by Robyn Carr
“Nay,” she whispered with a smile, snuggling closer. “ ‘Tis a gift, surely.”
“Perhaps I should relieve Cliff and move in here to keep you well for the old earl.”
“Lady Raynia might find it amiss,” she teased him.
“Ah, Raynia, poor creature,” he sighed, mention of his wife causing him to become serious. “Bless her frail little mind, a more odd, unhappy woman has never lived. I cannot even hate her, I pity her so.”
“She is no better?”
“Worse each year, my love. I shall have to send her back to Calais for at least a long visit. She loathes England, me, everything in her sight.” He thought for a moment. He had told Anne almost everything, but some things were too private, almost embarrassing. His ugly little wife still had her ugly little maid.
“She will have none of you? Even after losing her son?”
“She does not wish to be burdened with a husband. So ... I give her whatever comforts she requests and I allow her sanctuary in the country where she feels safe and left alone. Raynia will not complain that I am too long away.”
“And Justin?”
“Bless Lady Raynia, she does not deny me that pleasure. She gives him none of her love, but she abides his presence politely. My mother nurtures him well and I give him as much time as I can. He will be a strong man one day and carry on this deFrayne family for my brother’s sake. I confess, the boy makes me proud. And I am glad that he is too young to understand this business of mine, if he thought me a traitor, it would hurt me deeply.” His eyes gazed across the room, his voice became wistful and distant. “It is just as well that I do not have a devoted wife, but I cannot pretend that I don’t feel cheated. Every man wants a son.”
Her heart ached for him. “Oh, Dylan, perhaps you can convince Raynia ...”
“Nay,” he laughed, but his eyes were somewhat misty. “There will be none of that. I will act as a guardian to my nephew. That will have to do.”
“Had you ever given a thought to what might happen if I conceived your child?”
“You know I have, minx,” he said, giving her a squeeze. “We have taken every possible precaution, sometimes to our own displeasure. Thus far no one has noticed how I give thanks to every saint in heaven when you announce the flow of your monthly blood. In two months, we have been fortunate. May our luck continue.” He chuckled to himself.
“What would you do, Dylan, if I came with child?”
“Given our present circumstances?” he asked. She nodded, looking up at him. She saw his eyes come alive a little. He smiled as he thought. “I would pray first that the earl mistook it for his own, but you would have to perform some pretty witchcraft for that, since the earl, God bless him, does not make use of you when he is home. But ... if it could be, if he could believe it was his own child, I would watch you round out, if possible, and wait patiently to hear the news. I would be near if I could, but you are wed to a man boasting ten thousand soldiers, so discretion is the word.” He chuckled, in spite of himself. “And I suppose I would offer to train the boy, to have some influence. Barring that, I would simply content myself with watching him grow handsome and strong and good in his heart. You would raise him to be good in his heart. He would perhaps inherit Ayliffe, more than I could ever give him.”
“You would not like that,” she said, her heart beginning to beat wildly. “You are too proud to watch a child of yours raised as another man’s heir.”
“Oh? Think you so?” He laughed. It was all only a story to Dylan. She felt herself grow increasingly warm in the cold bedchamber. “You are wrong, my Anne. Just to know that a child of mine lived would fill me with uncommon joy. Just to know that you nurtured my seed and brought it to life, that would be glory. Perhaps when he became a man, if we were friends, I could tell him of my love for his mother, of my devotion, though carefully distant, to him. Perhaps I could convince him that had I claimed him, it would have cost him, and my silence while he grew into manhood was the better part of my love. If he grew to be someone who could feel love at all ... he would surely understand.”
Hot tears stained her cheeks. He felt the wetness of her tears on his arm.
“There now, my love, do not weep. It is only a notion, you forced me to become carried away. I will be careful. I know it can never be.”
“You almost make me believe you speak the truth, Dylan. I wonder. Perhaps if I birthed you a son, you would begin to speak of flight again.”
