by Robyn Carr
“I imagine that’s a young Forbes a-breeding, my lady. But, I’ll not breathe a word of it before you allow,” Jane promised after seeing Anne in her naked state.
Anne laughed good-naturedly. “Those who have not yet noticed will quite soon. The child will be my Christmas present. And Lord Forbes has already boasted of the fact to many of his friends at court.”
“Aye, he would be proud. His lordship is proud, above all things. A good man, he is. There’ll be babies here now, sweet babies for us to spoil.”
“Do you long for babies, Jane?”
Jane laughed. “To have babies of my own I would have to marry and leave you. I have tended you for less than a day, are you tired of me so soon?”
Jane pushed Anne toward the dressing table and began to unwrap her hair to brush it. “Nay, mum, a lady’s maid wants the lady’s babies to come. Aye, there will be many children here now, for it is clear the earl loves you.” She giggled happily.
“How old are you, Jane?”
“A score next month, mum. And missing no teeth, mum.”
“My sister’s age,” Anne said almost sadly. In one day she enjoyed a warmer friendship with a chambermaid than she had in all the years she shared a bower with Divina.
“Ah, and you miss your sister, eh, mum. Don’t you worry, there will be visits.”
“My sister and I do not ...” She paused, looking in the gilded mirror. Jane pulled the ivory-handled brush through her hair, not meeting her eyes. “We are not very close,” Anne mumbled.
“And how can that be? No fault of yours, certes. I knew at your first word you’re a sweet young thing.”
Anne was not listening. She absently heard Jane chatter about two married sisters, deceased parents, friends she had had since birth at Ayliffe. Anne was looking at her own reflection. All those years that she had thought Divina favored, had felt forgotten, Divina had been jealous of her. That jealousy had prompted Divina to betray her, when she could have formed a pact with her, protected her, and Anne would have reacted in kind, helping and protecting Divina. That door was closed to them now, for now Marcella had the upper hand. Divina must surely be suffering.
“Aye, if your sister loves you little, I’m not believing it’s any fault of yours. Why you’re generous and kind, mum. Lord Forbes wouldn’t have no other kind, not him.”
“It was harder for my sister,” Anne said with a note of melancholy. “She expected so much, and was so disappointed. I expected nothing.”
“Now isn’t that just the way. You take what life gives you, I always say. And when it gives you the good, you give thanks, and when it gives you the ...”
Although she was exhausted, both from her journey and Jane’s chatter, Anne was determined to stay awake for Brennan’s return, even if it meant staying up all night. She reclined on a stuffed daybed, thick down pillows surrounding her, and the comfort of a summer hearth lulled her into sleepiness. She wondered from time to time if Ayliffe was only a dream. Would she soon awake and find herself in a gray, cold castle, the more typical home of the English noble?
A sharp and impatient tapping at the door caused her to bolt upright and then, belatedly, she called out to the visitor to enter. A young boy stood in the doorframe. He wore man’s clothing and he was quite large for an eleven-year-old, assuming this was Brainard. His hair was a russet blond, his eyes a blue-gray, and his build was stocky, almost chubby. There was very little resemblance to Brennan, but it could be no one else than Brainard.
It occurred to her for the first time that he had not come any sooner, and she stood in his presence, somewhat self-consciously. Her lightweight silk chamber gown was not the attire she would have chosen to greet Brainard, but, truth to tell, she had forgotten about him. She felt a blush form on her cheeks.
“You would be Brainard,” she said nervously, painfully aware that she was only five years his senior.
“Of course. And you are my father’s wife.” He slowly appraised her from her brow to her toes and, if she was not mistaken, his expression was a sinister leer. “He wasted no time in mounting you.”
“Brainard,” she said, her voice trembling and stuttering a bit, “your ... Lord Forbes is not here.”
“Of course not. I saw him with the seneschal. I know where he is, even if you do not.”
“I’m ... I’m glad you’ve greeted him. He has missed you a great deal.”
