by Robyn Carr
Am I so changed? My eyes only show the long distance I have traveled, that is all. I am not as old as I look, only seven and twenty. I have no sons, but I am only recently wed and my wife is ... young. She is young. No, my Anne, not changed. I am not changed. Nothing has changed, though I willed it. I prayed for release.
I cannot see you, it is impossible for me. These passions have been barely controlled, though a sea has separated us. One look at your lovely face will bring all my secrets to my lips, to my eyes, and you will know that in my heart I am still the boy-knight who would have died for your love. Now and then, over the years, in a common place like a hall or shop or street corner, a scent would come suddenly and my mind would be filled with memories of you. Or a woman would pass and her back, or hair, or manner of step, would remind me of you and I would panic and run to see her face. There was always that hope, always that despair.
What will you tell me? Will you spill your heart’s blood and admit it was the same for you? And will we then begin our sins anew, though now there are even more people we might destroy? Or, my only love, will you say you are content with the earl, and love me no more?
“My lord?”
Dylan slowly returned to the present. He swallowed back the threat of tears and turned to his friend, Markham.
“We’ll take the skiff around for more of the baggage, if that’s all right.”
“Aye, Mark, my lad. Good work, and thank you.”
“Glad to be home, my lord?”
“Aye. Praise Lady Raynia for providing a house. Is it a good house, Mark?”
“Stout and well kept. There’s a caretaker who lives here with his family. There’s a fine stock of wine, the woman will set the bread to rise, and I’m told the hunting is close and fat. We’ll set an arrow or two and have a hot meal.”
Dylan smiled. There were times abroad when he would have given much for a roof and a hot meal. He reminded himself to count mercies, not heartaches.
“Then let’s settle in, Mark. I could kill a goodly flagon of malmsey. Perhaps we’ll be forgiven and invited to Edward’s court soon--once again duty bound and too harried to enjoy a good hunt and the quiet of a country house. Let’s enjoy it.”
***
Many hours of kneeling were followed by many hours of dining and celebrating. The coronation of Elizabeth made this Whitsunday a day of days. The streets were filled with both singing voices and rude jests. Jealous tongues wagged of her common birth, which was far from the truth, for her mother was the Duchess of Bedford. But, she was not a foreign princess, for which she would likely pay a high price with her subjects.
The Westminster galleries were filled with knights and nobles and King Edward had created fifty Knights of the Bath in her honor. Familiar and unfamiliar faces pressed into the halls and chambers and grounds for appointments, hopeful for conferences, even mere glimpses. Anne, Countess of Ayliffe, sat near the queen, exhausted. And anxious. The coronation would mark the end of a long winter in London. She craved Ayliffe Castle, and Brennan had promised her.
Lord Forbes, being one of Edward’s favorites, had presented his wife to the future queen months ago, and if an appointment to wait upon Elizabeth hadn’t come through Brennan, it would have come quickly in any case. Anne was taken with Elizabeth – she found her beautiful, quick, wise, and understanding. And Elizabeth was in like attracted to Lady Forbes, though she had never said the reasons. But the very first time their eyes met, there was a strong rapport between the two – a sympathetic, unspoken pull. Perhaps, Anne thought, the joy, pain, sorrow, and love shines in the eyes of all women who do more than just birth their young. Queen Elizabeth had two sons by her first marriage.
Anne had heard that Elizabeth Woodville, before Edward, had deeply loved her first husband, John Grey, who was killed at Saint Albans. Perhaps there was also a sliver of light, intuitive perception that cut through the eyes of women who had loved and lost. Saint Albans had changed many lives. It was after that battle that Dylan had been driven away.
Anne stood behind Lady Scales, Anthony Woodville’s wife, and a bit to the left. Still, it was a position of honor and more than Anne would have asked. She glanced across the large hall to eye Lady Gifford. While she was relieved to be included in the coronation festivities, Marcella would have liked to share Anne’s close proximity to Elizabeth. Marcella still shook her head in confusion at the prospect of Anne’s good fortune. She had never thought of Anne as deserving, only fortunate.