“Do you think me a coward because I gave up the notion as easily as I did? If I thought something could be gained by running away with you, I would risk it. The danger is too great – I cannot, in conscience, subject you to possible death. I know this is not much, my love, but it is a great deal better than we would have by running, hiding. Nay, there is no day of flight ahead. This is the most we are likely to get. And I have resigned myself. I will never have a son.”
She thought she might choke on her own tears. “Is it really so important to a man? Just to know--”
“That a portion of himself will live on? That a man never really dies when a child of his own breathes the air long after he is dead?” He gave a little huff of air. “What more is there?”
“Many nobles have bastard children. There is a country full of pretty wenches who would gladly ...” She could not finish.
“Ah, yes, the wenches. But, my Anne, my thoughts never fail to turn to you. I want no other woman. Not even my own wife.” He squeezed her hard and kissed her brow. “Do not weep. I have a little bit of you, I have your love and carry it with me when we are parted. I will manage without a son.”
“Dylan, do you speak true? If the earl mistook your child for his own, would it truly please you, yet keep you silent?”
“Anne,” he said suspiciously, “you told me all was well.” He sat up straight and held her away from him. “Did you lie to me? Do we have some trouble?”
She shook her head and wiped at her tears. “Dylan, forgive me, but for all the reasons you named ...”
“What?” he insisted when her voice trailed off and her tears began anew. He gave her a little shake.
“Sloan,” she wept.
“Sloan? What about Sloan?”
“Your son, Dylan. Sloan is your son.”
He stared at her in shock for a long moment, his eyes wide with surprise. His eyes moved absently about the room, as if in search of an answer, almost oblivious to her though he still held her in his arms.
“Conceived ... in the cask room,” she whispered.
She could see that he was concentrating, counting in his head, thinking carefully of the past. Then he slowly slackened his grip on her arms and pulled her against his chest, embracing her. A slow smile grew on his lips. His arms tightened about Anne.
Someday, if we are friends, he thought, I can tell him that my love for his mother was pure and good, even if our circumstances were sad ones. I was about to die, I will tell him, and I had loved her so desperately. The love never waned, never faded, not for a moment, not for a day. But our families wed us far from each other and ours were only stolen moments. Still, we never gave up hope. Never did we tell, so that our son could grow into manhood without the stigma of being born a bastard. If ever there was a child conceived in love, nurtured and protected for his own sake, it was Sloan. A son. A son. A son.
He bent his lips to Anne’s. He stilled her weeping with kisses. He thanked her for her courage, her loving attention to his son. He swore to keep safe and secret the truth of Sloan’s conception. He blessed her for telling him. Now he might watch his son become a man, even if it would be from afar. There was a son! There was another someday for Dylan. His heart soared.
He made love to her, filled with a new excitement, a glow that would not be dimmed. He forgot that she was wed to another, as was he. Nothing mattered to him except the moment, the glory, the eternity of living on and on. He had the woman he loved in his arms, and out there in a world that had given him little a part of himself grew strong. H
is son would have children of his own. All burdens seemed to fall from his shoulders. Fate was kind; he had a son. He forgot everything. He was less than cautious, and he failed to notice.
“Stay in your rooms then, if you cannot see me to the gate without betraying your feelings. You may believe that this is the moment we have been waiting for, our true king will rescue England from the hands of a greedy earl and a mad ruler. Your husband comes home, my lady, and my life rests in his hands. If you grieve my departure and give away our secrets, Edward’s only reward for my years of spying will be a hangman’s noose.”
“What will happen now that Edward has landed?” Anne asked in the early predawn hours.
“No matter what you might hear, be assured he has come for his kingdom, and Warwick will die. Many will die. Edward is more clever than he lets on. He will not be fooled again.”
“You will finally ride with the king,” she mused, snuggling closely, knowing it would be a long time before she would be near him again. She refused to think that this might be the last time ever.
