
When they had appeared to couple beyond all human endurance, he roared with his apparent release, thumping the mattress with his fist. The dog came to look upon them then, its curiosity aroused and Anna giggled again.
Bartholomew began to snore loudly, like a drunken lout who had had his pleasure and cared for naught else. He felt Anna pat the mattress and Cenric was quick to accept the invitation. The dog was large and warm, and Anna curled up with the beast between them.
That was no accident, he would wager.
Indeed, she would only sleep if they were not alone.
“Call Leila, too,” Bartholomew advised quietly, between his raucous snores. The bed was big enough for all of them, and he could see no reason for Leila to be cold. None could doubt that the bed would be chaste this night, with four of them sharing it.
Leila slipped into the bed at the invitation, and Bartholomew felt her settle on Anna’s other side. They four were nestled against each other and quite warm. To his relief, he heard Anna’s breathing slow. Within moments, he knew he was the sole one awake.
And that gave him the opportunity to consider the puzzle of Anna.
Bartholomew had always thought that village women knew more of intimate matters than noblewomen, for their chastity was not defended with the same vigor. They were often given young to a partner, whether wedded or not, and could have half a dozen children by Anna’s age. He supposed that also meant that they might be abused more readily, as Anna had evidently been.
Who had been a French knight who had taken advantage of her? Had the man been a guest in Royce’s abode? Had it been Royce himself?
Only in the darkness of that night did Bartholomew wonder whether Percy was truly Anna’s brother or her son.
There was no doubt that she returned his kisses as if she expected only pain to come from such an embrace, and he knew that she had little talent for subterfuge. Anna might be a good thief, but she would make a poor spy.
That was part of what he liked about her. She was honest and blunt. Her wits were quick and she showed no hesitation in sharing her views. He liked that he knew where he stood with her, at any moment. He liked that she was intrepid and that she was loyal to her brother. Aye, she would be the kind of person who stood by her word, regardless of what transpired.
He liked that well.
What if he could teach her that not all knights were fiends and knaves? It was a legacy Bartholomew wished very much to leave her, but their paths would likely part on the morrow.
Could he see her avenged? Would she name the villain? Or was that man long gone from Haynesdale?
Bartholomew should have been planning his own triumphant claim of his father’s holding, but instead, he found himself thinking of Anna. What token hung from the lace upon her neck? It had a weight, to be sure, and he thought he had seen it glimmer through her chemise.
What jewel could she possess that she would not sell to see her brother fed and warm? It would be sentimental, to be sure, a token of her parents, perhaps.
But her father had been a smith, not a jeweler.
It was yet another riddle in all the many riddles of his unexpected companion. Bartholomew wished to unravel them all, though he knew he would not have the opportunity.
He dozed hours later, when the keep was quiet all around him.
He should have anticipated that the nightmare would return.
* * *
They were running in the darkness, his hand held fast within his mother’s own. It was dark and cold, the ground wet beneath his feet. There was only darkness ahead. He looked back to see fire blazing behind them, consuming all within view. He had been awakened in haste, seized by his mother and hastened from their home.
Was that what burned?
Where was Papa?
Where were the men who guarded the hall? He heard the clash of steel upon steel but could not see anything beyond the fire. His mother fairly dragged him onward, her feet bare and her hair unbound. Her breath was frantic and she murmured his father’s name like a prayer. He could taste her fear and ran as fast as he could, not wanting to disappoint her. Her hand was soft and warm, her breast softer when she finally swept him into her arms.
Still she ran, her arms wrapped tightly around him. She was weeping, he could tell by the sound of her breath, and he reached up to feel the wetness on her cheeks. He could see the fire over her shoulder, the way it spread, the hunger and the brilliance of it.
“Papa,” he said and she shook her head.
“Not now,” she whispered to him in French. “Not now.”
She stumbled into a cabin, the darkness closing around them so suddenly that he blinked. “Help me,” she appealed and he was passed to the embrace of another. It was a man, his arms thick and heavily muscled, his skin smelling of iron and fire.
The smith! He smiled for he liked this man well and often came to watch him work. The smith handed him to his wife, who always smelled of fresh bread, and fired up his forge. A smaller fire lit there, burning brighter and whiter with the smith’s every mighty push of the bellows.
