The Everlasting Covenant

by Robyn Carr

  Brainard quieted, looking past Anne. Behind her, Brennan and Marcella both stood. Brennan must have run all the way from his closet to have reached them so quickly. It was quite obvious that he had either heard or been instantly summoned, for he stood in a short gown, opened at the throat and with sleeves rolled up, as though he had been hard at work when the disturbance began. He glared at Brainard and then stooped to look at Sloan.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Sloan said, nearly weeping. “I didn’t mean to make Brainard mad again ... I only wanted to ...”

  Brennan stood, his eyes locked into Brainard’s. He was not a large man, but in the rage that pinkened his cheeks and caused his eyes to blaze, he seemed enormous. Clifton released Brainard’s arms and retreated, and Anne turned back to her son. The rest of this was between Brennan and his firstborn.

  “I apologize for the misunderstanding, my lord, I--”

  “Misunderstanding?” Brennan thundered. “How do you address my wife? Do you lay a hand to my son?”

  Brainard rubbed his cheek, a disrespectful grunt escaping him. “I am likewise your son, my lord, unless you’ve forgotten. Do you naturally assume I am at fault here?”

  “You are a man. You struck a child. And if my eyes do not deceive me, you would have struck my wife.”

  “It was natural. It--” He laughed in disbelief as he looked at his angry father. “I am your heir, but you place them high above me.”

  “God keep me safe and well, for you are not nearly ready to inherit my estates. When have you proven yourself capable of managing any part of this? Do you know how to pay the men? Do you know what sum is rendered for the household? Do you know the number of villeins, stock, the expected yield from the fields? Do you know which neighboring barons have pledged fealty to this county, or the sheriff’s tally for taxes, or the tithe? Nay,” he stormed. “You decry the countess’s good name and strike my second-born son in a temper! Should I entrust their care to you?”

  Brennan’s fists were clenched at his sides, his face was turning purple with anger. He had ignored Brainard for too long. The boy was not developing any of the skills he would need to inherit this earldom, instead, he was playing with costly battle gear that had never seen battle or even a good tournament. He was swilling wine, wenching, and bracing arms with knights in late-night revelry, acting more like a base-born knave than a carefully reared young nobleman.

  A thought came to mind and Brennan’s temper cooled. “There is a property of mine in Wales, not too distant from Ludlow Castle. Ramsford Keep was your mother’s, and she loved it. It is held on my behalf by Sir Baelfour. You will go there and prove yourself as an overlord.”

  “Ramsford? Father, that is a hovel, a wasted ...”

  “It is a stronghold for King Edward among the Welsh tribes. It serves its purpose and houses six hundred people, though it is not one-tenth of this. And mark me, before you take Ayliffe, you had better show that you can manage something.”

  “My lord, I was to go to Eltham Castle with you, to wait upon the king ...”

  “That was before you disgraced yourself. I have thought better of it since. You are spoiled, Brainard, and if the fault is mine, I will rectify it.”

  “My lord, I beseech your--”

  “There is no discussion,” he boomed. “Gather your precious metals from your privy stable, find a suitable palfrey, and drag your destrier. You will not need a caparisoned horse or gold-plated sword there, you will need a sharp mind and a strong arm. The Welshmen will teach you the value of property and nobility. If you fail to learn among them, you will surely not live to get your booty here.”

  Brennan turned from his elder son to look at his younger. Anne was struggling to lift the stocky four-year-old, despite his protests and her early pregnancy.

  “Sir Clifton, carry my son to his nurse for the lady.”

  He began to walk away from the disruptive scene, assuming his orders would be followed as usual.

  “Once you’ve put the babe to bed, hie yourself back here, Sir Cliff. We winter in Wales.”

  Brennan stopped in his tracks, finding it hard to believe that Brainard would continue to push the point with insolence. He slowly turned back to him. “I will provide an escort,” Brennan said with dangerous calm, “but Sir Clifton has suffered long enough under your brutish dominion. He deserves respite, as do the rest of us. He will stay in Ayliffe.”

