by Robyn Carr
She spied, or rather heard, Bart as he snapped orders at a group of squires who had not yet won his approval. Bart strongly resembled Quentin in looks, but not size. Not as tall, not as broad, Bart had to work twice as hard to do half as well as Quentin in the contests. And Bart was quick-tempered and ambitious, as was often the case with the second son. He longed for wealth and power, but Raedelle was Quentin’s, and Bart’s fortunes must be earned another way. It was becoming apparent that he was not going to get his due through soldiering, but through clever association. She had noticed that when he looked at her of late his eyes would slowly traverse her slight form from nose to toes and back again, as if trying to account for the fact that she had lured an earl into their midst. Sometimes the gleam in his eye made her shiver. She knew, without being told, that Bart had plans revolving around this proposed marriage.
And Trenton, who was busy examining the battle gear that lay in shining rows in the courtyard, turned and smiled at her. He was a gentle lad at seventeen, too young for all this conspiracy, too young to go to battle. But he was without choice and must follow his brothers or be labeled as a weakling and coward. He was not, of course. He would be as large as Quentin, and with good training just as strong, but Trenton was kind and good through and through. He was neither conniving nor ambitious.
Anne and Trenton had been playmates until Trenton was sent to another keep for training as a squire. Upon his return he had cast aside playful games and concentrated on his knightly skills--a third-born son had much challenge ahead to even cover his head. Their fondness for each other had not really waned. Precious were the evening hours when Trenton sang sweet troubadours’ songs in their common hall. Trenton alone shared the raven locks and dark eyes of their common sire. She greatly feared losing him to a senseless war, and if there was one sibling she could tell about Dylan, it might be him. But, like his brothers, he had been strictly taught to suspect and despise all deFraynes. And it was Trenton, not Bart, she would have asked the earl to see to, if indeed she were to marry him, which she would not.
The busyness of the courtyard changed her mind about a stroll there, and she went back into the hall and through the galleries and cookery toward the rear of the castle. She paused to watch Divina, who had taken over Marcella’s duties in the cookery, since Marcella was so occupied with letters. Divina’s command was no lighter than their mother’s, and possibly harsher. She barked orders at the maids and matrons like a seasoned baroness, though she was only nineteen. She yelled about the many hungry knights, chided and ridiculed them for laziness, though it looked as though they worked feverishly. Divina tried hard to live up to their mother’s standards, mimicking Marcella, and Anne was suddenly filled with pity. For so long she had envied Divina’s apparent closeness to their mother, but now she could see the true value. Divina was neither betrothed nor happy and was busy with Marcella’s chores.
Raedelle’s wall had been built thick and tall two centuries ago, and the gates were opened for the passage of troops and villagers. The town lay to the south, a hill stood at the back of the castle, and the bastions and parapets were stocked with both new guns and ready archers. There was a strong feeling of impending war. Anne frowned in confusion and disappointment, for she could not think of any amount of money or power that could make war so appealing, causing people to forget family loyalty. Minerva lay forgotten, quietly dying. Yet, her family, with the exception of Divina, was happier and more excited than she had ever seen them. There were whisperings of duchies, once the power had been won for York. And laughter over the monkish, impotent King Henry, whose wife, they said, had cuckolded him with the Duke of Somerset. The prince, they gossiped, was wrought of Somerset’s loins, for the king was too often at poetry and prayer.
She wandered into the gardens, but there was much astir there as castlewomen clipped late-blooming herbs for poultices and lotions for warriors at roost here. Troops must be tended after battle. Large groups of calves, piglets, and lambs were being led to slaughter, for there were many mouths to feed, soldiers needed meat for strength. And the stable was no help, for an army that could not be housed in the main hall had found refuge there. In the weaving rooms the women frantically spun their yarn for cloth for gambesons, banners, and standards for the house of York, or of Gifford green. Finally, the church proved the only quiet place, and Anne knelt to pray for Minerva ... and Dylan.
