The Everlasting Covenant

by Robyn Carr

  Lord Forbes did not ride in the melee, nor did he issue or accept any challenges. Through three days of jousting Brennan was quiet, and almost glum. Banners were flying, heralds were shouting, the crowd was screaming excitedly, but there was no mistaking the earl’s discontent. She had begun to notice subtle changes in him that she could not quite understand.

  “Do you mislike the tourney, my lord?” she asked.

  “Why would I not enjoy the joust? When have you seen one more grand?”

  She had heard similar snappish replies from him over the past year. He never talked of his unhappiness. Sometimes she thought he worked too hard, sometimes she thought he was ill. Sometimes she found herself wondering if he had ceased to love her.

  The third day of the tournament dawned bright and clear and the contestants gathered again. A late challenge was issued by the Earl of Trelaine against Dylan deFrayne, and when the herald announced the contest, Anne’s eyes shot to Marcella’s face. She could not mistake the superior smile on her mother’s face, though Marcella did not meet her eyes. She checked eyes with Trenton and was driven back in time, Trenton was the image of a younger Ferris. He had grown tall, strong, and broad. His dark, brooding eyes held a gentle strength for only Anne.

  “This should be interesting,” Brennan mumbled. “DeFrayne may get to own some of my land.” It was the first time Anne had heard delight in her husband’s voice for days. He clearly thought that Bart would lose, and it gave him pleasure. Anne was not so confident. Of her entire family only Bart and Marcella kept the hatred alive. And then she knew: Marcella had somehow driven Bart to do this.

  Anne’s heart pounded as the mounts were readied, as the herald read the rules, as the lines for the joust were drawn. The field was cleared as the steeds tore impatiently at the turf. The clarions were raised to begin the contest. The men lowered their visors and were told to take their positions. Dylan held his blunted lance firm and straight. Bart tipped his toward the ground and brought it up again.

  “What is he doing?” Brennan asked as if thinking out loud.

  The blunted end fell off Bart’s lance just as the clarion sounded and the destriers charged. The contestants’ visors were down, and the crowd rose as one, a common worry embracing them. Dylan could be killed by the sharp lance, he might not have seen Bart’s movement. Women screamed. Brennan and Trenton both stood. Anne’s hand moved unconsciously to her throat, sheer panic enveloping her. Only Marcella sat calmly.

  Suddenly Dylan threw down his lance and dove from his galloping horse, rolling once, twice, and thrice to avoid the charge of Bart’s destrier. But Bart, committed, rode past Dylan all the way to the other side. He turned his charger around, lifted his visor to see what had happened to his opponent, and stared down at his lance as if he did not know what happened.

  The crowd gave a single sigh. Some, Anne suspected, would have liked to have seen a little blood.

  “The fine will be a good one,” Brennan said, disgust ringing in his voice. “I will not pay it. Bart will take it from his own purse and bear the weight. And he dare not ever ask another thing of me.”

  “My lord, surely it was an accident. He ...”

  “Accident?” Lord Forbes repeated, staring at Marcella in wonder. He turned his face back to the lists. Marcella sat beside Anne, the men sat on the other sides. “Nothing was ever more deliberate. He will find the price of his dishonor a high one indeed, for he is hereby out of my influence. He has had more of me than he deserves!”

  “My lord,” Marcella cried, half-leaning across Anne’s skirts toward Lord Forbes. “Would you promote the deFraynes when they--”

  Suddenly she was drawn back into her place. Anne turned her head. Trenton’s hand firmly held Marcella’s arm. Their eyes were locked. Trenton glared into his mother’s eyes with barely controlled anger. “If you say another word in defense of Bart or to slander the deFraynes, I will take you from the lists if I have to carry you. And do not doubt that I can.”

  She blanched, as did Anne. “It is simple to see where your loyalty lies,” she murmured angrily.

  “Do not doubt it, madam,” Trenton advised sternly.