  Brennan stormed off in the direction of the hall, leaving the rest of them behind. Anne knew it would be a long while before his seldom roused anger would cool. She stood patiently aside while Clifton wordlessly lifted Sloan in his arms to carry him into the hall. She attempted to follow, but her sleeve was snared by Marcella.

  “Anne, we must finish our discussion about Bart.”

  Anne snatched her arm away, close to losing her temper with Marcella for the first time in years. “God above, madam, cease your demands while I see to my child! Bother me no more!”

  She followed Clifton’s departing back, lifting her skirts to keep up with his long strides, listening to Sloan’s tearful protests that he could walk.

  She had never brought complaint to her husband’s ears in regard to his older son and frequently feared that Brennan did not notice Brainard’s tyranny. Brainard’s interest in the wealth and power of Ayliffe was confined to whatever money or possession or liberty his command would afford him. Anne was relieved that Brennan finally noticed Brainard’s bad behavior, but the discipline was too late to help either Forbes son. Sloan would surely be hated even more.

  Sir Clifton placed Sloan carefully on his bed, and Anne sat down beside him. She sent his nurse and two maids for water, cloths, salves, and clean clothing while she endeavored to soothe her child. His little face was badly battered by the blow and, once in the safe confines of his nursery, he began to cry.

  “Why does Brainard hate me so, Mother? I am always careful with his things. I never touched without asking.”

  “It is no fault of yours, my little love. Brainard can be mean-hearted and impatient.” She placed a cool wet cloth over his eyes, brushing his light hair away from his brow. At times she could see so much of Dylan in him. His fair wheat-colored hair and bright turquoise eyes were so like his sire’s It was most fortunate that the resemblance went no further and that the Gifford family had predominantly fair hair and light-colored eyes. Sloan resembled Anne, too, in his mouth and quick smile. Some castlefolk even remarked that he looked like Brennan. But when Anne held and comforted this little lad, it was as if she could keep Dylan safe and loved.

  She stayed with him until his nurse was able to urge her successfully from his side. She found that Sir Clifton waited at the door, his eyes respectfully downcast, as was usual for him.

  “My lady, I--”

  “Say nothing, Sir Cliff. I know perfectly well that you did what you could.”

  “I have a request, madam. I fear to bring it to your ears.”

  “Let me hear it, Sir Cliff,” she said, hoping it was not much of a request. She had been so burdened with her mother’s constant appeals that she felt exhausted. She would gladly cede whatever would stop the begging for a while. In fact, it was Marcella’s voice stilling ringing in her ears that prevented her from giving her full attention to Sir Cliff.

  “I ... ah ... my lady, I know I did not prove myself a worthy guardian and teacher for Brainard, but given a chance, I would take on the training of young Sloan while he remains with you.” Clifton raised his gaze to look into the eyes of the countess. He hoped she would not see how smitten he was. He longed to be within a step of her. Her sweet, natural fragrance caused his head to spin, her beauty gave him bothersome dreams. “I would do better by this one, my lady, or die trying.”

  Since coming to Ayliffe she had wondered where Brainard’s problem was rooted, whether it was Brennan’s lack of attention, Clifton’s poor ability to train a young man, or perhaps even some trauma linked to his mother’s untimely death. She was never sure, Brainard was impossible for any
one to manage, much less train.

  “His lordship was wise to suggest Ramsford. I have been to Ramsford. The men are hard and hearty – Brainard will prove himself a capable heir ... or not. It is a place of tests. Brainard wishes to rule, and rule he shall, though it is doubtful he will be successful. Still, he will not have much time to brood and complain. He cannot do much damage ...”

  Anne’s listening sharpened. She was thinking of Bart, who was not unlike Brainard in many respects. He did not fight or work hard, but he wanted much. His letters flowed to Marcella. Anne suddenly knew what had been bothering her, nagging her. Quentin could be respected for his fairness, and she loved and trusted Trenton. But Bart and her mother proved a worrisome combination. A wealthy and influential Bart could be worse than his constant begging Sir Clifton, whether or not he realized it, offered a solution.