She did not raise her head for what she perceived to be an hour and shared the church only with a peasant from the village who knelt behind her. He had undoubtedly sinned worse than she, for his capped head was bowed the whole while. When she reasoned it was time to return to Minerva, she lifted her head. She rose to leave and turned to depart the chapel. The peasant finished his prayers and lifted his bright turquoise eyes to meet hers. Her heart nearly stopped. Dylan! Inside Raedelle walls!
She stood numbly, terrified. She could not speak to him here, for the priest might come out of an ambry and catch them together. She lowered her eyes and with head bowed, fled swiftly with small steps, knowing he would follow. But where?
All of Raedelle was astir with the commotion of building an army for a subversive cause. There was no nook in all of the castle and town that would be safe. And Dylan was at risk inside Raedelle grounds.
She considered his costume, his peasant rags and straw hat. He sat unbothered in the church because ... because Raedelle was so astir with preparations for war that no one paid attention to another serf. She walked on, trying to keep her steps short and her manner relaxed, through the portcullis of the inner bailey and through the town to the gate. And there she saw what she had seen for weeks--knights and squires and pages and peasants roving through the opened gates as if a Mayday fair was taking place within Raedelle’s walls. Women carried baskets, carts laden with supplies were coming in, empty carts moved out. Farmers gathered the last remnants of their crops from the fields, corralled their stock, and destriers were being led about as pages exercised them for the knights. Outside the walls she could hear the shouts from men who practiced arms in the fields.
“Where are you bound, maid Anne?” the knight who kept the gate asked.
“I have been through a long morning at the bedside of my nurse, old Minerva. She is dying.” She brushed at a tear. “I need a space away from her illness and this mania of knights. I will return to her directly.”
“You should not wander far,” he advised.
“There are more knights within hearing of my screams than ever before, sir. I mean only to circle the outer wall once to loosen these stiff limbs. Worry not.”
The protection lining the walls was more than adequate, and so the gate keeper did not argue or detain her. Anne did not dare look over her shoulder to see if Dylan followed. She did in fact walk around the outer wall, to the rear of the keep, a trip that took the half of an hour. There, where the castle was built into the side of a hill, was a shallow coppice of no more than a dozen trees. It was the only place that could not be seen from the wall or tower. Anyone fleeing over the hill could be spotted, or troops converging on the castle from the far side of the hill could be seen. But this little place where the wall met the hill was hidden. And this was the place where Dylan had spread his mantle on the grass for her once before.
When she entered the little shelter, she turned expectantly, but it was many long moments before he arrived. In his hand was a scythe. He dropped it instantly to take her in his arms.
“Dylan, my God, you came inside Raedelle’s walls,” she gasped, holding his face in her hands and covering him with kisses.
“There is no time, my love. A troop of a dozen men awaits us. Come with me now.”
“Now? How?”
“If we can make the wood there are two horses tethered. Anne, there may never be another chance.”
“Oh Dylan, why did you come inside?”
“I have roved this fair countryside for some weeks, but the Raedelle gate is stout at night, for the Giffords conspire to unseat King Henry. C
oming inside by daylight appeared to be the only the way.”
Joy penetrated through tears of fear and Anne laughed. He had come! “As a peasant man with a crooked back. Oh, Dylan!”
“You were so long at your prayers, I thought I would die.” He kissed her mouth hungrily, his wildly beating heart pressed against hers. He grasped her hand and covered her palm and fingers with kisses. And then he held her so tightly she was nearly crushed.
“I was afraid you would never come,” she whispered against his ear. “I have never been so afraid.”
“Listen to me, my love. We must flee by the light of day. I have watched your house, and there is no way for you to escape after the sun is set. It is a long way to the wood. We will have to run. Can you come now?”
“Now, yes,” she said, kissing him again. His arms tightened about her waist, holding her so near she felt almost a part of him. Finally they would be as one.
