Anna brushed away her tears and indicated the first grave, barely aware that Bartholomew strolled away from them. She supposed he could not be expected to grieve for strangers, and in a way, she was glad that he would not hear her own confession.
Father Ignatius, she knew, would not share it with another living soul.
* * *
Against all expectation, Bartholomew was home.
Anna had set a brisk pace to this “old burn” and had not followed a clear path. She had ducked under low hanging boughs and slipped through the bracken, her route tending ever downward. The priest had not so much followed her as walked alongside her. It was evident they both knew how to find their destination. The forest seemed to be denser and darker in this place, and Bartholomew could not hear many woodland creatures.
He realized why when they burst abruptly from the undergrowth into a clearing. Vegetation was remarkably scarce, especially given the lush growth of the forest behind them. There was a body of water that shone in the distance, its surface as smooth as a looking glass. He spied a wheel on the building at one end and realized it was a millpond.
Esme. He stared at the mill and recalled the miller and his wife, a plump woman with a ready smile, then recalled the woman who had spoken to him this very day. Surely she did not recognize him. She could not see, after all.
But she might recognize something about him.
Just as he recognized this spot. Once again, he could not have described it an hour before, but now that it was before his eyes, he knew it well.
The keep had been on this spot. The bailey had been there. The stables where Whitefoot had been born, one of eight wiggling puppies, had been over there. The miller had been a kind man with a round belly and a jolly laugh. Bartholomew could see him in his mind’s eye. He felt again the grain running through his fingers and the vibration of the mill stones as his mother visited the miller’s wife after she bore another child.
Esme.
Aye, Esme.
Memories flooded into his mind, as if a dam had been opened. Bartholomew walked like a man in a dream to one spot on the barren land and surveyed the scene before his eyes, his memory filling in the gaps. He had played on the floor in that mill, with the miller’s older boy, a child of an age with himself. Oswald. Far to the left were fields, many of which were in fallow. To his right had been the village.
The window of the solar had looked this way. His mother had held him at this window to watch the sun rise, to look over his father’s holding. Each and every day, he had come to her and as he grew larger and older, he had stood upon a stool for these precious moments together. Whitefoot had braced his feet on the sill, to look and apparently to listen as well.
He closed his eyes and could feel her heat by his side. He could smell the floral scent of her skin and hear her murmur in soft Norman French. “See, the miller is at his labor, Luc, for the wheel is turning even so early in the day. It is good for the miller to have too much to do, for then those in the village will eat well. The harvest has been good this year. See how the last of the wheat is touched by the sunlight. It is golden and ripe, ready for the villagers to make the harvest. We will have a fine feast in a week, to celebrate the goodness of the year. Look! Your father rides out to hunt, that there will be venison aplenty on the board.”
He could see the white-haired knight on his destrier below, saw now the smile on his father’s lips and the affection in his expression when he waved to his wife and son. He could remember that feast, the warmth of the hall, the sound of laughter and music, the conviviality of his father’s keep.
He recalled another day, when snow touched the land before them. “Look at the smoke rising from the huts in the village,” his mother had said that day. “There is comfort in the homes of those beneath your father’s hand, for he is just and his holding prospers because of that. His lands extend to that far hill, the one that is touched first by the morning sun.”
He felt a tear ease from the corner of his eye, for this was these were the memories he had desired above all others, but they had been elusive. His throat was tight and he found Cenric nuzzling his hand, beside him as Whitefoot had always been.
Bartholomew scratched the dog’s ears, then he turned, filled with marvel, to see Anna weeping. He was so surprised to see her show such vulnerability that he doubted his own eyes. But there could be no doubt—her cheeks were streaked with tears and she held one hand to her lips as she stared at a grave. Father Ignatius was blessing whoever had been laid to rest there, and Bartholomew wondered who it had been.
Someone Anna had loved well, it was clear.
One of her parents? A sibling? A good friend?
It did not truly matter. This warrior maiden wept, and he would console her.
* * *
Bartholomew came to stand silently beside Anna as Father Ignatius finished his prayer. He did not touch her, but she felt his heat close by his side.
It was odd how reassuring she found his presence. She had vowed never to rely upon a man, never to desire a partner, and yet this man, with his beguiling combination of humor and strength, struck a chord within her. She had yearned to trust him from the outset, and it was her own history that had made her distrust her own sense of what was right. Yet, as he continued to do as he had sworn to do, as he kept his word and acted with honor, Anna knew that her initial response to him had been right.
That made her want to trust him more, to share with him all the secrets that burdened her and to have one living soul know all the truths that she did.
On impulse, she slipped her hand into his, recalling how he had held her hand in that great bed the night before, as they had feigned passion.
His fingers closed resolutely around hers, giving her that enticing sense of security. Aye, a woman would be safe with this man by her side, no matter what ill fortune came upon them.
Anna found herself wanting to be that woman with a fervor that shook her with its power.
Yet was pleasing all the same.