He was transfixed by this fire, controlled and contained, yet just as fiery and powerful as the one that had raged behind them. His
mother offered a token to the smith, who accepted it with a nod.
It was a ring.
It was his father’s ring.
“He must be able to prove his birthright,” she said softly. “Mark him, over his heart.”
The smith hesitated for a moment, but the sound of swordplay came closer. He exchanged a look with his wife, then worked the bellows with greater vigor. The fire was hot. It was white. It made them all narrow their eyes against its power.
The smith took the ring with his great tongs, and plunged it into the fire on his forge. The ring seemed to glow. It heated like a spark of the sun snared within the greater fire. He wanted to watch it but his mother opened his chemise as the smith’s wife held him fast on a table.
“You will be quiet,” his mother urged. “As silent as a hare hiding from a fox.”
He nodded agreement, not really comprehending. The smith removed the ring from the fire and it was glowing. He was fascinated by the way it had changed, how it looked like a star, but in the shape of his father’s ring.
The smith took it in his smaller tongs, then pressed it into the skin over his heart.
There was pain, radiating consuming pain, and the smell of burning flesh. He opened his mouth, then recalled his mother’s request, choking back the scream that he wanted to make.
The pain.
The burning.
The searing of his very soul.
The fire that could not be evaded, at any price.
* * *
Bartholomew awakened with a jolt, his fingers locked in a fist over the scar on his chest. He was breathing quickly, as if he had run miles, and there was perspiration on the back of his neck. He could smell again the burning flesh and feel the heat on his skin. He touched the scar, recognizing that it had been a long time since he had dreamed of its making. He could feel the indent of it, the shape of his father’s signet ring, the mark that had been burned into his body that night.
His throat was tight with the memory. It had been the last time he had seen his mother. He had been dispatched from Haynesdale before the wound had cooled, entrusted to a loyal group of knights.
He had lost everything that night.
It took him a while to calm his breathing.
Why did he recognize only the dog?
The dream was a reminder that he had a quest to fulfill, that he had arrived at Haynesdale, that he had to finish what had been begun.
Then he realized the dream had given him a gift. Anna said she was the daughter of the smith. Was it the same smith? Could she take him to her parents that he might be recognized as the son of Haynesdale?
Was this the aid he needed to reclaim his legacy?
* * *
Leila awakened to the sound of the dog snoring. She was nestled in the great curtained bed along with Anna, Bartholomew, and the dog, and there was a faint light coming through the shutters. When she sat up, the dog’s tail thumped against the mattress. Its expression was so entreating that she imagined it expected her to abuse it.
Instead, she rubbed its ears. She didn’t know much about dogs, but Bartholomew evidently did. This one had his favor and was both large enough and mellow enough to put her at ease. She was accustomed to horses, after all. She wondered what the dog had endured in this place—for she thought little good of Sir Royce and Lady Marie—and was glad that its past had not made it vicious. It seemed well content to nestle amidst them, though she could see that its ribs were too prominent.
She felt as strongly as Bartholomew that they should take the dog with them. She rose and stirred the coals to life then opened the shutters. The sky was a pale hue and it looked as if it would be a fine day. The dog followed her, putting its paws on the sill to share the view. It wagged its tail at her again and tried to lick her cheek, which made Leila smile.
She supposed it was hungry.
So was she.
There was only the sound of slumber from the curtained bed, but then, after their race through the woods and their performance the night before, Leila could believe that Bartholomew and Anna were tired. She knew she should act like a maid and picked up the bucket she had used to bring water for Anna to bathe the night before. The lidded bucket with the slops had been left outside the chamber door, and she hoped someone had taken it to the sewer.
She straightened to find the dog watching her with a hopeful expression. She supposed it had matters to tend in the morning, as well. Would it return to her when she called it? She did not want Bartholomew to be disappointed by the dog’s disappearance. It had seemed to matter greatly to him to let the dog remain with them.
Leila rummaged in his belongings and found a bit of rope. She made a loop at one end, ensuring the knot could not slide and slipped it over the dog’s head. They left the chamber together and she was glad the dog walked calmly beside her, because she ended up with two buckets. She dumped the contents of one into the sewer at the back of the stables. The dog cocked a leg and relieved itself, then darted ahead and watched her expectantly as she stepped into the bailey again.
