by Robyn Carr
Marcella heard that the two young people desperately sought alliances from nobles and priests to help convince their respective families to allow them to marry. She ached for attention from Ferris – she was afraid she would lose him. But Daphne’s father went straightway to the young deFrayne heir, Lord deFrayne, the richer noble, pledged his fealty there and had his daughter wed before her purity could be tainted by a less wealthy Gifford. Daphne was spirited away to Heathwick and became a countess overnight.
At first Marcella was relieved that Daphne was so quickly whisked out of the way. Slowly, relief faded into resentment, for Ferris was hostile, brokenhearted, and even more distant. He refused to marry at all. He stayed away on campaigns as often as possible, as if in wait for Daphne. He paid no other woman the slightest attention, though Marcella’s father and brother tried to interest him in her.
In the next three years both Ferris’s father and older brother died of a winter illness that took many lives in Raedelle. Ferris, now Lord Gifford, was forced to come home. He held full title. He was not the strong man he had been. Oh, his arm was as strong, his lance as skilled as ever, but he seemed dispirited. His eyes, deep brown and fluid, always seemed far away and dulled by pain. He was sullen and quiet. But he was a baron with a large, though only modestly rich, keep. There was pressure from the crown to marry or see his family estate dispensed to strangers when he died. Almost in resignation Ferris took Marcella as his wife.
In the beginning Marcella intended to change Ferris back into the young gallant she had fallen in love with. She tried to show him passion, courage, strength, and wisdom. Then, in her first year of marriage, when Marcella was swollen with her first child, her father was killed in the uprising in the north. It was rumored, though never proven, that the deFraynes had attacked the Gifford troop from within the battle. The rumor incensed her, for it fed her jealousy toward Daphne. She had Ferris, but she did not feel with certainty that she had taken him away from Daphne. Marcella swore vengeance on the deFrayne family. Ferris tried to quiet her rage, which caused her even greater anger. Ferris said he thought it was feasible that returning soldiers, embarrassed by their numbers lost in the fray, had to invent some excuse for failure. He was all for ending the hostility – it had caused enough pain and heartache.
She tried for ten years to change his mood of indifference. If he would say he hated all deFraynes, she would have considered it a small victory, but instead he would only admit to hating Lord deFrayne, and she knew well enough what that meant. Ferris eventually took pride in his sons, but he never met Marcella in passion. He never said he loved her. He ignored her great skills in managing his home, her ability to give him children so efficiently. He even chastised her for assuming too many duties, for making decisions that were his to make, for being obstinate and presumptuous.
His faraway eyes never met hers. She had thought that her devotion and her hard work would draw him closer to her, if not to love. But he had not loved her. He never prized her. Marcella’s disappointment gradually turned into bitterness and hate.
Then there was Anne. Marcella had given birth eight times, and only three times had she failed to produce a living child. Anne came last, and the birth was difficult and dangerous. Marcella was abed for months following Anne’s birth, and the child was troublesome to manage – she cried often and loudly. Marcella thought she was dying, but Ferris still did not kneel at her bedside and speak endearing terms of love, of caring. Finally, she told him that she thought it would be dangerous for her to attempt to have another child. She had talked to the midwives and learned some methods known to work toward keeping a woman from coming with child, and she was willing to explain them. But she did not have the chance. When she told her husband that she dare not have another child, he told her that he did not expect it of her. He slept in a different room and did not return to her bed.
Anne’s birth had brought the final, blinding truth. Ferris did not love her and never would. Her pain was so intense that she refused to hold the child even when she was well enough. Her indifference to the new baby only caused Ferris to dote on Anne. Marcella turned her attention toward her sons, determined to build them into important men who would not only appreciate her, but go to great lengths to please her. Divina had some of what energy there was left, but Marcella could hardly bear to look at Anne.