  Anne closed her eyes briefly, letting out her breath. Will it never end? she asked herself. And then a slow smile grew as she realized that Trenton protected her. It had been over a year since he had taken Heathwick for Marcella. It was apparent he had learned much about their mother’s hatred.

  Marcella properly cowed, Anne’s attention returned to her surly husband. He now had good cause for his anger and churlish mood, but Anne still worried. He had been acting strangely for some time. His troubles could not all be focused on Bart and Brainard.

  Late on the third night of the tournament, after feasting, dancing, and celebrating were finally done, Anne approached him again. “Is it me, Brennan? Have I done something to anger you?”

  He looked her over, his eyes raking her from top to bottom, but his tone remained curt. “How could I possibly be displeased with you? Who has a more beautiful mate?”

  Anne was dressed for bed in a long, flowing white gown, and Brennan was lounging in the room with a mulled posset that still steamed. Jane was pulling back the coverlet and pounding the mattress with her fists to soften it. She turned toward Anne when she heard Brennan bark at his wife. Anne inclined her head toward the door and Jane lowered her eyes and left them quietly. Anne knelt before her husband, her forearms resting on his knees, and looked up into his eyes. She had only seen Dylan at a distance and was filled with hope that she could speak a few private words with him, perhaps a quick embrace, a kiss. But first this trouble in her marriage had to be settled to her satisfaction. She had no idea what irritated Brennan so.

  “Please tell me what troubles you, Brennan. Let me help somehow.”

  “And how would you help me, Anne?” he asked, with an impudent, churlish curl to his lip.

  “I might try to correct my injustice, whatever it may be. Surely I cannot have done anything too terrible.”

  He sighed heavily. His hand trembled slightly as he touched her cheek. “Have you not noticed?” He gave a rueful chuckle. “You look as though you should be a passionate creature, but you are always the demure wife. Tell me the truth, Anne. Have you said nothing out of propriety, or is it that you have not missed my lovemaking?”

  “Oh Brennan, do you wish for me to seduce you? You have never been shy, nor have I ever rebuked you.”

  “Did you notice? Did you even take notice?”

  “That you have needed me less?” she asked, confused. “Of course,” she said shyly. “But, my dear, the demands made upon you are constant--should I add mine? What would you have me do?”

  His eyes seemed to fill with tears, but she did not know if it was sadness he felt, or something else. “I cannot blame you, no matter how hard I try,” he whispered. “Anne, I did you wrong. I am old.”

  “Oh my dear, dear husband. What nonsense you speak. You ...”

  He pushed her gently away and stood, draining his cup and placing it on the table with a loud bang. “Anne, I have babies at home who should be my grandchildren! I have a young, passionate, and beautiful wife whom I cannot satisfy. And though I look at you and crave to taste your sweet flesh, I think a part of me has died. It was wrong of me to marry you. I did not know I would become old so soon.”

  She walked toward him and placed her hands on his chest, trying to keep the inevitable guilt and pity from her eyes. She had noticed that his demand for her body came less often, but she had not thought anything particularly wrong. He was a busy man, often away from her, and they still shared a bed, even if they shared little else. She had always counted Brennan as her dearest friend, but she never said so for fear of offending him. She knew that was not what he wished to be. And he was right – she had paid little attention because she did not hunger for his lovemaking.

  She had been able to soothe him so many times, by a simple touch, a caress, her understanding. She hoped she could again.

 
; “Brennan, please don’t torture yourself over some nonsense that has no meaning. I love you! I have never thought you old!”

  “I do not ride in the tournament for fear of breaking my bones on a chance fall. I rise stiff and sore each morning, and I do not have the strength I once had. My appetite is leaner, my nights longer, and I desire the comfort of a restful night over the comforts of your body.”

  She laughed lightly in spite of herself. “Perhaps the fault is mine. I have worried for so many years that you would be disappointed in me! You have always been kind and generous with me despite the fact that you have always wanted a more passionate bride than I. ‘Tis my lacking, Brennan, a more skilled paramour would succeed in arousing you properly. Truly, if I were a better wife, you would have fewer worries. I cannot blame you if you love me no more.”

