by Sarah Hegger
“I am crying.” She stared at the dampness on her fingers. “I have stained my dress and I am crying.”
Henry enfolded her.
She resisted his arms.
He tightened his hold until she rested against his chest. The need to nestle her aching head against his strong shoulder raged through her, weakening her knees in its implacable demand.
Henry took her weight.
Her legs buckled. Her voice came from outside her. “He is dead, Henry. My father is dead.”
“Alya.” So much pain, her pain, filled his words. “I am so sorry.”
“Henry?”
“Sweeting.” He kissed her head.
“I did not say goodbye to him.” Her fingers fastened claw like on his tunic. Swift, deadly, the hurt rose through her and she could not stand. “He said he could not protect me. He told me that he loved me. He begged me to forgive him, and I could not.”
“You were hurt, sweeting.” Henry’s heart beat against her ear. “You were frightened that he sent you away with strangers. He loved you, Alya. He loved you enough to know how you felt.”
“I did not say goodbye.” Her voice rose on a wail, and she could not make it stop. “I did not say goodbye. I did not tell him I loved him. He died and he did not know I loved him.”
“He knew.” Henry scooped her into his arms and carried her from the hall.
The only solid thing in the waves welling up inside of her and crashing over her, Alya clung to him.
He lowered her onto their bed and came down beside her. He held her to him as she cried. Tears that would not end, drawn from a hurting that had no bottom.
* * * *
Long after the keep had fallen silent Henry entered the hall.
Gregory rose from his seat by the hearth. “How is she?”
“Sleeping.” Concerned that she would make herself ill, he had almost called for Nurse countless times as Alya wept. Yet, some part of him had understood her need to lance the festering pain within her, and he had let her cry herself insensate.
Bahir had promised to sit with while she slept and Henry let him do it. Bahir needed to be near Alya, and Henry took pity on him.
Gregory pulled a chair closer for him, and pressed him into it. A platter of bread, cheese and cold beef rested before the hearth. “You did not eat.”
“Are you my mother now?” Henry’s words lacked any heat. More for something to do than any real hunger, he picked up the bread.
Gregory shrugged. “Lady Mary waited up for you most of the night. I sent her to bed and promised I would wait. Garrett has the next shift.”
Of course, his family would wait to hear how Alya fared. They had drawn her into them, as one of them, and they would not sleep without someone standing watch. He imagined even now, his mother rested but did not sleep. “Her father sent her away to protect her.”
“Bahir told me what happened.”
“I knew before that it was near certain he was dead.” Henry toyed with the bread and cheese in his hand. “Only she looked at me, so desperate for it not to be true that I could not.”
“You left her with hope?”
“I wanted it to be true.” Henry dropped the mangled mess back on the platter. “But I knew it couldn’t be. They were killing the foreign merchants one after the other. Picking them off like ripe fruit.”
Gregory nodded. “I imagine there was a lot of anger in the wake of the war.”
“Is war not always mired in anger and fear?” The senselessness of it ripped through Henry. The fear, the anger, the useless, pointless, heartbreaking death.
Gregory nodded. “I remember the day you left.”
So did Henry. Down to the last angry words he had spoken in the armory. Filled with righteous wrath and the certainty of his own cause he had faced down his father and his brothers and spoke those haunting words. “If I die in the name of God, then my death will have meaning.”
“They forgive me.” He shrugged as if the burden of his family’s forgiveness did not hound him even into his dreams. “Thus, I know her father forgave her.”
“Forgiveness is a strange thing.” Gregory stretched his legs out to the fire. Even in midsummer night chill crept into the hall. Alya was not the only one who missed the heat.
“We believe it comes from without, but truly it rests here.” Gregory touched his chest. “Faye forgave my failure to act long before I was able to.”
Gregory’s words chilled Henry. They struck so close to his heart that he dug his hands into the chair arm. “Did you forgive yourself?”
“Partly.” Grim-faced Gregory stared into the fire. “There are still times, even now, when I see every mark that bastard put on her. When I feel every tear she shed.”
Aye, Gregory had lived beside Faye for all the years of her marriage to a man who took pleasure in hurting her. At her side, Gregory had watched as another man hurt the woman he loved. “They were married. It was not your place to intercede.”
“Just as you believed that you acted with God on your side,” Gregory said.
“I was wrong.” In the end, death was not noble or honorable. It all ended in a gory, writhing mass of blood, piss and tears and the only meaning it had was to those who loved the dead men.
Gregory nodded. “As was I. I should have broken my vow to Calder and told your father. Hell, I should have gathered her and the boys up and run with her and hidden her. I should have killed him.”
“You did kill him.” The day Gregory had finally killed Calder, Henry had stood beside him.
“Just as you saw the farce you had become a part of.”
This conversation irked him, it scratched at a wound he did not want to acknowledge. “What is your point?”