The insult grew and grew, for Ferris cossetted the lass and his old nurse pampered her. It was enough if they kept the bothersome child out of Marcella’s sight, but as Anne grew older she became more difficult to avoid. And as Anne passed the age of twelve, Marcella was alarmed to see that she had some of those same qualities that had aroused her jealousy toward Daphne: she was small, pretty, docile-natured, and Ferris loved her deeply. Marcella had intended to get her into a convent as soon as Ferris would allow, but the maid had haplessly snared a rich earl ... one she didn’t even want ... just like Daphne deFrayne. Sometimes, when she lashed out at Anne and hurt her, it was almost like hurting Daphne, she was hurting the one Ferris loved most.
Learning that Anne had betrayed their cause by an alliance with Daphne’s son had nearly killed Marcella. The pain was as real as it had been when she was a girl and tossed on her pallet, weeping, because Ferris longed for Daphne. But the pain had given way to common sense when the sun rose and her head cleared. Anne would watch the hanging. Marcella would end with the rope any notion of Gifford loving deFrayne.
She told herself that it was her husband’s fault that all of this was taking place, that all she had ever wanted was Ferris’s love. But it was not true. She might have found his loyalty and devotion, if not his passion, in many actions toward herself and their children. It was because she wanted something greater than his love that she suffered. She wanted him to hate Daphne deFrayne. And he would not. Any way she could hurt the woman would satisfy her--by a sharp blade, by a broken heart, through envy, anything.
Marcella signaled a castlemaid. “Tell my daughters to attend me,” she instructed. “Both of them.”
Marcella called for the master of the guard. She quietly asked him if an executioner had been selected and told him to proceed. She walked into the courtyard alone, waiting for her daughters to join her. She faced the gibbet, her heart pounding. Damn them all, they would allow her this much. She could never have what she really wanted to have, but she would have a little deFrayne blood. And then she would deal with Anne. She would have what she wanted, and that clever little lass would help.
* * *
Dylan was dragged from his cell and into the cold February air. His hands were bound behind his back and he was given no woolen shirt or cape. He squinted painfully from the light. Two liveried guards held him by the upper arms, pulling him roughly along, and he stumbled several times.
He had expected to see one hundred or more uniformed men-at-arms lined up to inspect the execution, but there were only about thirty men. He had envisioned a more glorious departure than this, perhaps passing through a tunnel of crossed halberds en route to the platform, but it was a solemn and ill-attended event. Even the Gifford knights were absent – the hanging was to be viewed only by three women dressed in dark clothing. He knew which was Anne, but he did not look at her as the guards dragged him toward the platform.
“Madam, where are the Gifford men? Are they too squeamish to watch their captive die?”
“If he says another word, stuff his mouth,” Marcella instructed.
Dylan noticed the other three surviving captives had been brought out and were standing in front of the platform, their hands likewise bound. But there was only the one rope. He looked at Marcella and laughed at her. “You will have a busy day a-hanging, mistress,” he taunted. “I hope you had a stout morning meal.”
He braved a chance look at the sisters, at Anne. He saw pain and fear in her eyes, but the slightest almost secret smile on her lips. For what reason could she smile? To give him courage? Assurance? He hoped she had not plotted something. But as he wondered about her expressio
n, a guard did his mistress’s bidding and stuffed a dirty linen cloth in his mouth to still his tongue.
He was to be first, it appeared, for they dragged him up the steps and stood him under the rope. The guards feared to release him, and the noose was in the hand of the executioner when the tower horn sounded three blasts. Dylan did not know the code of this castle. He had no idea what the three clarion blasts signified – it could be an attack, returning knights, or even a pilgrimage of monks.
Marcella looked toward the gate. “Ayliffe, my lady,” the guard shouted.
She looked back toward the platform. “Proceed,” she called.
Anne pushed Divina out of the way and touched her mother’s arm. “Madam, it is the earl! Wait!”
Marcella regarded her daughter coolly for a moment, then a slow, evil smile appeared on her lips. Dylan watched from the platform. Marcella looked back toward the executioner. “Proceed,” she called.