She felt an arm encircle her waist. “Lady Forbes is spent,” Brennan whispered.
“Aye,” she sighed. She laughed lightly and let her head rest against his side. “Not much longer, I pray.”
“No more than two hours, lest they start to drink the river. The queen will excuse herself shortly. The masses are getting drunk.”
“The king himself is none the better for drink,” she whispered, noting Edward reclining a bit more in his chair than a sober man would. “I marvel at her, Brennan. She has not flinched or trembled under the weight of that diadem, those robes. Some women, perhaps, are born to be queens.”
“This queen was found in the forest under a great oak,” he chuckled. “Excuse me to Lord Grange, my love. I will return for you as soon as I can.”
Anne stood in proper attendance for another hour while man after man approached the queen, knelt to pay homage, and in some instances kissed her hand. Finally, Elizabeth stood from her dais and Anne snapped to attention with a gladness she could feel to her toes. She would attend Elizabeth to her bedchamber and then she would be excused. Each of the women approached their queen to curtsey low. In Anne’s turn, Elizabeth held out her hand. “My lady, you need not, if you are tired.”
Anne kissed Elizabeth’s long, slender fingers. “I am at your call, my liege,” she whispered.
To her amazement, she heard the queen stifle a laugh. “I saw, madam,” she whispered. “Lord Forbes was nearly holding you upright.” She smiled. “Attend your husband, my lady.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“To Ayliffe then?”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
“I will miss you, Anne.”
“It will not be long, Your Majesty. God keep you.”
She bowed away from Elizabeth and watched as many as a dozen high-flown noblewomen parade behind her. The evening would finally end. When Elizabeth was out of sight, Anne turned around. She did not see Brennan or any member of her family, but her eyes settled on a woman leaning tiredly against the wall. There was something oddly familiar about her, but Anne could not remember where they might have met. The woman’s clothing was old though finely sewn, well kept, and clean, and she was about fifty years of age. Her auburn hair was grayed around the edges, but she had a slim, firm figure. On instinct and nothing more, Anne approached her. And the woman’s eyes came alive.
“Madam,” she said by way of greeting, “I am Anne of Ayliffe, Lady Forbes. I feel we were acquainted. ...”
“Not actually, my lady,” she said, smiling warmly and bowing graciously. “Although we have seen each other from across a wide expanse of lawn or field.” Anne’s brow wrinkled. “Daphne deFrayne, my lady, late of Heathwick.”
Anne felt her cheeks grow hot. “Of course,” she said in a breath. “Of course it is you.” She wished to embrace her, but she knew the act of a Gifford woman treating a deFrayne woman thus would raise too many questions. And how did Daphne manage to smile? Did she not consider Anne the enemy? Marcella, despite everything, still harbored intense hatred for the entire family, although the deFraynes had lost everything and were reduced to impoverished flight. As thought of her mother crossed her mind, she glanced over her shoulder, but Marcella was not in evidence. “Madam, how do you come here?”
“By the gracious forgiveness of His Majesty. Anne,” she said softly, smiling tenderly as if they were old friends, “are you well? Happy?”
Dylan had said his mother was sympathetic, but how much so was impossible to tell. “Aye, madam. I am
well kept. And in good humor. How does your family?”
“We are all well, my dear Anne. I am in desperate hopes that I can gain an audience with Her Majesty on the account of my sons. I want to bring them home.”
“They are fit?”
“It has been a difficult separation for us all, but yea, they do write me that they are well, growing stronger. Hard times do that for men, I think. For all of us. Dylan is anxious. Cameron is impatient. They have both married. It is through their marriages that I hope to bring them home. Dylan’s wife is a cousin to Her Majesty and Cameron’s Bess comes from good Yorkist stock.”
Anne suddenly dropped her gaze so that Daphne would not see her eyes. So, he had taken a wife. But of course he should. And a wise choice: a woman who could help effect his return. She found she was twisting her hands, looking at the long, thin white line on the back of her hand. Is she very beautiful? Anne wanted to ask. And does she adore him? Is there passion in their nights? Love in their hearts? Will there be children, sons?