Brainard let go with a shrill, almost feminine laugh that did not match his stout body at all. “Really? I find that hard to believe. I doubt my father mentioned me much at all.”
Brainard spoke more accurately than Anne. Brennan had not mentioned his son often and had never seemed concerned as to his welfare. For the first time she wondered about her husband’s attachment, or the lack of it, for his son. But Anne attempted a polite lie, for, if possible, she would like to be on good terms with him. “Not at all, Brainard. He spoke of you often and lamented his time away.”
“My mother has been dead not yet three years,” he said with almost cruel indifference. “I am the heir to Ayliffe and you are not my mother.”
Anne stiffened, shocked. This boy was nothing like his father. Was this jealousy and fear that would give way to acceptance once they were better acquainted? Yet the look in Brainard’s eye told her that this was who he was, and it had little to do with the difficult adjustments of growing up.
“No one understands that better than I, Brainard.”
“I’ll count on that,” he said, whirling about and leaving her room, slamming the door as he went. No special words of welcome, no greeting, no bowing and scraping. He meant to tell the countess the rules, and Anne had heard him clearly. She was distressed for a long while after his departure.
By the time Brennan returned to her, Brainard had been gone for two hours and she had dozed off. She roused from light sleep to Brennan’s warm embrace and in the comforting circle of his arms reckoned that Brainard was only a spoiled little boy, the single flaw in an otherwise perfect setting. Yet the evil glitter in the boy’s eyes haunted her in her dreams and she woke trembling in the night.
I am the lady here, she told herself. I need not fear a child. The others welcomed me warmly, happily. Perhaps Brainard will come around if I am kind and show him I respect his birthright. But sleep did not come easily. In her dreams she saw a tapestry scene of a glorious castle. The flaw started as a sliver and became a wide, gaping tear in near perfection. And the babe within her kicked violently, as if protesting their new abode.
***
Through the rest of the summer Anne spent very little time with Brennan’s son, but it was evident that he was more than a little spoiled, he was demanding and inconsiderate. Castle servants could not easily please him and he indulged in childish tantrums that challenged the patience of the entire household, but Brennan did not take him to task. He seemed to ignore the problems his son presented. Anne knew that her skills as a mother would be tested, for she would not raise a child with behavior like Brainard’s. And she saw that Brennan might be little help. Good in so many things, he seemed indifferent to fatherhood.
The air cooled and the harvest was being brought in. Anne’s burden grew while she luxuriated in her rich home, getting to know the good people who faithfully served the earl. And then the Gifford banner appeared without the Ayliffe gates and Lady Gifford was admitted with twenty men-at-arms, six servants, and a baggage cart that held the furnishings of a bedchamber and a winter wardrobe. Anne knew then that Brainard would be the least of her problems.
Anne met her mother in the courtyard in the midst of many Ayliffe guards in addition to her mother’s escort. “You’re rounding out quite well, daughter,” Marcella said, kissing Anne’s cheek perfunctorily. She examined Anne’s swollen form. “Your brother brought the news when he returned to Raedelle. Bart and Trenton have scurried off to do the earl’s bidding. When is the child due to be born? Christmastide, Quentin says. No sooner?”
Anne lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. Sh
e should have known that her mother would challenge her instantly. She felt overpowered by Marcella, a feeling made worse by the fact that she had to look up to meet her eyes.
“The earl must be very proud to get a child on you so soon.”
“Indeed, madam, he is very proud. You should have informed us you were coming.”
“Did I not? Oh, I write so many letters I was sure I told everyone in England and France and encouraged them to visit me here. The earl invited me. I assumed ...”
“Where is Divina, Mother?”
“Oh dear, I have been remiss. I must make tallies in the future. I was sure I had written you. She is with the sisters of Bury Saint Edmunds, dear. She is very happy with them.”
Anne’s face bleached of color. Her mouth opened in shock and she nearly swayed. “She did not want to go to the convent, Mother,” Anne said in a stunned whisper.