“My point is this, Henry.” Gregory took a slow, careful breath. “We all act with that we know to be true at the time. You are an honorable man, and you acted out of that honor. Now that same honor condemns you to question yourself and demands that you pay penance for having acted thusly.” He leaned forward. “Your family loves you. Your death ripped them asunder. When you returned to them, they did not see your past failings, or even remember the angry words you spoke before you left. They just saw you, and were grateful to have you back.”
“I remember.”
“Aye.” Gregory handed him a goblet. “You remember, and you do not forgive yourself. But you do not yet see that the anger you hold against yourself stands between you and their love. Only you can end the anger, as only you can forgive yourself.”
Chapter 28
While Roger paced the length of the armory and back again, Henry sat beside Garrett and tried to concentrate on a solution. William drank his wine and watched Roger pace. The parchment at the center of the consternation lay crumpled in Roger’s fist.
“Thoughts?” Roger glanced at William, him, and then Garrett.
Henry tried to look as if he bent his brain to the matter on the parchment.
“No handy bastards running around?” Garrett steepled his fingers in front of him.
“Only you.” William grinned and stood. “And as fascinating as all this is, I promised my wife my company.” He shrugged. “This might amaze you but she likes it.”
Henry had forgotten how irksome William could be at these discussions. Then again, give his furtive mind enough time to fester on something and William often came up with a solution.
Roger punched Garrett’s shoulder. “My father did not beget any bastards. And I’d like to see you suggest that to my mother.”
Chuckling, Garrett sipped his mead. He’d never developed a taste for wine, and while before Roger would have mocked his common tastes, now he always had mead stocked for Garrett. They had fallen into a comfortable pattern and Henry threw off the balance. Two chairs beside the armory hearth, on either side of the table covered with parchment. One for Roger and the other for Garrett, and from where they ran the Anglesea demesne.
The issue was
marriage. His. Or rather his current lack of marriageability. Roger held in his hand a missive from a member of the king’s inner circle, Sir James of Fenwick. Though not a royal missive, it was close enough to make Roger flinch. Close enough to believe that the king sought this alliance without appearing to seek this alliance. Sir James had some blood connection to the king. Near enough that everyone knew of it, yet sufficiently removed not to be part of the royal family.
After years of floating on the edge of the king’s grace, finally an overture had come.
An offer of marriage between house Anglesea and house Fenwick. They had a suitable daughter, and hunted for a groom. Problem being, Anglesea no longer had any marriageable progeny and news of Henry’s marriage had not yet reached court.
Since birth Roger, William, and he had known their assigned paths. Roger, the heir, would take over Anglesea and the title. William, as the second son would function as a spare in case Roger did not reach adulthood, but would also be used to strengthen alliances through marriage. Not the heir, yet almost, made him valuable matrimonial property without having to commit the heir. And Henry could seek his fortune either in the church, or function as chamberlain to Roger. He favored women far too much for the church, and chamberlain had been fixed. Of course, he would also prove a good marriage resource, but with his older brothers hale and already producing heirs of their own, his claim on the title stretched thinner and thinner.
And thank the good Lord for that. Henry had been happy with his allotted role. Some men hankered for the position of heir, and perhaps as a young boy he’d had moments of coveting the glory of the name, but not since he had grown to see what an ache in the ass Roger’s inheritance could be.
Younger sons, especially in a household as loving and indulgent as Anglesea, had far more freedom and were granted greater forbearance than the heir. While Roger spent hours learning how to step into his father’s boots, William and Henry explored.
“Anything?” Roger glared at Henry.
Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, and glad Roger could not read minds, Henry tried to find a more comfortable position on the bench opposite Roger. “Well, first we need to inform court of my marriage.”
“Really?” Roger drawled. “Why did we not think of that? Bugger it, Henry! We know that. This is about managing this opportunity in a manner that causes no offense and still accepts the hand of friendship extended to us.”
If he had any interest in participating, he might have taken offense. “Garrett is the one with the twisted mind.”
“Aye, but Garrett will not be here to see this thing play out.” Roger pounded his fist into his palm. “Garrett has land he wants to get to. A demesne to run.”
“The manor is taking longer than anticipated.” Garrett shrugged. “I can stay for a while longer.”
“That is not the point.” Frustration eking from him, Roger kicked a stool across the armory and stood with his back to them.
“Indeed.” Garrett rose and took the parchment from Roger. “I will give this some thought. In the meantime, I will leave you alone.”
As Garrett ambled from the armory Henry braced. This thing had been building between him and Roger, and the time had come to air it.
“I have tried to give you time.” Roger clenched his fists. “I have told myself that you merely needed to grow accustomed to being home again, and then things would come right.”
Henry had labored under much the same misapprehension. “I know.”
“But it is only getting worse.” Shoving his hands behind his back, Roger faced him. “You show no interest in Anglesea, in being at my right hand.”
“Roger.” Henry searched for the right words, then gave up. Roger was a direct man, and blunt words would be best. “I show no interest because I have no interest.” He raised his hand to stop the storm building in Roger. “Of course, I love Anglesea and want to work to see it prosper. But this.” He prodded the pile of scrolls on the table. “And the fine dance of politics is not for me. There has to be another way I can serve you.”
