by Robyn Carr
“Stand up, Ferris,” she said quietly. “I don’t know why you’ve come. There are not many soldiers here – let us be honest with each other for once.”
He stood shakily and then met eyes with Cameron, whose eyes were cold, filled with a growing rage. Ferris looked away before he saw too much of Cameron’s hatred. He knew the young man must wish fervently to spill his blood. He hoped he could at least speak before that happened.
“Come into the hall for--“
“Nay, my lady, I come only this far. I need not tell you that if my family ever learns of this sojourn, they will be hard pressed to forgive me. I come here as a traitor and I will speak quickly and go into the night again.”
“Why have you come at all, Ferris?”
“Madam, my lady, I could not have come if Lord deFrayne had lived. I know your lord husband would not have stayed his blade long enough to hear me. But your losses have been many, and I believe you dislike unnecessary bloodshed.” He glanced at Cameron quickly, furtively. “There is only himself, and Dylan now. And if Cameron answers the call from Raedelle with a ransom, he will be captured and killed.”
He noticed the young knight stiffen. He was not yet thirty, but had the face of a hardened youth. He had the same sandy-colored hair of Dylan and their mother, the same deep turquoise eyes.
“We suspected as much,” Daphne said.
“Then I will be brief. They plan an elaborate execution for the twentieth day of the month. I suspect you can manage a rescue by then, if not before. I have brought you a tunic upon which the arms of Ayliffe are sewn. If your fingers are nimble and skilled, my lady, you can fashion a banner. Raedelle would be opened to a troop of Ayliffe. But I warn you, there is one chance only. And do not let this son enter – let him send others in his stead. Should anything go awry, you would lose them both.”
“There are not many left, Ferris,” she said. He was amazed by the strength in her voice. But then, she had always been strong. She was so small beside her grown son, yet Daphne had always had great courage. She had somehow managed to rise above hate, jealousy, and vengeance, though her life with Lord deFrayne must have been hard. Why had Marcella, so sturdy and determined, embraced the weakest of traits?
“I pray God you have a few.” He looked at Cameron. “Cast about for some worthy marauders, thieves, anyone you can find. With luck you will not have to stand and fight, but ride in and ride out.”
“How is it your family knows the arms of Ayliffe so well? I know he is for York--word travels fast among the vanquished, but that alone would not open a heavily guarded gate.”
“The earl is betrothed to my daughter.” He paused. “My youngest. Anne.” He watched Daphne’s eyes close and a pained expression swiftly crossed her features. Cameron could not see his mother’s reaction to the news, for he stood at her side and his eyes were focused suspiciously on Ferris. So, she knew. Both her memory and her shrewd instincts would have brought the truth to her ... as it had to Ferris. He tried to explain. “The earl values her highly and would do anything in his power to make her happy. Further, he opposed the devilry of my sons taking captured deFraynes out of Edward’s camp to Raedelle. But Lord Forbes was unable to intercede further. He was needed elsewhere.”
A vague smile replaced Daphne’s pained expression. “This betrothal to one so mighty must please your lady wife a great deal.”
“Marcella is enjoying it heartily, I assure you. Retrieve your son, madam, and then get thee out of England.”
“I will stay,” she said softly, almost in invitation. “Women do not suffer under attainder. My sons will go away. Both of them.”
Was it so well understood already? That Edward would be king? And did he perceive her correctly--that she would remain here, a place where he might easily find her?
“There is this place,” she said, barely glancing around, “that I will try to preserve until a more peaceful time. Lord deFrayne is dead, our cause has been hard for the king. If Edward is crowned, perhaps something can be done for my sons one day. I will stay – I will keep the wall for some warlord until I am banished, or peace comes again. This is Cameron’s. If not now, someday in the future then.”
“Madam, you should flee England with your sons. No one can be certain of the safety of these walls with Henry’s enemies everywhere.”