The executioner paused. There must be grave indecision here. Dylan had heard from Anne that everyone but Marcella had opposed this hanging, and knowing a castle as well as he did, he knew that any kind of disturbance in the noble family was heavily gossiped about among the men and the residents. No doubt lounging or dining soldiers and knights had overheard this conflict.
The gate began to creak as it was opened.
“Proceed!”
Anne ran toward the gibbet, and Dylan was thankful for the gag that prevented him from crying out to her in warning. He silently prayed, Do not betray yourself, do not.
“The Earl of Ayliffe approaches,” she shouted. “He does not approve this execution.”
The executioner’s arms dropped to his sides and he backed away, but the guards maintained their hold on Dylan’s upper arms. Anne turned her back on Dylan. She could not trust herself to look at him.
A small troop wearing the Ayliffe tabards and carrying the earl’s banner rode slowly into Raedelle, and Anne scanned each face for that of her betrothed, but it was soon clear he was not among them. Their leader was a herald who wore the badges of Ayliffe and York and rode ahead of the group with a scroll. They did not appear to be outfitted for fighting. She could only think that Ferris had reached Brennan and the earl had sent this entourage on his behalf. “Who will receive letters from the earl of Ayliffe?”
There was a stillness as Anne and her mother met eyes. Gifford was Ayliffe’s vassal. Ayliffe could not be ignored. It would be considered treason. Finally Marcella stepped forward. “I am Lady Gifford.”
The herald unrolled his parchment. “This is to inform the keep of Raedelle that all prisoners taken in battle by forces of Edward, Duke of York, are to be released into the custody of the Lord Brennan Forbes, fourth Earl of Ayliffe, for transport to the army of York. These prisoners will be ransomed or executed, as deemed by his lordship, York, in London. Madam, by his orders. Do you comply?”
Marcella stood rooted to her spot, speechless. She wished her men would refuse. She would order them to slay the messenger if she thought there was any chance they would obey her. But no one in all of Raedelle would chance defying the mighty earl. Finally, after many long minutes, she turned in a swirl of black skirts and fled into the hall. The herald raised a hand toward the Raedelle guards, and the prisoners were dragged forward. There was a good deal of shuffling about as the four men were hoisted, still bound, onto the saddles of palfreys. The herald and a few of his men shared a drink when a bucket and ladle was brought and exchanged brief gossip with the Raedelle guards. And then the troop turned to ride slowly out of Raedelle’s gates.
Dylan looked over his shoulder at Anne. His eyes twinkled; he had escaped death, but briefly. Now he would be transferred to Edward’s army, but with luck and time, perhaps he would defy death again.
Divina followed their mother, but not with the same angry strides. Anne knew from whence her sister’s disappointment came, she had failed in her mission to rob Anne of marriage with Ayliffe. Divina’s eyes were red-rimmed, and she hung her head in despondency. She must surely know the truth, Divina did not have favor enough to come between her mother and a plan for plenty.
As the Raedelle gates closed Anne crossed herself. She gave thanks to Brennan and God for Dylan’s life.
* * *
Lady Gifford was strangely subdued in her defeat; while Anne had expected a great deal of ranting and raving. The keep at large seemed as if in mourning as each resident crept quietly around. In late afternoon the horn sounded once more and again announced an Ayliffe troop. Anne had to fight panic. Had something happened? Did the troop return the prisoners to Raedelle?
She pulled on a cloak and went to the courtyard, where almost one hundred men wearing the Ayliffe tunics were dismounting and calling to servants and pages to bring drink and take their horses. They were a somber, serious group and Anne wondered if they had experienced some terrible defeat. In the midst of the group she spied Brennan. A page was helping him to remove his armor and mail. Conflicting emotions hit her like a thunderstorm, and she felt her hands tremble and tears smart in her eyes. She was afraid yet relieved to see Brennan. She knew only one way to conceal her confusion of feeling.
“Brennan!”