She swallowed and stared at the grave, wanting to confide in him but not knowing where to start. It was comforting to realize that he would wait until she chose to do as much, if she did so.
The priest spared them the barest glance as he finished his prayer. He moved to the next grave.
“That is Oswald, the miller’s son,” Anna said quietly. She felt Bartholomew start.
“Esme’s son?” he asked.
“Aye,” Anna acknowledged. “And beside him, his wife Rheda and their son, Nyle.”
“All of them,” Father Ignatius whispered and caught his breath.
“All of them,” Anna agreed, knowing that the loss had torn Esme’s heart in half.
Bartholomew squeezed her hand as the priest began his prayers for Oswald.
“He cannot have been that old,” he said.
Anna shook her head. “Not yet thirty summers, but older than me.”
“I meant his son.”
She frowned and glanced up at her companion. He had met Esme and knew she was aged. Indeed, Oswald had been the oldest of her sons. How could Bartholomew assume the age of a stranger? But the knight’s expression was thoughtful, so she only replied to his query. “Aye, Nyle was of an age with Percy. They were great friends.”
“And they all died in the new burn?”
Anna nodded and shook her head. “It was my fault,” she whispered, her voice uneven, and found herself relieved when Bartholomew gathered her into his embrace. He was warm and strong, and he simply held her, offering solace with his heat and his presence.
“It cannot have been your fault,” he chided quietly, his words a breath in her hair.
“It was,” she insisted. “I had a scheme and it went badly awry. The new burn was Sir Royce’s retaliation for my audacity.”
He pulled back, holding her shoulders in his hands as he looked down at her. “You provoked him to burn his own forests? And yet, you had the courage to enter his hall willingly again yesterda
y? Did you not fear he would recognize you?”
“Of course.”
Bartholomew shook his head in awe, and his eyes began to dance. She knew he would tease her, and her mood lifted in anticipation. “You must have thought to kill me when I left you alone with him in the hall.”
“I did curse you thoroughly,” she admitted with a smile.
He grinned. “You should have warned me.”
“I am not so quick as that to confess my secrets.”
Bartholomew sobered. “Nay, you are not.” He turned her around so that she faced the grave that Father Ignatius had already blessed, holding her shoulders in his hands again. Her back was against his chest, though, and he leaned down to murmur in her ear. “Tell me this, though, Anna. Who lies here?”
“A child,” she admitted.
“As young as Nyle?”
“Younger yet. A mere infant.” Her tears rose again and she was embarrassed to feel one splash on her cheek. Her words were thick when she continued. “She did not survive her first winter, not here in these woods.” She took a shaking breath. “We dare not light a fire when the baron hunts us, for the smoke would reveal us all. That winter, he hunted ceaselessly, for he wished to rout us all, and it was cold. Cursed cold.” Anna’s words faded as she remembered her efforts to keep the babe warm.
Futile efforts, for she had not been warm herself.
She swallowed, the pain of loss enough to rend her heart.
“Had she a name?” Bartholomew murmured.
“Kendra,” she admitted, her words thick.
“Kendra,” he repeated. “I suppose you blame yourself for this, as well.”
Anna could only nod. It had been too cold for one so young.
Again Bartholomew gave her a moment to compose herself, and when he continued, his tone was thoughtful. “It seems to me that you have paid little heed to the sermons of Father Ignatius. Does he not teach that our days on this earth are chosen by the great creator himself, that He alone shall choose when a babe comes into the world, and how many breaths each of us shall take?”
Anna nodded reluctant agreement. “I should have taken better care,” she admitted.
Bartholomew, to her surprise, kissed her temple. “And so it might not have mattered. Her days might have been planned to be short, by some scheme we cannot discern.”
“But…”
“Did you do your best to warm and defend her?”
Anna nodded.
“Then no divinity can ask for more.” Without waiting for her agreement, he dropped to his knees then, in the snow at the foot of that small grave. He bowed his head as she watched him and prayed for Kendra’s immortal soul.
Anna found herself powerfully affected by this gesture of respect. Her tears flowed anew, but she, too, knelt in the snow beside him. Again, her fingers found his hand, and she had the sense that their prayers together were stronger than both uttered in isolation.
She assisted Father Ignatius by naming the rest of the fallen, well aware that Bartholomew watched and waited, Cenric seated by his side. Each time she glanced his way, he gave her a small smile of encouragement. She felt less alone than she had. She felt a tentative healing begin. She wondered whether she might not be completely responsible for all the woe that had fallen upon the villagers of Haynesdale two years past.
When Father Ignatius finished blessing the graves, she found herself once again putting her hand into Bartholomew’s warm grasp. She knew how she wanted to repay him for this gift he had granted to her. She did not doubt that he would soon be on his way, and that she would not see him again once he departed, but there was a memory that Anna particularly wanted to have of this knight.
That it would help her to heal yet more was only an indication that it was the right choice.
She would welcome him abed, surrender to him the pleasure that they had feigned the night before, and perhaps abandon her fear of all men. It was a bold choice, but one more characteristic of the maiden she had been, not that long ago.