She smiled patiently. “Ferris, there have always been enemies all around me. The enemies grapple for a crown now, but it is not very different than when they simply fought for the sake of fighting, for the sake of perpetuating an old, very tired argument. “
Their family differences again. Of all those involved it was first only Ferris and Daphne who wished it could be forgotten. If not forgotten, negotiated, laid away, if only in an uneasy grave. They had tried reason, but reason failed in the face of hostile hearts. There were always many who did not want to forget. “Madam, my lady wife ...”
Daphne closed her eyes and her mouth took on a rigid, irritated grimace. She slowly opened her eyes again. “Ferris, it is too late for all that now. I know it is Marcella who holds my son. I know her hatred for me is fierce. Say no more.”
Ah, but that was the reason for Marcella’s scorn and treachery. Because Ferris loved Daphne. He had loved her when she was a girl, just as Dylan loved Anne. He courted her secretly and when her father learned of it, they tried to convince the families that much could be gained by a marriage. But Daphne’s father saw a better end in quickly giving her to the heir of Heathwick, who was more powerful and richer than any Gifford. Ferris lost her. He waited years to wed, and finally took the hand of the daughter of a knight bidden to the Gifford house.
Marcella’s father had nudged her toward Ferris for at least four years, but it was not until after Daphne had borne a son and Ferris’s own brother and father were dead that he took Marcella to wife. By that time the rumors of his love for Daphne had circulated well. Marcella married Ferris knowing that he had loved another, and, he suspected, expecting to change that. But one cannot change one’s own history. His wife had never forgotten nor forgiven him. Not for one moment. Every child she bore him she brought forth with a vengeance, reminding him of all she did for him. She taunted him that Daphne could never do so much. She bitterly reminded him that Daphne had not defied her father for his sake. She asked him, too frequently, what he had found to love. Ferris could never answer her taunts, reminders, or questions. When he married Marcella he had resigned himself to life without Daphne. But he could not despoil the memory of her, or their love, by responding to Marcella’s jealousy.
He let his eyes focus on Daphne’s for a long moment. He would say nothing in front of her son, but in his eyes, in hers, there was a promise. He would breach his marriage contract now, and Marcella be damned. Anne would be cared for, and he could not indulge his wife’s cruelty another day. He had tried to love Marcella, just as he had tried to temper her harshness, her hatred. Ferris had been true to his marriage oath, but it had gained him nothing but loneliness. Even though he had taken Marcella from the humble home of a knight into a baron’s castle, she was never satisfied. Perhaps he did not love her passionately – he had never loved nor wanted her as he had Daphne. But he had been true, he had been loyal. What more she wanted, had not been his to give.
It was first his word, his honest attempt to be a decent husband that kept Ferris from Daphne. Later, it was the fear that he would endanger the woman he truly loved. Now Ferris deeply regretted his reticence, for his life was nearly over, and he had not yet lived. He no longer had to lie awake nights wondering if there was any way to creep past the powerful Earl of Heathwick – he was no more. Neither was the keep stout or well protected. Maybe, after all these many years ... even the moment tempted him. She had invited him into the hall. But, there were battles to fight and her son stood at her side. Soon, he told himself. Soon.
“Will you accept one cup of wine, Ferris?” she softly asked.
“Nay, madam, not this time.” He turned and went to his horse. Behind him
he could feel Cameron shift, ready should Ferris draw a sword. When he turned back with the white tunic bearing the Ayliffe badge, he found that Cameron’s hand was on the hilt of his sword. He passed the tunic to Daphne. “Work quickly and well. And – ” He faltered and looked at the ground. “If you fight, spare any of mine you can. I love my sons, too. This is not really any fault of theirs.”
“I know.” Her voice was breathless, a soft, quiet gust of air. No more.
Ferris turned to go back to the gate. He had thought himself old, until he’d looked into her eyes. She gave him back his youth. She was strong, invincible, wise. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The gate creaked to let him depart.