  “It is because I love you so that I am beset, my sweet.” He turned away from her. “I wonder what problems I’ve created for you, when I could have let a younger man have you.”

  “Brennan, I did not want a younger man,” she lied. The only other man she would have was not allowed her.

  “There is no denying the fact that Brainard will outlive me and create troubles for you that will be difficult to quell. I cannot prevent him from having Ayliffe, but I can delay him. I have rectified the problem to a small degree--my will is with the king and states plainly that the order of widowhood is yours at your request. Ayliffe is yours until you die. Brainard will not inherit title there until after you are gone.”

  The issue was a large and important one, but Anne was less concerned with Ayliffe just now than with Brennan. What he had done suddenly brought the enormity of his problem home to her. She could not ignore what he must be feeling, if it drove him to drastic measures. “Wills? Order of widowhood? My lord, what do you plan? Do you willfully abandon me? Are you ...” She couldn’t even form the words, she was suddenly terrified that Brennan was suffering from melancholia and thought of taking his own life.

  “I only say it is later in my life than you might think. I am withering away.”

  “Cease,” she said almost angrily. “You are not suffering from anything other than self-pity. Truly, Brennan, it is not like you to fret over such minor things as morning aches or less passion in our nights. I will not hear of your fast-approaching death. It is too much!”

  He smiled gently. “You do make me wish for my younger days,” he said. “That’s why I wanted you so badly seven years ago. You filled me with hunger, you made me feel like a reckless young lad.”

  “Come,” she said, taking his hand and leading him toward their bed. “Take off your clothes and let me massage your back. Perhaps you are only tired, Edward uses you too well and my family plagues you constantly.” She helped him out of his tunic and knelt at his feet to remove his boots as he sat on the bed. “It is not always for the best when one stands in the good graces of the king. Brennan, you are only tired.”

  When Anne stood again Brennan pulled her toward him between his knees and held her on his lap. “Perhaps it is not my back that needs your ministrations, my love.”

  She gently kissed his lips and pushed him back on the bed. Her mind raced with worry. Poor Brennan, she had taken no notice that he was so beset. In recounting the year and several months since Deirdre’s birth, she realized that he had touched her very few times. She strained to remember the last time they had made love and could not. Filled with remorse, she thought a better wife would have known more of her husband’s troubles. Was it really over for him? She had never heard of such a complaint. She longed to ask him if all men suffered this way with age, or if this was some rare disease. There was rumored to be plague in the city, was he sick? She applied her gentle, caressing hands to Brennan’s yielding flesh, she kissed his lips as passionately as she could. She employed all the clever and stimulating requests he had asked of her over the years. She had always hoped to please him, but now she felt it was encumbent on her to save him.

  Brennan responded almost gratefully to Anne’s efforts, but they were futile. Finally, with a groan of absolute despair, he rolled away from her. “It is useless. I am no longer a man.” His voice caught pitifully.

  “Brennan, nay, please,” she said, desperate tears in her own voice as she pulled him back to face her. “Oh Brennan, my love, my dear love, it doesn’t matter! Just hold me, just be close to me!” She clung to him, her torment completely for him. She had never yearned for Brennan’s lovemaking, yet she had never resented his touch, either. She didn’t need his passion, but she needed his friendship and devotion a great deal. And with this loss that he suffered, he seemed to withdraw from her. She became frightened. She felt as though she was losing her dearest friend.

  “How can you accept me like this?” he asked.

  “How can I not,” she cried. “We have a family, children. I am your wife. Please, I would miss your touch, your body, but I need you. I do not desire more than your love. You are my husband, my lord. Whether ill or fit, whether rich or poor, we must succor each other. Please, Brennan, believe me, I love you the same!”