“Are you afraid?” he asked her.
“No, Dylan. I am only afraid of losing you.”
“Let me hold you, just for a moment, before we--”
“Old Minerva,” she said suddenly, stiffening. “Dylan, Minerva lies dying.”
“There is no time, Anne. It must be now.”
“Wait, Dylan, wait. The guard saw me leave the wall and my dress is a bright color. An hour, my love. Stay here, where you are safe, and let me return to Minerva. I will only kiss her brow, that is all. I will take a dark, poor gown and one of her old shawls and leave Raedelle just as you have come. Less notice will be taken of a peasant leading an old hag down the road than if we run for the wood.”
He frowned slightly. “I do not want to let go of you again. I fear I will never have another chance. There is war on the land. Anne, at any moment our chance to flee could be lost.”
“But Dylan, for a year and a half we have awaited this. An hour. Please.”
He held her head against his chest and stroked the silky length of her hair. “It is so close,” he said breathlessly. “You have no idea how terrible it is, the war that is coming.”
“We will be far away from it, my love.”
“God help us, I hope so. I do not think Henry’s army can hold them back.” He lifted her chin. “Anne, if we fail ...”
“Dylan, hush! I have never walked through Raedelle’s gate more easily. They are so upset with their conspiracy, they notice me less than ever. I will take a shawl in a basket and tell the guard I am returning to cut wild flowers for old Minerva.”
As she looked into his eyes she saw a fear and intensity that she had never before seen. In a panicked breath he whispered, “Anne, come now:”
She was afraid for him, never before seeing that look of panic etched into his handsome face. “Less than an hour, Dylan. It will be safer. Wait here.” She kissed his lips. “I love you.”
It was difficult to keep from skipping back to the gate. Anne had to keep her head slightly bowed so that no one would see the smile she could not hide, the flush of her cheeks. At last. There was not the slightest tugging at her heart for the betrayal her family would feel, for she hated what they were doing. They were moved to depose a king for want of power and money, not for a higher principle – not for England’s good.
She fled through the town, her feet carrying her swiftly, her breath coming in labored gasps from the combination of exertion and anticipation. She raced through the keep, ignoring all the activity in her path, and ran up the back stairs to the chamber that was Minerva’s.
Ferris slumped against the closed door, a tear tracing its way down his ruddy cheek. He lifted his head as Anne’s foot touched the top step. “She is dead,” he said.
“No,” she said in a breath, shaking her head.
Ferris grasped her by the upper arms and kissed her brow. “It is almost as if she chose to die while you were away. She loved you so.” He looked into her eyes. “Prepare her, my sweet. Her body needs to be readied by loving hands, and yours are the only ones I know.”
“Oh Papa, I cannot,” she cried, panicked. Ferris held her away and looked into her eyes. “Not Minerva,” she said, the tears flowing freely, tears that to her shame were not for her old nurse, but for the cursed delay. She should have fled with Dylan instantly.
“You would not do this for Minerva?” he asked, frowning through the pain in his eyes.
“Papa, I ...” It was on her lips to tell him. There was a fleeting hope that he would understand her, even help her. Although Ferris was committed to his cause for the Duke of York and had admitted hatred for Lord deFrayne, he did not encourage his sons to take up the feud. She knew he disliked the continued animosity between the two families. But Ferris, even as the lord of Raedelle, could not control the hatred of the others. And he could not betray the family honor. If he knew Dylan was here for his daughter, he might stand aside as the others captured a deFrayne. She was still afraid to confide in him.
“I will do it, Papa. Go to church for me, buy a prayer for her soul and tell the priest.”
Ferris nodded and walked wearily down the stairs. Anne entered the sickroom and looked down at the peaceful face of her nurse and lifelong friend. Minerva was old and had worked hard. In death, she had rest and peace. It was almost as if she smiled. Anne bent over the bed and kissed Minerva’s brow. “Forgive me, my love,” she whispered, a fresh tear dropping onto the wrinkled face.