“My lord,” a man’s voice called to his back. He slowly turned to regard Cameron. “My thanks.”
Ferris nodded. For what? He might have endangered his own family to show one small, parting loyalty to the woman he had always loved and admired. He hoped he would not regret his decision. He hoped Cameron would not retaliate. The plan was simple and clever, but the cost could be extravagant.
***
“What ails you now?” Marcella demanded of her daughter.
“Naught, madam,” she replied.
“You keep so much to your rooms, it slights us. I will not have you carry tales of abuse to the earl.”
“Nay, madam, I only suspected my company was unwelcome, but if it pleases you, I will join the family more.”
“It pleases me,” she said shortly.
But it was difficult for Anne, for she was tired. Night after night she went to Dylan in his dank, cold cell. On only three nights in twelve was she unable to reach him. With the day of his execution fast approaching, exhausted and nervous and with no sign of Brennan, Anne feared her feelings were transparent. She worried that if she were seated with the others in the common hall, listening to her mother carry on about the plans for Dylan’s death, she might burst into tears. Anne had watched the slow construction of an elaborate scaffold for hanging in the outer bailey. It was finally completed.
A missive had arrived from Lord Gifford, filled with exciting battle news. Margaret of Anjou, Henry’s wife, had collected large armies of raiding Northmen, and her troops were laying waste to the entire countryside in their advance toward London. Ferris, himself, was with Warwick, Edward’s rich and powerful advisor, and the captured king, but his location was undisclosed. Lord Forbes was still with Edward and moving toward London to join Warwick, and then they would face Margaret’s army for a final decision that would be quick and bloody. He suggested they wait to celebrate, for Margaret’s Northmen had a reputation not only for strength, but for unbelievable brutality. They had unleashed whole cities full of homeless beggars to roam the countryside – innocents were burned out of their homes, robbed, raped, slain. Margaret’s only way to pay these vicious mercenaries was with booty. He warned his family to take special care to keep the doors closed tightly to any approaching army that did not bear a banner of either Raedelle or Ayliffe. Margaret’s men had left only waste and carnage in their path.
He made no mention of Trenton, but Marcella did not seem concerned. “No word comes from Cameron deFrayne,” she said. “Tomorrow, then.”
Tomorrow.
“Madam,” Bart said, “I think we test the wrath of both Warwick and Edward in our delay--one the richest man in England, the other the would-be king. We should ride toward London at once and hope to find the right army.”
“Soon, Bart.”
“Madam,” Bart pressed, “like you, I would welcome a chance to capture Heathwick and kill the deFraynes, but if there is no ransom paid, no title for lands brought to us by Cameron deFrayne, what is to be gained by killing Dylan? What will you do if Lord Forbes is angry?”
“You?” she asked Bart. “You hate them. I thought you would relish--”
“I would relish an estate, be it Heathwick or another. But if there is no Heathwick for me, and if Lord Forbes is angered by this execution, perhaps he will not--”
“Anne,” Marcella snapped. ‘Tell your brother you will petition the earl.”
Anne looked up. She stared at Bart levelly, knowing she must use this moment well. She took a deep breath. “Lord Forbes promised to succor this family. Of course, he approved of us all then ...”
“Do you see?” Bart said. “Will you risk all?”
“There is no risk. How have you become so skittish?”
“Delay the hanging. Await the earl’s approval.”
“Nay!”
“Good sense is not skittish,” Quentin said, his voice low and calm. Quentin never had time for nonsense – he was direct and confident. “Bart has a point that must be considered,” Quentin went on. “Father has warned us of the strength of Margaret’s army – if something goes awry and Edward does not win his crown, we could bargain with the life of this--”
“Nay! DeFraynes killed my father. Tomorrow he dies. If Henry continues to rule after this, we may deny knowledge of the execution.”
Anne’s heart beat wildly. Would her brothers stop the execution? She tried to appear calm, but prayers ran wild through her head.