“I am certain he will keep me busy, resettling his domain, while the traitors will be confronted. They have gone too far. Spies will be most unnecessary.” He tilted her chin, kissed her lips. “Among the traitors, not only King Edward’s brother, the Duke of Clarence, but your brother. Forgive me, my love, if it is my own blade that slays Bart. Believe it is for England, not for some old feud.”
“I cannot help Bart now,” she whispered. “He was never loyal to anything but his own wanting. I’m sorry for him, that’s all.”
Finally the hour came for Dylan to depart. He kissed her and held her one more time. “I love you. Remember that.” He beamed a smile as he crept from her chamber. “Thank you for Sloan.” And he was gone.
***
Dylan took many of Ayliffe’s men with his own troop toward Yorkshire. Edward had let the word be that he came to pay homage to King Henry and only wished to reclaim his duchy of York. And then he rode toward Coventry, collecting troops along the way, and held a public reconciliation with his brother George, the Duke of Clarence. As Anne heard of this she remembered Dylan’s words--no matter what you hear, Edward is home for his crown.
March grew old and messages came from the Earl of Ayliffe. Edward’s army faced off against Warwick’s, but there was no battle. Edward pressed his forces on London, returning mad Henry quickly to the tower. Word came by way of travelers that Edward’s army was enormous and once London was secure, they would move toward Warwick for a final confrontation.
Riders bearing the Ayliffe arms rode to Anne to tell her to prepare the hall and slaughter meat. The battle had been fought at Bamet on Easter morning. England was Edward’s again. Many had fallen, Bart among them. Warwick was dead. And Brennan was coming home.
When he arrived, Anne ran into his arms and wept copiously. She hoped, as he comforted her, that he would assume her tears were only the grateful rivers of emotion that flowed from her for his safe return. But, she had lost her love again. This time, however, she was not pleased by the notion that he might have left a part of himself with her.
Chapter Fifteen
The effects of many battles, intrigues, and months of tramping the continent in search of military allies showed on Brennan Forbes. He was nearing sixty years of age. He was still a formidable looking man, tall and lean, and his voice still issued command convincingly. But his hair was almost entirely white and the lines on his weathered face were deeper. And when he finished dealing with a castellan, servant, or soldier, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Faced with his weakening constitution, Anne briefly forgot her own troubles.
His five-year-old Deirdre was still his greatest comfort, though he had brought eleven-year-old Sloan home with him. The earl’s health was suffering – he was too old for such battles. And too old for the hard work he forced on himself. He let only a day of rest pass before he began to interview those people who had held together Ayliffe with his wife in his absence, and started to look over the pages of accounts she had kept.
She took his praise of her good work with mixed feelings. “Brennan, please, everything is in order – you need not strain yourself. You should rest.”
“Don’t worry about me, my lady. I am only old, not infirm, yet.”
“Let me rub your shoulders, bring you a posset, something.”
“You have done a fine job, with Sir Clifton’s help. But then I never doubted you would. I knew that Ayliffe was yours the moment I met you. In my heart, I knew it.”
She sighed heavily. “I fear you are becoming befuddled, Brennan. You are too sentimental. Rest, I beg you, or Ayliffe will be mine.”
“A wiser lass would be anxious for the old man to die. I half believe you are trying to keep me alive.” His head was bent to his work and he did not look at her.
“Brennan Forbes, do not toy with me. I have commanded these troops in your absence, though it would insult Sir Cliff mightily to hear me say that, even to you. If you do not stop and relax with your family and villeins, I shall call the guard and have you carried from your work.”
He looked up and raised a curious brow at the sound of command in her voice. He chuckled pridefully. He laid down his quill. “I half believe you would, Anne of Ayliffe. Very well. Get Sloan and Deirdre. Sloan plays the rebec beautifully. I don’t believe you’ve heard him. Perhaps Deirdre will sing. Let us have music, then.”
Brennan was relaxed in his hall, holding Anne’s hand now and then, while the children entertained them. She told herself over and over again that he was only tired, that his remarkable energy would return. Late in the evening when they climbed the stairs together, Anne raised on her toes to kiss his cheek. He paused meaningfully, looking deeply into her eyes. “You seem tired, lass. Has the strain been too much?”
