by Robyn Carr
“My lord, I should like to present a friend of mine.” Dylan looked up into turquoise eyes that reflected his own image. He was momentarily entranced. “Sloan Forbes, late of Ayliffe.”
“It is an honor, my lord,” the young man said, bowing. “I ... ah, I have heard so many great things about you. I have, ah, watched you in the tourney.” His voice was filled with humble admiration. A score of years plus one, well muscled, handsome, polite. His smile, shy but beautiful, was Anne’s smile. His eyes were his sire’s.
Perhaps, if we become friends, I can tell him how deeply I loved his mother. Perhaps I can convince him that my silence was the better part of my love for him. If he grows to be a man who can feel love at all, he will understand.
“The pleasure is mine, lad. I know Ayliffe – I have not seen the magnificent place in many years. Sit. Call the tapster Tell me about your home, your family.”
***
“But I am not certain I wish to go, madam,” Deirdre said. Anne brushed her daughter’s beautiful golden hair and looked at the sad, frightened eyes that shone in the mirror. The mirror was framed in gold, sculptured with little flowers. It had been a gift from Brennan when Deirdre was only two.
“You must take the mirror,” she said patiently. “Your father would have wished you to use it to keep yourself pretty.”
“Madam, I think you ignore me purposely! I have never been away from you!”
“I know, sweeting. But it is necessary. And you will have a wonderful time.”
“I have no friends there.”
“Not yet, but a good friend of mine will see to you.”
“Humph.” She pouted. “The queen? The queen has no friends! Waiting women and servants and ...”
“Deirdre, it is decided. You are long past the age. Elizabeth will help find you a suitable husband.” She turned her daughter around and lifted her chin. Ah, she was a beauty. And sweet-tempered, if a little spoiled and stubborn, but as smart as both Anne and Brennan combined. She was six and ten now. Sloan had been born to Anne at this age. Deirdre should be settled and away from Ayliffe. Anne feared the way Clifton looked at his stepdaughter, and the way he seemed to avoid the prospect of her marriage. A betrothal, at least, was long overdue.
“Deirdre, you can rely upon Elizabeth,” she stressed. “Keep away from the king as much as possible.”
“What would I care for a fat old king?” She huffed, turning back to the mirror. Anne sighed and shook her head. That fat old king was only three years older than Anne. And he was a powerful, handsome man. Rumor was, however, that he had become somewhat lazy, a little gluttonous. Anne had not been to court in three years, for Clifton did not like to go. She had heard that in the past few years Edward had become so self-indulgent and decadent that he had begun to use a vomitorium behind his dais so that he could relieve himself and continue gorging and drinking. She was glad Clifton was not often in the king’s company. She was not certain what her husband’s reaction to such a compulsion might be. Secretly, frightfully, she wondered if Sir Cliff would approve.
“That is just as well. I do not worry that the king would accost you, my sweet, but he has a reputation for making some dreadful marriage plans. For your dower wealth he might find a most unattractive pet of his household for your husband. The queen will do better for you. And ... I will come before very long, in winter most likely. I promise.”
“Come with me now?” she asked, a pleading expression in her eyes. “Please?”
“Nay, darling. You must learn to face some things without your mother.”
Clifton walked into Deirdre’s bedchamber, unannounced, without knocking. He held scrolled vellum in his hand. “Letters from Sloan,” he said with a grunt. He looked at Deirdre. His eyes twinkled briefly, then he frowned. “When do you depart for Westminster?”
“Tomorrow,” she answered quietly, a little fright still ringing in her voice.
“Do not speak to any man without the queen’s permission. You need not stay long.”
Deirdre tried to check eyes with her mother, but Anne was looking at Clifton with an angry curve to her lips. Their disagreement on this issue of Deirdre going to the queen, for a few months up to a year, had been a loud and boisterous one. But Anne had won, at least temporarily. Regarding any decision for Lord Forbes’s children, Clifton was forced to use caution.
“Go on, Deirdre. Gather your women to finish your packing.” Still she looked at Clifton. Her daughter quietly quit the room. “That was unnecessary,” she said.