He turned toward her and she ran to him. He welcomed her with open arms, both surprised and delighted by her reaction, and she embraced him fiercely. He was overwhelmed by this display, but invigorated and thought, briefly, how there was nothing like a battle to endear a man to a woman.
“There now, little one, you’ll choke me.”
“I was so worried. Is everything all right? You’re not hurt?” She began looking him over, turning him around in a very wifely fashion, her eyes scanning the length of his body with possessive concern gleaming in her eyes. Brennan smiled in spite of the bad news he brought, enjoying her behavior more than he could admit under the circumstances.
He stopped her abruptly by grasping her arms. “I am fit. Another battle is done, but we were not victorious. Still, Edward hurries on to take London now. Anne, cease, we have trouble. Be still.”
She stopped her examination and stared into his eyes, having no idea what to expect.
“Your father fell at Saint Albans. He is dead, Anne.”
First surprise, then a fierce denial, and then finally a cry of pain came. She collapsed against Brennan’s chest. How could it be so? How? Why?
“Anne, be quiet now. You will have to be strong. We must go to Lady Gifford. I know your father is beloved to you, but your mother has lost her husband. Now, can you come with me?”
She separated herself from him a little, looking into his eyes. “My father loved me,” she whispered.
“I know, my sweet,” he said, smiling. “But his lady needs to be informed without delay. Come.”
He put an arm around her shoulders and she struggled to control her weeping as they walked into the hall. Marcella, slow to respond to yet another announcement for Ayliffe, was just descending from her chamber. When he faced her, he bowed. “Madam, I bring grievous news. Lord Gifford was killed at Saint Albans three days ago. I have brought him home.”
Marcella stiffened as if slapped. Her eyes glazed, then teared. “He died a noble death?” she asked weakly.
“He fought valiantly. There were many to fight, but they were surprised at night. Warwick lost King Henry to his consort, Margaret of Anjou, and her Northmen.”
She nodded slightly.
“I believe he did not suffer, my lady. I think it was swift, though I did not see it happen.”
Her glazed eyes and stern expression were focused on Brennan. She said nothing.
“Madam,” Anne attempted. “Would you have me fetch the priest?”
Still Marcella stared at Brennan. “You might have sent your herald with news of my lord’s death before you sent them to free our captives.”
“Madam?” he questioned.
“Your herald arrived this morning with your letters demanding the release of the deFrayne prisoners.”
Brennan shook his he
ad. “I sent no herald, madam. I came here myself as quickly as possible.”
Marcella’s eyes widened, and she looked at Lord Forbes with horror. Anne could almost see the storm building in her mother. “Tricked,” Marcella screamed. “My God, they tricked us! We’ll send out riders! Damn them! Damn them all!” And then she turned and fled up the stairs, lifting her skirts for speed, yelling all the way.
Brennan grabbed Anne by the arms and turned her toward him. “What is this? What herald?”
“It has been horrible, Brennan,” she said, still somewhat confused herself. “Madam has been so determined to slay deFraynes that she has fought every member of this household in that concern. First, Father, and then even my brothers rode away from here to protest what she would do. All said that Edward would be angered by the event and that you told them not to bring prisoners here. A herald and troop wearing your colors did arrive, Brennan,” she said, nodding to him. “They wore tabards of your house and carried your banner.”
“I did not send them,” he said. “Nor could I have spared any man for such an errand. When did your brothers depart?”
“Trenton over ten days ago and the others just this morning. Brennan, what has happened?”
He was quiet for a moment, shaking his head. “Lady Gifford is correct – she was tricked. Her prisoners have escaped, but I did not help them. Your father is dead and there was no son with him to guard his back or carry him home. Yet, the worst insult your mother feels is her lost vengeance.” He looked into Anne’s eyes. “I must attend Edward to London. If he has not finally won, he will soon. He will be king. I have waited for you for almost a year, Anne, and I cannot leave you here again. More than my greed for you, I distrust Lady Gifford with your welfare. If my next battle is my last, at least let me protect you with the order of widowhood. Will you marry me now? Quietly and quickly?”