  He touched her tearstained cheek, looking into her pleading eyes. “I know you do,” he whispered. “I don’t know if that is a good sign, or bad.”

  ***

  Anne went alone to mass on the sixth morning after the tournament had begun. She had not forgotten Dylan in the face of Brennan’s troubles, but she had pushed him far to the back of her mind, so she was startled when she spied him in the chapel stall. With a mind that thought as one with his, she followed him through the quiet, dark passages of Westminster. A flight of stairs, a torch-lit alcove, a door opened, and then she was in his arms.

  “Anne, my beloved, it has been so long.” His lips were hot and searing on hers, but she pushed him away. She was trembling.

  “Have a care, Dylan. Do not touch me, I beg you.”

  “What is it? What is amiss?”

  “I had hardly noticed,” she began, her voice quivering with confusion. “But the fact is this: my husband no longer shares my bed except for sleep. I beg you, do not tempt me overmuch – I am too hungry for your arms, your lips. Now, there would be nothing to protect me from being stoned for an adulteress if I should somehow come with child.”

  Dylan’s brow wrinkled in sudden confusion. “What is this? He looks at you with all the lust and hunger that ever glittered in a man’s eye.”

  She let her gaze drop. “But ... he ... cannot ...”

  Dylan whistled low. “How so? What ails him?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, tell me truly, Dylan, is this a common complaint? Brennan thinks he has become old – he believes himself near death. Is he ill, Dylan? Is it plague?”

  Dylan gave a little huff of sad laughter. “Nay, my love, ‘tis not a common complaint, nor is it a sign of sickness. Poor Forbes, a worse curse could not befall a man than to have so pleasing a wife and no will to use her.”

  “Dylan, is this my fault? I have never met Brennan in the passion he wished from me. I know that. I tried ... I ...”

  “No, my darling. You must not blame yourself. I know you have been a good wife to the earl and have done your best to make him happy – I know you did not try to withhold affection, nor spurn him. He is a good man.” He sighed and looked sympathetically into her eyes. His problem was not dissimilar. He did understand how she must feel, but he could not quite form the words. It was not something one could pretend. “Poor Anne.” He squeezed her upper arms in sympathy. “Now your marriage will be more like mine.”

  “Yours?” she questioned.

  “Never mind. Kiss me. I will give you no babe.”

  Upon his promise she yielded her lips, her arms, and more. Just to feel safe, however briefly, in Dylan’s arms brought her familiar joy. Her body would always respond to him even when her mind willed it otherwise, and there was strange comfort in this. She had felt so burdened and guilty, as if there was something terribly wrong with her, as if she had harmed Brennan purposely, something she w
ould never do.

  She had not even known that the small closet in which they hid existed, nor did she know the way out. But his lips on hers and his hands on her breasts caused her not to care. There was so much life in his embrace. Once in a year, once in a decade, once in a lifetime--it did not matter. All else was forgotten when she was again with her love, her forever love.

  She panicked suddenly when she felt her skirt rise as Dylan bunched it in his hand and pulled it up. She writhed slightly as though she would pull away when his warm fingers touched that willing, secret, dangerous place.

  “Please, Dylan, do not ...”

  “Hush, my Anne. Let me. You will see.”

  Soon a low moan of release escaped her like trapped steam as her body shook with the secret splendor. She nearly collapsed into his arms as she felt the ecstasy of this lover’s satisfaction, though Dylan did not enter her. His lips, hard and hot on her neck, devoured her flesh. He held her pinioned against a cool gray palace wall and remained still, supporting her for a long while as she slowly recovered herself. And then, understanding, she found him with her hand.

  It was always clandestine, always less than it could be. Why, she asked herself, again and again. What would have been so terrible in having each other within the pure sanctity of marriage? Why could fate not smile on them? The touch of his lips filled her and she would recall the taste of his mouth for days and weeks. This was the only place she felt real, in his arms, in his care. And just when she began to think she could not live without him, it was always time to part. Each encounter was more dangerous than the one before.