“You should read your son’s letter, madam. He has interesting news.” He handed her the scroll. She looked at him curiously. Since Clifton could not read, he had obviously found some castle scribe to read the letter to him.
Anne read the first page, all episodes common to Sloan’s activities, visiting of old friends, companions met along the way. They were always happy, entertaining letters. Her eyes stuck on a sentence and for a moment she could not move on. Sloan had met, personally, the famous Earl of Nowlan. His nephew, Justin DeFrayne, was a friend. And of all amazing coincidences, the earl was staying with Lord Todd in Calais. To his astonishment, this famous knight was one of the gentlest men he had ever encountered, interested in the smallest of news, never gloating, but as strong as any twenty-year old. He wondered if his mother and Sir Cliff had ever considered requesting that Gage be sent to train as a squire with this awesome and brilliant man.
Dylan, Sloan said with familiarity, had been visiting Calais on sad business, his wife, who had been sickly for a long time, had recently died.
She finished the letter and looked up at Clifton. She shrugged lamely, hoping Clifton would not make much of it. “Sloan, and even Gage, will meet him at some crossroad, Clifton. You could not have thought they would never become acquainted. England is large, the noble court is like a small town.”
“You may send Deirdre to court, but you will not join her there.”
Anne sighed heavily and sat tiredly on the stool before the dressing table. “Clifton, nothing has changed in that regard. You will accompany me – you will not let me out of your sight. You know perfectly well that the queen will be angered by my request for Deirdre if I do not even present myself--Elizabeth depends on my friendship. In any case, if Lord deFrayne is in Calais, there is little cause for concern, now, is there?”
His face was a stony visage, his lips pursed. “I do not like the idea of Sloan spending time with him.”
She removed her net and began to unwrap her long hair. There were a few silver strands at her temples, but she did not mind. Anne was not vain. “Sloan is pleased to meet any knight of repute. In that regard, he is an ordinary young man.”
“His wife is dead now.”
Anne did not respond. There was nothing to say. What matter Dylan was free? She was not. And from a discreet distance she had seen beautiful women in his company, Clifton often troubled himself to point them out. She was careful to conceal the pain from Clifton. She had sent Dylan away, and he had gone. Perhaps now he would wed a woman who would give him children, sons he could claim.
“Do you deny that it pleases you?” he blustered.
“Yea, it pleases me,” she murmured. “Poor man, to have wasted so many years with a woman who did not love him, did not wish to live with him, would not give him children.” She studied her reflection. Did her surge of hope show? “Perhaps he will marry now – someone who gives him heirs.”
“You did your part, did you not?”
Anne closed her eyes and tried to remain composed. She took a deep breath. They had been through this often enough before. Clifton’s acceptance of his position as her consort had been short-lived. Within just a few years after they were married his possessiveness turned into jealousy. There was very little she could say to dissuade him from such moods and so she said nothing.
“Sloan should not be in his company.”
“Clifton, be at ease. Sloan is only in company with a man he has admired from afar. It is a good sign – he
will watch Lord deFrayne, listen and try to learn. You once thought Lord deFrayne a good and honorable man – you once admired him. Nothing has really changed.”
“Perhaps Sloan will realize--”
“If you let your envy show, he will certainly wonder at the cause. Leave it alone.”
“He will not take my boys away from me,” Clifton stormed. Anne flinched and blinked her eyes tightly closed despite her effort to remain passive to his thundering. She was not aware that he approached her. He was angry and afraid – outbursts like this had steadily increased over the years. He had been easier to handle when he was younger, when he was confident of his knightly skills. But now his body, which had been his livelihood, was no longer young and willing. He was not as strong as he had been, he did not win every contest among the men as before. He seemed to have little interest in lordship, but when his prowess in contest failed and showed the effects of age, he became even more surly and discontent. He yanked her roughly to her feet. “Sloan is more mine than anyone’s! Ayliffe did nothing with the lad--I trained him! DeFrayne never knew him!”