“He must be hungry,” a man said softly, expressing her own thoughts aloud.
Leila spun to find the priest watching her from the shadows. He carried a sack and removed a loaf of bread from it. Leila was certain there could be no fresh bread already baked this morning, for the keep was quiet. The priest tore off a piece of bread and offered it to the dog. It was sniffed and then quickly devoured. The dog sat before the priest, waiting for more.
“I think it is hungry,” Leila said. “What should it eat?”
“Meat, but not so much fat. Some like other fare, but they are wolves in truth and meat is what they all like best. He does not look to have had much, but then the hounds of Haynesdale tend to be kept hungry.”
“My lord said he was too thin.”
“Some of this will not do him more injury than a hollow belly.” The priest gave the dog more bread.
“Will they mind?” Leila asked.
The priest smiled. “The bread is old, given by the baker Denley as alms to the poor. But there are few remaining in Haynesdale village. They are poor enough, but Denley has already shared with them. I thought the squires might have been given less last evening, since the baron had guests, and they are mere children.” The priest looked up suddenly. “You are Lady Anna’s maid.”
“I am.” Leila bowed.
The priest considered his words as he fed the dog more bread. He took his time about it, ensuring the dog chewed and swallowed each portion before granting another. “I understood that she prayed in the morning, so I thought to linger and unlock the chapel for her.”
“That is very kind, sir. I shall be sure to tell her.”
“Please do.” He gave her a sharp look that Leila could not interpret.
“Do you think it would be possible for my lord to buy the hound?” she asked. “He is much taken with it and if there are too many here…”
The priest smiled. “I think that if it follows you, it will not be missed.”
Leila was pleased to hear as much.
The priest handed her the rest of the loaf of bread. “Take this for the hound. Mind you break it into pieces before you give it to him. He might eat too quickly otherwise.” He picked up the sack of bread.
The hound followed the loaf to Leila, fixing its gaze upon her.
“I thank you, sir,” she said, even as she looked down at the bread. It was hard, at least a day old or maybe two. But the strange matter was its weight. What did they put in their bread to make it so heavy? She glanced up to find the priest’s eyes sparkling.
There was a gap on one side. Leila’s fingers slid into the crevice made on one side of the loaf and touched something cold. The priest’s expression tempted her to look, and she peeked to see the end of a large iron key hidden inside the bread.
The key to the dungeon.
“I shall return directly to my lady and tell her of your thoughtfulness.” Leila bowed again. “And I thank you again, sir, fo
r your kindness to the dog. I will be very sure to feed him slowly.”
He nodded once and turned toward the portal to the hall. A woman’s voice rose from the kitchens and a clatter of pans announced that the day’s work had begun. Anna left the dirty bucket and took both dog and bread back to the chamber, along with a fresh bucket of water. The dog bounded up the stairs and waited every dozen steps for her, licking its chops in anticipation.
If any questioned her haste, she would say her lady was impatient.
* * *
Duncan was awake when he heard the door to the stables creak. He rolled over in the loft so he could see the crack of light at the portal. To his surprise, the priest slipped through the gap and closed the door behind himself. Duncan did not move but watched with interest. What would the priest seek in the stables? What did he carry? And why did he close the door again?
It seemed unlikely that a priest had a nefarious scheme, but Duncan made few assumptions about the choices of others without evidence.
He waited and watched instead.
Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Duncan saw the priest moving down the line of stalls. He seemed to know the layout of the stables and was able to find his way with only the glimmer of daybreak that shone between the boards.
He also moved toward the horses of their small party, not the baron’s own steeds.
Did he mean to do the beasts ill?
Duncan eased down the stairs of the loft. The priest did not glance up but seemed to be counting the horses. When he reached the destrier of Fergus, he looked around himself. Duncan felt his eyes narrow. The priest peered around the horse, his agitation clearly growing, and Duncan unsheathed his sword.
Duncan cleared his throat as he touched the tip of the blade to the priest’s back. That man jumped and spun to face him, his eyes wide. “Might I be of service?”
The priest gaped at the sword, then lifted the sack he carried. “I have bread, alms for the poor. I had thought you might be glad of it on your journey.”
“We have bread enough,” Duncan said, his suspicion unallayed. “Although I thank you for the kindness.”
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