“My lady, you tremble,” Daphne said, pulling Anne’s moist hand into both of hers. Anne could not still her shaking hand as Daphne looked at the hand with the scar. Daphne seemed to caress the hand, squeezing it gently. “An odd coincidence,” she said in a near whisper. “Dylan has such a scar.”
Anne slowly let her eyes rise to meet Daphne’s, eyes the same glittering turquoise as Dylan’s. They were rich with knowledge and compassion.
“My father said you were a woman to be admired,” she said.
“Your father was a generous and gracious man. It is a terrible loss to us all, God rest his soul.”
“Do you stay in London?”
“Aye, my lady. Until I can manage some residence.”
“Let me ...” She remembered Ayliffe. She longed for the luxury of Ayliffe. Another day? Two? “Madam, I will see the queen on your behalf, but I beg you, say aught. My family ...”
“It is good of you, Anne.”
“Do not tell Dylan, I pray you.”
Daphne’s eyes held the understanding glitter of lost love, recognition. “If that is your desire.”
“ ‘Tis best. I shall leave shortly for the country. Patience, madam.” Daphne still held Anne’s hand, and Anne wanted to embrace her, kiss her, cry with her. “Please allow time. It may take time, madam.”
“Anne, my dear, I do understand. You must run along and not be caught with me. But if you should wish to see me, at any time at all, I am presently in a comfortable house near the queen’s residence, at Ormond’s Inn--easily found. And there I shall remain until my sons can afford me a retirement. I do not plan to go into seclusion so soon.”
Anne laughed lightly and squeezed the hands that held hers.
“It is good that you have made a prosperous life for yourself, Anne. You deserve happiness. You must be strong and happy, and raise many children.”
She looked away uncomfortably. How much had Dylan told his mother? She felt tears threaten. She was so tired and had never imagined this meeting. Does he still love me? She wanted to ask. Does he dream that we are together, as I do? I have his son and I would cry it to the world. Each time I look at that, handsome little face, those haunting eyes, I think of my beloved Dylan. I have worried about his safety every day ... I cannot drive him from my mind. I love him still. I cannot help what I feel. I love. I love.
“Madam, I ...”
“I miss him too, Anne. Go, darling,” Daphne whispered. “Hurry now, before you make too much of this chance meeting. Be well. God speed.”
Daphne released Anne’s hand and gave her a gentle nudge, turning her about and facing her into the wide chamber, still filled with people. She saw Brennan not very far away and took two steps toward him. Then on impulse she turned back toward Daphne, but she was gone.
When she was again at Brennan’s side she realized that Daphne had stopped her just as emotion was getting the better of her. Seeing Dylan’s mother brought the memories, the loss, and the enduring love brimming up, almost to her lips. In another moment she would have burst into tears, perhaps clinging to Dylan’s mother, weeping for joy and heartache all at once. She took a deep breath. Daphne is wise. It is better this way, she thought. We can never regain what we’ve lost. We must carry on. We must be strong. I must be stronger than I feel.
“Finally, my love.” Brennan dropped a husbandly kiss on her brow. Happy marriages were rare. “Are you eager for your beloved Ayliffe?”
“Aye, Brennan, but it appears Elizabeth will detain me for another day, at least.”
“That suits me, since I must remain for at least another fortnight. I do not rest well without you at my side.”
“Then you must hurry to Ayliffe, my lord, where I plan to take my slumber through the summer.” She smiled up at him. “You are so good to me, Brennan. Please, let’s return to our lodgings now. I have never, ever felt so drained.”
***
Brennan rode toward Ayliffe with the hot July sun pounding at his back. He was displeased with the time he had been forced to spend away from home, but there was trouble brewing. It was buried under still waters, unmentioned except in the shadowed corners of private chambers, but Brennan knew how dangerous the problem could be.