“Oh, but she changed her mind, dear Anne.” Anne gave a quiet and miserable moan as her mother looked around the courtyard, lifting a thin brow as she contemplated Ayliffe’s richness.
“Is there any way I can assist, my lady?”
Anne found Sir Clifton standing beside them and she smiled in relief. This knight had developed a habit of being nearby when there was any need. Just when Marcella was most overpowering, there stood Clifton, his presence a show of strength. She gave thanks yet again that she had Brennan and his people. It was a great deal easier to face Marcella here, at Ayliffe, where she was a countess with so many strong helpers at her disposal. And Clifton had made it clear he would serve her most bothersome request and be grateful for the chance. She did not wonder where Brainard was as she took comfort in the show of allegiance. “Thank you, Sir Clifton,” she said, smiling. “If you will direct my lady mother’s escort to the cookery for refreshment, I will take her into the hall myself.”
He nodded and bowed, backing away from her.
“Ah,” Marcella sighed as she walked alongside Anne toward the hall, “it is good to be here – Raedelle had become so dark and lonely. It is doubtful the place will become cheery under Quentin’s dominion, unless we can find him a rich wife. And, we must speak to the earl about Bart. It has been months since Edward was crowned and with all the attainted lands left by Henry, surely we can fix him something now. I know you’ll speak for him, Anne.”
An uneasy feeling prickled up Anne’s spine. She knew she must carefully balance her mother’s power with her desire for more. Their tenuous pact, Marcella’s silence against Anne’s vulnerability, would be a challenging existence at best. I must be stronger, Anne thought. Strong and clever enough to show her that I will not be shuffled out of sight as Divina was.
“You will speak for Bart, daughter?”
Anne impulsively turned back toward the courtyard where Sir Clifton directed Marcella’s escort by pointing toward the stables, the cookery, and other comforts they might indulge themselves in. Sir Clifton did her bidding quickly and efficiently, and the sight gave Anne a bolstered sense of might. She knew she had but to whisper a request to have services performed all over Ayliffe. “I will speak to the earl in good time, Mother,” she said more easily.
***
The visiting troop of escorts dispersed to stable their horses and find food, but Sir Clifton stood staring at the hall where Anne had disappeared behind the door. Her smile still tickled his memory with desire, and there were times when he could not think clearly for hours after she passed him in the town.
“He won’t be good for currying horses for an hour, now he’s got her ladyship’s scent,” an Ayliffe knight said in jest.
Clifton’s head jerked in the offender’s direction and his dark eyes blazed with fury. “What did you say?”
A companion chuckled easily and slapped a hand on the shoulder of the first knight. “He meant no harm, Sir Cliff. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that you’re less often with young Brainard, but lingering about the doors, hoping the little countess will be passing by.” Both men laughed. “You’re not alone in your appreciation. I bet she’s a lively piece for the old lord. Aye, for a young –”
Clifton’s arms had tensed through the teasing and before the man finished he let out an enraged growl and flung himself on the two of them. Fists were flying as the trio landed in the dirt, the two teasing knights unable to escape Clifton’s attack. Someone shouted when they were spied, and within moments a large circle of men gathered. But the match went quickly out of control as one of the knights escaped Clifton’s hold and tried, futilely, to pull Clifton off the remaining knight. Sir Cliff sat on the young knight’s chest and hammered his face mercilessly. A second, a third, and finally a fourth knight was required to pull Clifton from his prey. But for a trickle of blood at the corner of his lip, Clifton was unmarked.
Clifton’s rage was slow to abate. He stood, breathing heavily and holding back the tides of his temper, while his victim was dragged to his feet, his face battered and bleeding.
“Christ, man, what brought that on?” someone asked.
“With Sir Cliff, he could have stubbed his toe on a pebble.”
“Sir Cliff? I thought him the favorite? A temper like that guards his lordship’s son?”
“He’s different with his own kind, lad. Mind you don’t make him angry.”