Anne trembled. She placed a placating hand on his chest. “Sloan loves you, Clifton. All boys grow up, find heroes, take their fathers for granted ... but the love does not stop.”
“Tell me that you do not care for him anymore,” he demanded. “Say that you do not love deFrayne – that you do not hope to see him.” She studied the expression in his eyes – something there was verging on panic.
“Clifton, I ended that. You heard me! There has been nothing – no word, no message, no inquiry. And by Lord deFrayne’s dalliance at court, something you often remind me about, it certainly seems he does not have any further interest in me.”
“The truth.”
“ ‘Tis truth I speak.”
“You do not always tell me the truth.”
“Yea, husband, I do. I know the penalty for lying.”
He released her and turned his face from her eyes. At least he was still ashamed of that event. When both her family and Dylan deFrayne had appeared at court, Clifton had suddenly been faced with all three males--Dylan, Sloan, and Gage--and had seen the resemblance in their eyes. He had demanded the truth and she had dodged his questions, unskillfully. He beat her so badly that he had to take her from Westminster.
The tearful truth had emerged. But she swore that only she knew these secret circumstances and that Sloan believed Lord Forbes was his father. Sir Clifton would never breathe that truth. If it ever became known that Sloan was not the earl’s son, he would not be the earl’s heir. Clifton’s only connection to the wealth of Ayliffe came through his marriage to Anne and his rearing of the heirs.
Anne had never been anything but a dutiful wife to Sir Clifton, but that had not saved her from his abuse. When Clifton had humbly begged to be allowed to save her from shame through wedlock, he had been almost reverent. That had quickly changed.
“Clifton, these sons of mine clamor after recognition and praise like all boys. They admire those distant heroes of the court, as all young men do. Young Prince Edward’s greatest love may be for his father, but Anthony is his guardian and hero. The boys owe you much – they will not forget you for another. Be at peace on this. Do not torture yourself.”
He turned back to her and she saw clearly that there was pain in his eyes. “You never gave me a son of my own.”
“ ‘Twas not by choice,” she reminded him. She had conceived three times in her life. Even Clifton should know that the problem was not hers. Her monthly blood had now stopped, though she was only seven and thirty. Her time for childbearing was past. Clifton in response played the wenches more liberally. Still, he had not gotten himself a bastard. “Divorce me if you like. Take another.”
“You wish it?”
“Nay. I have held my vows sacred. I would have you till death, Clifton, but you must not hurt us. Once,” she said softly, “you loved me.”
“You never said so to me,” he said, a pout replacing his grimace.
She knew she could say so now, but not convincingly. “I offered what I had, milord, and have been true to it. Once you thought we had more on which to build a union than most people ever had. I depended on your strength and chivalry – to be my husband, you said, would be an honor. I warned you that one day it might not be enough, but you swore that day would never come. And ... I believed you.”
He hung his head shamefacedly.
“You do not wish to send Gage to him?”
“Nay,” she said, smiling patiently to hide her disquiet. She had learned to appear unafraid in front of Clifton. He frequently translated fear into guilt. “It is only Sloan’s excitement at meeting someone so highly sung – Lord deFrayne would not have requested it. Did he not give his word? Did you not think him an honorable man? Did he ever betray his oath to you?”
He did not answer, but simply made to pass her, to leave the room. Anne sighed with relief when he was gone. She went to the window of Deirdre’s bower. She looked into the pleasaunce, then at the jeweled tapestry that hung on her bedchamber wall. There was a prickling sensation that ran up her spine. She wondered how much worse Clifton would become simply because Dylan’s wife was dead.
Their marriage was eleven years old. In the early days, when she was pregnant and then when Gage was just a baby, Clifton had been respectful and courteous. He seemed satisfied to have her as his wife, to manage the men of Ayliffe on her behalf. Though she had never loved Clifton, she remembered those as gentle days, for she was left to see to her young in the comfort of Ayliffe, and there was a strong man, determined to protect her, at her side.