“It used to be all you wanted was to be chamberlain.” Roger sighed and took the seat opposite him. “I want to bash your head in, but that won’t do either of us any good. Speak to me, Henry.”
“That man, the one I was when I left, does not exist anymore.” The hurt on Roger’s face lashed at him. “On a practical level let us examine this new situation. It has been years since I took part in any of the court intrigues. The game changes daily and I no longer even know all the players. What use can I be to you in my ignorance?” He hated what he said next, but it had to be aired. “I married a foreign bride. Whom many consider to be a female enemy. You saw how the villagers reacted to her. As much as we would like to believe it not so, many at court will see Alya as our weakness and seek to exploit that.”
“Henry.” Roger stared fixedly at the floor. “Alya is your wife and we accord her that respect.”
“Aye you do.” Henry’s gut churned. He did not regret his marriage, but he did see the trouble it could cause. “But in the game of politics, she is a liability.”
“I did not say so.” Roger laced his fingers together, knuckles growing white in his tight clasp.
“But I did.” Restless with his own thoughts and needing to get all of this said, Henry needed to pace. “I came back prepared to do my duty by you but you already have Garrett. Let us be frank, he makes an excellent chamberlain, and he enjoys the task. His mind bends to these intricacies so much better than mine.”
“You are my brother.” Roger’s loyalty was commendable but misplaced here.
“That does not make me the best person to fill this role.” He stared out of the casement. Alya hurried across the bailey with Jamila at her heels. He and Alya drifted about each other like polite ghosts. He did not want to push her in her grief, but the gap between them only grew wider and harder to breach. “I have spent time at Garrett’s manor. More time than Garrett, in fact.” The idea had grown slowly in Henry’s mind. “Put me there. Give me the task of making that demesne profitable. Maybe a little distance is what I need. Perhaps there I can build a future without trying to compensate for an ill-fitting past.”
“You mean away from the family.”
“Aye.” He hated the thought of hurting them, but the weeks stretched on and the situation worsened, until he itched beneath his skin. “I love my family. All of you, but you all look to me to be the same Henry that left here. It weighs on me.”
Roger reared back. “Our love weighs on you?”
“Nay.” Henry struggled to find the right words. “Your love is even more precious to me now than ever. Having faced its loss, I truly see it for the cherished gift it is. But I have changed, and I need to be the man I am now, not the man I was.”
Roger frowned, but some of the grimness left his features. “You think this would be easier if you did not live at Anglesea?”
“Aye.” Alya disappeared through a small gate in the curtain wall. Beyond that lay a garden he had not visited in years. “And if Alya and I are going to stand a chance of building a strong marriage, I believe she needs it too. She would be happier away from the center, less in the glare of all eyes.”
“Let me think on this.” Roger nodded. “I have never considered a time when you would not be my chamberlain.”
“Truly?” Henry found that hard to believe. “Even when you had such a frighteningly capable man already in service to you?”
Flushing, Roger dropped his gaze. “I will think on this, but I need something from you in return.”
“Name it.”
Roger poured wine for them and sat back. “You say you are a changed man, and we all see it. Tell me, Henry. I need to know what happened to you.”
Anything but that. Henry’s throat tightened around words he had never spoken, holding on to things he could not unsee but also did not want to share.
Roger leaned his elbows on the table. “Tell me.”
Henry’s hand shook as he took up his goblet. Roger loved him and in the steady, calm of his regard, Henry found the courage to do what he had thought he never could. “We sailed first for Anatolia. We sought to make an alliance there that would prevent us fighting a war on two fronts.”
* * * *
Alya shut herself and Jamila into the garden and leaned against the door for support.
“Many at court will see Alya as our weakness and seek to exploit that.”
Henry regretted marrying her, and it hurt more than she could credit. Since her father’s confirmed death, he had been kind, solicitous but also distant. A caring stranger now shared her bed. As much as she had felt slighted when he shared only his body with her, now she missed even that.
Duty done, Henry had turned his back on her. Bewitched by his beautiful eyes, and his handsome face and form, she had allowed herself to believe their marriage a blessing. All that time traveling together had lulled her into a blissful world of make believe.
The real world bore no resemblance in its cruelty. His family had accepted her with such warmth and now they paid the price for that. No place, person or family existed separate from the cold world about it.
Beatrice had told her all about the fine edge Anglesea teetered on with their king. Alya did not understand all of it, but things did not change so very much from one place to another. Those who lived in the glow of the palace prospered. Those who did not, suffered. Cairo had been just the same.
“My lady.” Bernard slipped through the gate, his young face alight to see her. “I was hoping you would come today.”
Of course, she had come. Here amongst the growing things she found solace. The simple act of planting a seedling in the damp, rich soil and nurturing it as it grew gave her more peace even than prayer. With the gentler sun and all the rain, things thrived here in England and the joy of it soothed her.
Clasped to his breast, Bernard carried a bunch of tiny green plants. “I brought these from my mum.” He looked smug. “I asked her all about what would grow and what wouldn’t.”