Then she whirled, grasped a shawl from the coffer at the foot of the bed, and raced down the back stairs through the gallery to her own chamber. She stripped off her bright rose-colored gown and donned a dull tan working apron and tucked her hair under a cap. She dug through her small jewel chest and stuffed her few trinkets into her pockets – things that could be sold for money if Dylan had little. She pushed Minerva’s shawl into a basket and scurried again toward the back stair. Though the passage was longer, she would leave the keep through the cookery to avoid passing her brothers in the courtyard. She hoped no one would notice her. She could be taken for any village wench.
The tower horn sounded and Anne stopped short. She lowered her eyes again and resumed walking, aware of running all around her. Oh dear God, no, her heart screamed. Oh dear God, give me flight, and I will never ask another thing.
Afraid of the truth, she walked swiftly. Her cheeks drained of color and her eyes glazed over. Her heart beat wildly and her stomach churned miserably. The knights armed themselves and began to run. At the wall the men were clumsily struggling to arm the new bronze cannon. Quentin, already astride, held his prancing steed in wait for the opening of the gate. Wings, dear Father in heaven. Give me wings to clear the wall.
“A deFrayne troop,” she heard a man shout. She lifted her eyes. Twenty or more knights cleared the gates with destriers, spears, and lances, and the mighty oaken portal was closing behind them. “A deFrayne troop is being engaged by our riders on the south Driscoll cross.”
“No,” she said in a breath, shaking her head. “Oh please, let it not be so!”
Archers lined the walls, bows ready and quivers in place. She looked around, turning full circle, her hair slipping from under the cap and falling to her shoulders. A choking sob escaped her and she covered her mouth. She could not get out, she could not go to him. Was he safe? Would he be killed? The troop who had waited to escort them to safety was being attacked by Gifford riders. But Dylan was not with them. He was in the trees against the wall.
“From the wall. Archers ready.”
“No!” she screamed, but to no avail. There was commotion and a flurry of arrows. She knew that Dylan must be running for the tethered horses in the wood. “No,” she screamed again, fearing she would go mad. Peasant clothes, no armor, no weapon save the scythe he had taken.
“Is it a deFrayne?”
“No colors, my lord. It could be anyone, but he flees and so he dies.”
“He’s crossing the field! Bowman! Draw!”
“Too late. He’s in the trees. Send riders.”
Anne’s fists pressed against her m
outh and she shook with terror. Her pockets were stuffed with her minor jewels, her disguise was in her basket, and tears flowed down her pale cheeks. Anyone who looked closely might guess that she was prepared for flight. Suddenly, a hand, heavy and strong, rested on her shoulder and turned her around. She looked into the angry eyes of her father.
“My God,” Ferris said in a breath. “ ‘Tis true. You would betray us!”
“Betray you?” She shouted in hurt, furious pain. “Betray what? Your war against your king? Your foul, senseless hatred? What, Father, do I betray? Not my heart! Never!”
Ferris looked into the eyes of his daughter, eyes filled with agony and terror and hopelessness. He knew he was too late. “Had you made away, you might have been killed,” he whispered, shaking her.
A high shriek of hysteria escaped her. She had lost her chance. Death seemed no worse than what she felt now. “I don’t care,” she cried. “I love him!”
“Oh my sweet Anne, how I prayed you would not ...”
“Father,” she cried, dropping the basket and falling into his embrace in anguish she had never before known. Ferris lifted her into his arms, her head against his chest, and carried her toward the hall. She clung to him in her misery, no longer caring who knew, no longer caring if they chose to strip her to naked flesh and nail her to the gate. She sobbed, her insides tearing at her. Despite her father’s strong arms capably bearing her to the hall, she never felt so alone. She wished to die.
“What is the matter with her?” Marcella’s sharp voice inquired as Anne was carried into the common room.