She could not remember exactly when it began to change, but it was worsening every year. At first Clifton had spells of impatience and discontent, and became angry with her over small things. Before long his unpredictable anger grew into rages. His brow was almost always furrowed, his mouth turned down. She tried to remember his smile and realized she could not. Even as he had gently wooed her into marriage, into his protection, he had been deadly serious.
Their life together was barely tolerable. Clifton was no longer a good teacher for Gage, and he leered at Deirdre. He was so jealous that he had a castle scribe read him every piece of correspondence delivered to her, even letters from Trenton.
Had he finally learned the truth--that Anne was not a goddess to be worshipped, but only a woman? He had the prize, did he finally lament the cost? Or perhaps the luxury of Ayliffe had finally spoiled him.
She shuddered involuntarily. Something eerie seemed to linger at the edge of her intuition. She had not planned to send Deirdre to the queen, that was an impulsive decision. She was beginning to think about a place for Gage to go, but Clifton protested, and since he claimed this boy as his son, his protests were heard. He was determined to raise the boy alone, and he was hard on him. Anne saw that Clifton’s regard for Gage was much as Marcella’s had been toward her. He looked at the boy, remembered the circumstances of his conception and birth, and these rankled. And there was little she could do about it. Sloan was still away and would stay at least through the winter, perhaps much longer if Calais proved a profitable place for a young knight, which pleased Anne. She wanted to settle her children. There was a nagging feeling that bothered her.
Once she thought she had conquered her greatest problems. She had said good bye to Dylan, had exchanged vows with Sir Cliff, and set about raising her children. But it had been unraveling almost since the day it began. The unreasonable envy in Clifton’s eyes warned her. She knew the days ahead were going to be even harder.
Anne had begun to worry that Clifton would never relent and allow her to go to London to see about Deirdre, but he was forced to reconsider when a summons arrived from Richard, the Duke of Gloucester. It was fall and the harvest was in, and Gloucester demanded Clifton’s arms of Ayliffe for a coup in Scotland. The duke offered a modest barony in exchange, but the summons was most firm, Clifton was not allowed to defer with gold or soldiers in his stead. In eleven
years, this was the first demand that Clifton could not escape. Additionally, Gloucester summoned the countess to the queen’s service.
“We will send word that you are ill,” Clifton had said.
Anne, though afraid of a beating or at least a tongue lashing, braved the outburst. “My daughter is there, my lord, and I have promised both Deirdre and the queen that I will winter at the palace. It is better that you take me there than to have me find an escort and travel alone after you are gone. It is important that I see to my daughter, and I will.”
Clifton knew that on the issue of her children, Anne would brave his worst temper. He grasped her by the upper arms, gave her a shaking, and warned her that if he heard any tales about her behavior while he was away, she would be severely punished. Then, cleverly, Clifton made plans to leave Gage at Ayliffe so that Anne would think about his future should any temptation present itself. He knew Anne well. She would not chance her son’s well-being.
For the first few weeks at court, Anne and Clifton stayed at Westminster, but Deirdre was not with them. Deirdre was with other maids of like circumstance, waiting on the queen, and secretly--or so the maids thought--looking over the men. Anne was not surprised to see that Deirdre was happy. But there was a new quietness about Deirdre that Anne did not quite understand – a secret smile, a twinkling eye, a lighter step.
Also at court were Lord deFrayne and his mother, but Anne did not chance the slightest word to either of them. She did see that the most talked about, and indeed, the most beautiful woman at court was frequently on his arm. Once, Clifton turned Anne toward Dylan and whispered in her ear, “Do you see, madam? I know that he is here, and if you even speak one word to him, I will hear of it.” Anne looked at Dylan and saw him kiss Elise Debarge’s neck. The pain bit her deep, but she kept it from her eyes as best she could and replied to her husband, “I believe the earl is otherwise engaged and does not seek conversation with any other.” Later, that same evening, when Clifton was engaged in a contest of strength, bracing arms with another knight at a table, she stole another look at Dylan and his current mistress. But Dylan did not fondle the lady – he gazed at Anne. Her glance was quick, for Anne trembled and had to look away. To tremble or weep in Clifton’s presence was dangerous. But the look haunted her.