The Earl of Warwick was displeased with the king. Warwick had made it possible for Edward to become king and had intended to rule England through him. Edward not only defied him with his marriage to Elizabeth, but he was now surrounded by the enormous Woodville clan, which drove Warwick even farther away from that coveted dais. Warwick was the richest man in England. To whom did one pledge--the king, who owned the crown, or the powerful earl, who owned everything else? The answer was simple for Brennan, but not so simple for others whose fortunes might rest on choosing the most profitable side.
All Brennan had wanted was to be with his wife. He chafed impatiently at the meetings, and when other men were appreciative of the excuse to be away from their wives and were more happily occupied with their mistresses, Brennan only wanted to hold Anne in his arms.
He ached with the thought. Over fifty years old and as smitten as a lad, he thought. Once the notion that Anne could make him feel so young brought him pleasure and amusement, but now it only aggravated him. He remembered the passion he felt the first time he touched her silken flesh--he thought he would burst into a ball of flame from the sheer power of his lust. And it had energized him to feel so. These feelings had never quieted or calmed. He was still filled with a savage, rutting madness that he had to struggle to subdue so as not to ravage his own wife.
Any man would feel so with Anne, he reminded himself. Her fresh, clean beauty was stimulating in itself, but in addition she was smart, kind, and sweet. Early in their marriage he had been concerned that she was too sweet, too vulnerable, but in the past four years she had proved him wrong on that account. She could be quite firm as she managed the household affairs at Ayliffe, and he had never seen anyone, man or woman, who could spot a lie more easily. The people had come to love her, if not worship her. She was a woman among women: good, industrious, efficient, intelligent, beautiful. He had had two decent wives before her, but there was no denying the fact that Anne was the most perfect.
She did not, however, share his hunger. He almost flushed with shame as he thought it. He had no right to complain. She did not shrink from his touch. She did not avoid him, dissuade him, refuse him. She did not even relish time away from him; she seemed to prefer their life together and complained when they had to be separated. She saw to his every need, waited up long past exhaustion for his return to her, and rose early to be with him in the morning. But when he touched her, feeling the explosive passion surging inside him, she returned his touch only with warmth. His wife was not the hot vixen of his dreams, as he wished her to be. She was more his friend and ally.
Brennan’s second wife had not been as domestic as Anne had proven to be. She was not pretty or even bright. She forgot things, could not manage well, and had a hard time with even the outstanding
castle servants at Ayliffe. He had not even loved her so much when he wed her; he had still missed his first wife, though it had been many years. But in their common bed she had reached heights of ecstasy that had surprised Brennan. It was with his second wife that Brennan learned how much women could enjoy the act of love. In Anne he wished to have a combination of those two wives--the deep love he felt for his first wife and the ecstasy he could feel from his second. He wished for Anne to have that pleasure, that desire, and he tried to bring it to her. But while she allowed his every whim, she never once lost control. She did not yearn for him.
He passed through the Ayliffe gates, wondering where he would find her. In the pleasaunce? The cookery? Their chamber? He waved to the people he passed, his people, welcoming him home.
I do not wish to have her fondness, he thought in an unusually churlish mood. Nor her compliance, and I do not wish to be her dear, her love. I want her to rake her nails across my back in wild, desperate need. I want her to beg me now, now, now! I want to hear her soft purrs of yearning turn into screams of carnal pleasure. How does she not feel this, if she feels love?
He shed spurs, harness, and his tunic in the hall. He took a long pull on a tankard of cool ale, and a fresh tunic was brought to him. His wife, they said, was in the pleasaunce. Should she be called to him? Yea, he nearly replied. Call her to my feet after you have disrobed her, unbound her hair, and rubbed her body in fragrant oils.
But, instead, he went to the gardens. He saw her sitting on a bench with a tapestry frame before her. She was clothed in a yellow kirtle that set off the pitch of her hair caught under a simple net. Her fingers worked the design and as if she sensed his presence, she turned her eyes toward him. She smiled, her tender gaze resting on his face, stood and pushed the stand away from her.
“Brennan,” she said, walking toward him. “Oh, how I’ve missed you. I thought you would never come.”