  Impulsively, she reached out and touched Clifton’s hand to respond to him, though she had only half heard. She wished to be finished with the knight so she could speak to her husband. She did not notice that he nearly trembled with delight. “I know you did not fail Brainard, sir. He is so unlike his father. He seems to wield a mighty sword--I’ve watched him practice at games in the courtyard--yet the knightly code of chivalry has eluded him completely.”

  Clifton dropped his gaze again. He might be punished for speaking out against the heir, but he could not hold his tongue. “He was born in wealth and indulgence, my lady, and thinks himself above all acts of chivalry. I swear, I did try.”

  “I’m sure you did,” she said somewhat distantly, glancing over her shoulder toward Sloan. She had to protect Sloan somehow, she had to keep her son safe from Brainard’s greed and her mother’s interference. Sloan must grow up strong and decisive, and have compassion. “This son of mine cannot be reared with neglect for his code of honor,” she said almost to herself. “There is more to building a lord than giving him a sword to carry.”

  “My lady, I would do my very best.”

  She looked at Clifton, finally giving him her complete attention. Anne had not heard much about Clifton beyond his knightly prowess, but she assumed his conduct in all matters befitted a knight. He seemed courteous. It seemed he did not take duty lightly. She wondered if his role as Brainard’s lackey had been difficult for him; she had not heard that he complained. She had never seen him drunk, nor in a temper, nor taking any unfair advantage in a contest. She had witnessed for herself that he regularly bested Brainard, as well as many of the other knights, though he was not the largest among them. Brennan had said that Clifton was among their strongest and most loyal.

  “To tend my son in his training would make you my right arm, Sir Clifton.”

  “My lady, there is no greater honor.”

  She sighed impatiently. It had been a draining afternoon. First Marcella and then Brainard. Lord, it made her almost long for Eltham, where she would have only to bear the titters of Elizabeth’s waiting women and her small apartments shared with her busy, politically encumbered husband.

  “I will speak to his lordship, Sir Clifton.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I will work hard to do you honor in my service.”

  “Just work hard to be sure Lord Forbes does not have to contend with yet another spoiled, ungrateful churl for a son. Ayliffe deserves more than that.”

  Anne allowed Brennan time to cool his temper, and then she visited him in his writing closet. He looked up, smiling, as she entered, and then returned his eyes to his ledger. She went to stand behind him, putting her arms around his neck and resting her cheek on the top of his head. His ciphering stopped. She saw a letter from Bart lying open on the stack of correspondence.

  “Brennan, Sir Clifton said something about the way you dealt with Brainard that gave me an idea,” she said quietly. “Bart is not unlike Brainard.” She felt her husband stiffen as if his anger might return. “He wants a great deal, but he is not a very willing vassal. He is more interested in wealth than work. His ambition sometimes worries me.”

  Brennan disengaged himself from her arm and turned around, looking up at her.

  “My mother is requesting brides and fortunes for her sons, and even though you have already given her much, she will not be still until she has everything she desires. Trenton is content to serve you, and Quentin, I think, is little interested in brides. The Earl of Raedelle seems to like his lot. But Bart ... is much like Lady Gifford, he wants power, but he does not reckon its responsibilities. He wants a larger estate, though he barely manages his small one. And his loyalties seem not so fierce and firm as those of the other Gifford sons. He has been known to be unfair.”

  “What is your idea? What did Sir Cliff say?”

  “Only that Brainard has what he wants in Ramsford. That he wishes to rule, and so he will, but there will be little time for brooding and complaining. He can do little damage.

  “Bart has made no secret of the fact that he thinks his barony not large nor rich enough, he dislikes it and wants more. Give him more, Brennan. Petition to extend his boundaries, perhaps through a marriage, or ask His Majesty to declare an earldom and name you as his overlord. I know what has delayed you in settling with Bart, you cannot justify an influential seat for him because he has done so little with what you’ve already helped him accrue. But do you see, Brennan? Give him exactly what he requests, just as you have Brainard, and keep control. He will find himself working harder than ever.”