“It is only worry, Brennan. I think you do not take care of yourself as you should.”
“You do not beg me to hold you through the night ...”
“Oh, please,” she said, changing her expression for him, “come ...”
The youthful twinkle in his eyes disappeared as quickly as it had come. He chuckled in spite of himself. “It was just a fleeting memory, my dear. I am too tired for all that. I am old. I need my lonely bed ... and rest.”
“I will be still,” she whispered, longing to make him happy. She was a little afraid that she might be losing him – not his love, but ... him. He might be dying.
“My Lord deFrayne, did he do well by you? By Ayliffe?”
She shrugged and looked down. “Sir Clifton managed our men – Lord deFrayne kept mostly to himself. He did send away your son, however.”
“Aye, Brainard, waving Lancaster’s colors. But he is only temporarily gone, I’m afraid. He sent a message immediately. He wishes for me to receive him. I imagine he would like to be forgiven.” Brennan laughed somewhat cruelly. “By now, with Edward’s enemies being hanged one by one, I’m sure that the meagerest portion of Ayliffe appeals to Brainard. It is amazing, is it not, how a little war can curb a man’s greed?”
“Brennan, do not let him hurt you.”
He patted her hand. “Don’t worry, lass. He can’t hurt me. Not really.”
“I am afraid of him, Brennan. He is not steadfast.”
“In a way,” he said softly, “he has been driven to that.”
The words caught in Anne’s memory and she almost gasped when she heard them a second time. But Brennan was not willing to say any more. He went to bed alone and rose to his chores again. Anne watched him warily. Her husband was becoming frail. There was no doubt anymore. She would not have him long. And she did not know what she would do without him because she knew that, still, she could not have Dylan.
Lord Forbes was home for less than a fortnight when Brainard arrived. Anne had alerted Sir Clifton that he was coming. She made a grand show, herself, of donning her Ayliffe costume, her blazoned gown of white and gold, and an elaborate hennin that gave her height, and met Brainard in the courtyard. Sir Cl
ifton stood at her side.
Brainard wore an insolent smirk as he dismounted. He nodded toward them both. “Your mother, the Countess of Heathwick, sends her good tidings,” he said.
“My mother?” she questioned. “How do you know my mother?”
“When Lord deFrayne sent me away, I thought a visit to a friendly noble home was in order. Your mother is a gracious hostess when your brother is away fighting for King Edward.” He chuckled slightly at her reaction. “At least you have the good grace to blush, my lady.”
Brainard made to pass and she reached out and snared a piece of his sleeve to detain him. “Brainard, your father has suffered this past year. Do not hurt him, I beg you.”
“I do not intend to hurt him, madam,” he returned snidely. He pulled his arm away roughly, gave his short cape a meaningful swirl, and strode into the hall with great purpose. Anne stared after him in a state of shock. Could Marcella really have betrayed her now? Like this? After all these years of keeping silent?
“What does he mean, my lady?” Clifton asked. He grasped her elbow gently when she did not reply immediately. “My lady Anne, “he whispered urgently, supportively, “what does Brainard mean?”
She turned and looked into Sir Clifton’s eyes. She swallowed bravely. “He means to make trouble for me, Sir Cliff. Any way he can.”
She saw fire come into Clifton’s eyes as he clenched his jaw. “I will kill him if he hurts you in any way, my lady. I swear.”
“You will do nothing without my approval,” she told him sternly. “But thank you,” she said more quietly. And she left him standing in the courtyard while she went into the hall. She could almost feel the stones pelt her naked flesh.
Through a long afternoon and early evening Anne sat unmoving in the chair before the hearth in her room. Deny or confess? she asked herself over and over again. Do I answer these accusations that will surely come with truth, or do I pretend ‘tis only the unkind slander of my enemies? My own mother, and my husband’s son. The eerie combination chilled her to the bone.