Clifton might have answered that remark with another onslaught of punches, but the crowd had grown and he would be badly disadvantaged. He whirled away from the group, stomping off toward his quarters. She brought him near madness with her young beauty, her sweet disposition, her soft, caressing voice. Even though he had become well known for his volatile temper long ago, he blamed Lady Anne for his sudden and dangerous outburst.
Part II
May 20, 1465
Chapter Nine
The ship on which Dylan had sailed from Calais to England had belonged to his wife’s father, but since his recent death it was now Dylan’s. He anchored off Plymouth, but did not go ashore. It was too soon. He wanted to remember the moment his foot was again planted on English soil, and he wanted to touch ground on land he owned.
It was not to be Heathwick, but this would do nicely. If he was ever welcomed at court, he would thank King Edward most kindly for marrying Elizabeth Woodville. She would be crowned in a few days, although Dylan would not dare go to London to witness the event. He was still officially in exile until things could be arranged. That he had actually returned to England was the strictest secret. And this estate that he would henceforth own and temporarily call home had been a part of his wife’s dowry. His wife, Raynia, God keep her, was the niece of Lord Rivers, Queen Elizabeth’s cousin.
Dylan had lived in precarious flight, often in poverty, for most of the last four years. He used his warring skills as a mercenary in six brief battles on the continent, never for loyalty, never for the same duke or king twice. He had managed, along with Cameron, to better his lodgings each year they remained abroad and even visited a few noble households, among them King Philip’s in France. He made the acquaintance of Anthony Woodville, also in exile and, through him, met Raynia. They had been married now six months.
Dylan traveled with a few men and servants, but no one spoke as they transferred from the ship to a small craft. To reach his property it was necessary to travel through an inlet that went deep into the land, surrounded by woody hills, rocky cliffs. He pulled the scrolled map from inside his short mantle and studied it as the lesser men rowed. “There,” with a pointing finger, was his only utterance. The modest castle, no more than a manor house really, was exactly as it had been described. It sat beneath a viny veil at the top of a steep bank and he could see that the brush and trees were kept cut back along a winding path from the beach to the house. A ship could not get in here, which kept it safe from sea attack. Access by land was said to be even more difficult, as there were many bogs and marshes, known by the residents, unknown to strangers.
He hesitated, but finally stepped into the shallow water, wetting his boots and hose, and walked a few steps to t
he beach. He sighed appreciatively, hands on hips, looking around.
England.
Anne.
The two thoughts had come simultaneously for four years. England and Anne, his two loves ... and the two he could not have.
The six knights, former mercenaries who would serve him as men-at-arms when he was restored, and the four male servants began to carry parcels and trunks up the winding path toward the house. They remained quiet. On the voyage and before Dylan had told them so much about his home and his longing to have his country again, they held their tongues reverently while he acclimated himself. But he was oblivious to their efficiency, as to their courtesy. Tears burned his eyes.
Anne. Oh my beloved. Wed now, they say, and a mother. Would that you could have been the mother of my child ... but an Ayliffe heir is impressive. I did not do so well by marriage, but Raynia is a decent young woman, if cool. And Anne, she did get me home. What will you say when you see me? That I am changed? I have fought more senseless wars – I took booty for pay. I robbed a baron of some mighty pretty stuff. Toughened. Perhaps I am only toughened. Perhaps my loneliness has not made me bitter or angry. Does it show, my Anne?
And you, my love? Ah ... you could only be more beautiful, of course. And bedecked in glorious lengths of silk and sarcenet and jewels, not stolen by a mercenary soldier, but honorably earned by a noble close to the king--as it should be. You were born to be draped in the finest cloth, covered with glittering gems. And motherhood suits you well – I always knew it would. Your cheeks surely glow, your eyes, deep and brown and soft, show the warmth and tenderness earned by women when they nurse their young and rear them with that watchful, careful mother love.
I hope your marriage is good. I hope the earl is decent and kind and gives you much. Mine? Of course, my wife is a good woman. We are resettled, we two, long and far from our youth. Long and far from the gardener’s tent at the fair. Far, far, from the cask room at Raedelle.