  Brennan laughed and gave her a quick kiss. “Your politics never fail to astound me.” He pulled her onto his lap. “If I can help get Bart an earldom, what can Lady Gifford do but thank me?”

  “Just a few weeks ago Sloan pestered Mistress Kirsten for a plate of marchpanes and she told him he might have one.” Anne laughed at the memory. “He had a most fitting tantrum, for he wanted to eat as many as he liked. Mistress Kirsten told him he might eat one or the whole plate, whichever he chose--but only those two choices. Of course he is greedy, he ate them all. He was quite ill. He might have learned that to insist on having everything he desired has its consequences.”

  Brennan howled with laughter, giving his wife a squeeze. “Perhaps if mothers ruled the country, we would be better for it.”

  Anne smiled. “Lady Gifford would like that, Brennan. Will you suggest it?”

  “I will learn to be less impetuous with my remarks,” he said, sobering at the mere thought.

  ***

  Lord Forbes wished to have his wife travel with him to London, but Anne excused herself. She promised to join him there within a few weeks, before the weather and roads became a hindrance. Brennan could not delay, for Edward needed him.

  But Anne wanted to see the harvest in and her home settled before departing for several months. She knew she would return to Ayliffe with a second child, and there were things to prepare.

  Lord Forbes had been away only a few days when a messenger brought a letter from Bury Saint Edmunds. Anne’s fingers trembled as she unrolled it. She had hoped that one day Divina would respond to her. But the letter was from the mother superior, and Anne’s trembling was of another sort. Divina was dead. The sisters could not name a disease that took her, they blamed melancholia. A broken heart.

  Anne went directly to her mother. Marcella was immersed in letter writing, her favorite pastime. She had made friends at court who thought her wealthy and influential by way of the earl, and she enjoyed a great deal of visiting and letter writing.

  “Madam, I have had a letter from the nuns of Bury Saint Edmunds. Divina, Mother ...”

  “What about Divina?” Marcella asked, not looking up.

  “She is dead.”

  Marcella finally gave Anne her attention. Anne walked across the chamber to hand her mother the letter. Marcella took her time with it, shaking her head now and then. “Well, Anne,” she finally said, “now there are only you and I.”

  “Madam?”

  “Divina will not betray you. I suppose you are relieved.”

  Tears smarted in Anne’s eyes su
ddenly. “Your daughter is dead,” she cried. “Of a broken heart!”

  “Nonsense. I assure you, if one could die so easily of a broken heart, many of us would be long since gone.”

  Anne stared at her mother in wonder. “You have no heart at all,” she said quietly, the shock of her mother’s indifference never failing to astound her. “My God, madam, do you not grieve for anyone?”

  “Of course I am sorry she is dead, but what purpose will my grief serve her now?”

  “I know you only use me,” Anne said. “But once I thought you loved her.”

  “You speak so often and passionately of love, daughter. Was it not your ‘love’ that made it necessary for Divina to go to the convent? Come now, you may admit to me that you are relieved.”

  Anne slowly leaned forward to place her palms on Marcella’s writing table, her eyes so startled that she did not even blink away the swelling tears. “Had there been any love at all in our family, any loyalty between sisters or even between you and me, we would have all rejoiced that we were spared the consequences of a misdeed. But what we have instead is a pact of dishonor, silence for gain, secrets kept for largesse. My God, it cost a life.”

  “Be careful, Anne. ‘Twas you who sinned against so many. Do not expect anyone to glorify your sin.”

  “Or forgive it, madam? You’ve made your purpose more than clear, you will protect me from disgrace as long as I make it possible for you to keep adding to your wealth and influence. You already have far more than you deserve ... do you not even grieve for the daughter you sacrificed to this end?”

  “It was for you,” Marcella said slowly.

  “Nay, you have never done anything for me. It was for yourself! You could not betray me because to do so would leave you far outside the earl’s generosity. Oh, and he has been generous, though you are never satisfied. Madam, you are in a dangerous position, I assure you. You may find me willing to do without this luxury while you still crave more.”