“I am in agreement with my brother, madam. You risk Bart’s opportunity to please the earl. With all due respect, this vengeance will not bring your father back to you, and could ill serve us. In Father’s absence, I should make the decision. And I think we have dallied here long enough.”
Marcella’s eyes sparkled with anger. “In your father’s absence, while he lives, I make such decisions. And I say he is to be killed.”
Quentin stood. “Then I shall displease you, madam. I will leave to follow Trenton, who has proven to have more sense, if not more courage, than the rest of us. Too much is at stake to dawdle here for an unnecessary event that only feeds some age-old vengeance of yours. What you do in my absence, I cannot prevent. But I order you in this: you will hold your ritual after my departure.”
“You abandon me now?” she asked, furious.
“Yea, madam. I think this has gone far enough.”
Tears gathered in Marcella’s stormy eyes. “You are too young to understand. You were not yet born when a raid on my father’s troop cost his life. DeFraynes murdered him, and sent a messenger to my mother with his hand, the ring of his family crest still worn on his finger. And why was this done? Because my father approved my marriage to the Gifford heir. Do you not see?”
Quentin looked down. He had never before defied his mother. But there had never been so much at stake. “I concede your hatred was hard earned. But I would think you would have enough revenge through our victorious army – the deFraynes will fall--they need not also be murdered.”
She stared at Quentin for a long moment. Bart looked away from his mother’s eyes and Anne held her breath. Marcella stood. “Sniveling cowards. I will avenge my father alone!” And with that she rushed out of the hall, up the stairs and to her chamber.
Quentin turned to his brother. “I am leaving Raedelle to find our father. I think if you are wise, you will come with me.”
Bart thought for a moment, then nodded. “I am not bound to risk my fortune for any of them. I have seen one of them die – that will have to sustain me.”
***
For many nights Anne had been able to pretend that morning would not come. She had been concentrating on the moment, refusing to mar the magic by looking toward the end of it all. The pretending was over. She had never mentioned the talk about Dylan’s hanging that she overheard in the hall, nor even that there was a day established for the event. But on this night she was silent with Dylan. When he touched her, she did not quickly yield to passion. She found it hard to look into his eyes, even though she wanted to memorize each small detail of his face, lest she ever forget.
“Tell me, then,” he said, finally.
“There is nothing.”
“Oh,” he sighed, “I suspect there is much. Perhaps they have chosen tomorrow as the day. Perhaps you know, certainly, this is our last nigh
t.”
She met his eyes. “Oh Dylan, it is my mother,” she said, yielding finally to the tears that she had previously held back. “My father has already gone from here in defiance of her plans, refusing to be a part of this. Trenton has gone, and even my brothers have argued for your life, if only to protect themselves. Now Quentin and Bart will depart to chase Edward’s army into battle, but my mother will not be stopped. She will see you killed, or will die trying.” And she lay in his arms and sobbed, heart-wrenching, painful tears too long unshed.
“You will need strength, my love. Come closer, here.” He pulled the fur around her and held her. “We have come to a time, now, when there is little left for us to do but hold each other fast until the dawn.” He chuckled low in his throat, a brave sound. “I reckon many a dying man should like to spend his last night thus. Here now, my sweet love, we have given and taken all there is between us. Perhaps we will be joined in eternity after all. There is always hope.”
“How can you speak of hope now,” she cried. “All is lost. It is nearly over.”
“Anne, my Anne ... even while I argued against your hope, calling it useless, it urged me on through these dark days. If you do not hope, how can I be strong? Nay, until the rope snaps my neck, I will hope. Cry if you must, but when you’ve shed your tears, you must still hope.”
“Oh Dylan, what am I to do?”
“Whatever you must, my love. Whatever you must.”
He held her closely for several hours. There were very few words between them, and when his lips touched hers to say goodbye, he cupped her chin in his hand. “Do not give in, my sweet love. We have always thought each kiss might be our last, and yet there has always been another. There will be again. Believe.”