And Anna wished to be that intrepid woman once again.
She might well conceive Bartholomew’s child, but that would offer only more solace. She would like to have a child to remember him by, a boy with his father’s dancing eyes and dark hair, a son with his father’s sense of honor.
Aye, that would suit Anna well indeed.
* * *
Something had changed in Anna.
She seemed softer to Bartholomew, and less wary. Perhaps her telling him of Kendra had removed a barrier between them. He did not care. He welcomed the chance to know her better.
The company was awaiting them, and he could smell the stewed meat. His belly growled as they drew closer to the camp. The fire had already been doused, although Anna strode forward with concern.
“It had been burning before you arrived,” said an older man, obviously anticipating Anna’s query. “It was in coals and we doused it, but used the rocks from the fire pit to heat the stew from yesterday.”
“Smells like venison,” Bartholomew noted.
“Naught but the baron’s best for us,” agreed the man with a grin.
“You will hang if caught,” Bartholomew noted, for he could not help himself.
The man shook his head. “We are outcasts already. We have lost our homes, our hearths, many of our kin and neighbors. There is little more that can be taken from us.”
“You would not say that if you were in the baron’s dungeons,” Anna noted.
“I might at that,” the man countered. He passed a hand over his brow. “I weary of this life, Anna, though that is not an accusation. I would see it change, one way or the other, rather than endure more years of mere survival.” He glanced up at Bartholomew. “Understand me, sir. If I had done more than protest the cruelty of an unjust baron, I would accept my punishment as due. I would rightly be outcast and criminal. But all I did was raise my fist against the imprisonment of the innocent, and in so doing, found myself accused, as well.” He shook his head again. “It is a sorry excuse for justice offered by Sir Royce, and were the king not so inclined to live all his days in Normandy, an honest man might petition him for aid. As it is, I would die or see our village restored.”
“Indeed,” agreed another man, for there were many tending the man’s words with interest.
Anna appeared to be taken aback by this, but Bartholomew did not release her hand. “You have done well for yourselves here,” he acknowledged, seeing that praise was due. “For there is more comfort in this forest than I would have expected.”
“Aye, there is that, thanks to Anna.” The company saluted her, but Bartholomew saw that she was still troubled.
“But the true son would find a willing army in his forests, if he deigned to return,” said the man and the company cheered as one.
Could Bartholomew so imperil these former villagers with a quest to reclaim his legacy? It was not the place of such men to fight, though he saw that they had the will to do as much. He feared that he found his desire mirrored in their resolve, and that to take them at their word would be unjust, for many would die.
He noted that they were thin, much like the dog, and knew the time in the forest had been hard upon them. Their garb was threadbare and their shoes worn through. They looked older than their years, even the children, and he imagined that the force of their will might not be enough to make strong opponents of them.
The man meanwhile turned to face the company. “Let us dance then, this night, as if it is to be our last. Anna and Percy are returned, and that is a matter to celebrate.”
“It would be folly,” Anna said. “The baron’s men may hear us.”
The man was dismissive. “You may rest assured that they are back in the baron’s hall, feasting themselves, for they are not men to sacrifice the comfort of a warm bed.”
“Or a warm wench!” cried another and the company laughed again.
“A cup of mulled wine,” sighed a woman and others nodded.
“A fea
st at Christmas in the baron’s hall,” added another.
“It is our right, and one withheld these many years,” grumbled another.
“But we may yet dance!” cried the first man and a ripple passed through the company.
There was a wildness about them, a recklessness that Bartholomew saw was born of desperation. He felt sympathy for them and dared to hope that he might be able to change their circumstance. On the morrow, he would try to free Duncan. In less than a fortnight, his fellows would return.
On this night, though, there was naught to be done but take the man’s suggestion.
“Then let us dance,” he declared and spun Anna around. Someone had a flute and began to play a tune, the others clapping their hands to the beat. They had no ale and only a thin venison stew in their bellies. They would sleep in the forest, on platforms built in the trees, and it might well snow again this night. Many would be cold. But they would take merriment where they could find it and Bartholomew admired their spirit.
He turned Anna before them all, and many whistled at the change in her garb. She flushed a little but he liked the sparkle that lit in her eyes. Then the tune became faster and she picked up her skirts, granting him a glance of pure mischief before she began to dance the jig.
It was a challenge, and one Bartholomew was inclined to take. He gestured to the musician, who played even faster, placed his hands on his hips and danced opposite Anna, daring her to best him at this. The company hooted, bets were undoubtedly laid, hands clapped and feet stamped, but there was only the merry sparkle of Anna’s eyes and the flash of her feet for Bartholomew.
Had he ever met a more beguiling woman? He was certain he had not.
* * *
The sky was filled with stars, when Anna took Bartholomew by the hand. The wind was rising and she knew that clouds would come before morning. She could smell the dampness of snow in the air and felt the pending change in the weather.
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