The Everlasting Covenant

by Robyn Carr

  Sloan watched his mother’s eyes and knew she spoke the truth. He glanced at Clifton, and back to Anne again. His lips parted in a rueful smile, but all that left him was a gust of air. “How could you?” he finally said to her, shaking his head.

  She faced him bravely, her hands clasped in front of her and her chin held high.

  “How could I tell the truth, Sloan? Or, how could I love Dylan deFrayne? Perhaps you should ask how I endured the terrible partings, the forbidden love I had for your father. Or perhaps you should question how I survived Clifton’s beatings, his drunken stupors, his wild rages, or the night he forced me to parade almost naked through the streets of Ayliffe to atone for my sins, though they never were against him.” Clifton took a step toward her, his face red and his fists clenched. “Nay!” she shouted at him, holding up a hand. “Do not slay me before Brainard dies, my lord, or you will hang for treason. It is within the rights of these witnesses to take you, for I am the countess here, and you are my husband.”

  She looked back at her son. One of the knights seated at the long trestle table near the door stood, as if ready, but Anne was uncertain whom this man would defend.

  “You could not tell these tales in privacy?” Sloan asked angrily.

  “Nay, I could not. The time for whispering has long since passed, Sloan. There is bad business afoot, and the choice is yours. Ayliffe does not really belong to any of us, unless it belongs to Deirdre. It does not belong to you any more than to Clifton. And what deFrayne does is for England, for a crown that was wrongfully taken. I bid you remember that deFraynes part for Edward was to watch the greedy brothers, and if anyone knows King Richard’s true colors, it is Dylan. If he is certain that Richard is wrongfully king, I believe him.

  “Clifton would use you to his own ends. No matter what he says. His plan is not for Richard, not for the king, but for himself. And these truths need to be heard by witnesses, for you may be certain that my husband will be quick now. Your life is in as much danger as mine. And I will not let you ride toward your own father with murder in your heart.”

  “Why do you tell me this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Would it not be better that I have never known?”

  “Now that you know the truth, anything you choose to do will be by your own will.”

  Sloan shook his head and paced nervously, trying to make sense of it all. When he paused before his mother, his eyes were angry and pinkened by the strain it took to keep from crying. “You are nothing but a whore,” he whispered to her, baring his teeth.

  Her hand flew with a natural motion as she slapped his face. Her eyes blazed with fury. It was not the name he had placed to her – she could not even deny that slur.

  “It matters not what you think of me,” she nearly shouted at him. “But you will hear this, my little lad. Your sire protected you for the sake of your reputation and inheritance, out of love for you, though he longed to know you, to call you son. And Lord Forbes, my husband, kept you safe and well and rich, out of love for you. And I suffered through terror, and pain, and even beatings that might have rendered me maimed, for love of you. God kept us all safe to see you grown, nurtured, taught. Many times we could have fled, but we always held fast to Ayliffe, for you.

  “Do what you will,” she said. “Call me by whatever terrible name you think I deserve. Even Ayliffe is not worth more lies and Clifton’s trickery, you have the truth now. If in anger you abandon us all, or even if you choose Clifton’s plans to cover the truth, Sloan, you know whence you came, and there will be no excuses for you.” She took a deep breath. “If you hunt down your own father, a man you once knew and admired, you will at least know what terrible sin you commit. And ...” She glanced at Clifton. “Gage is already with him.”

  “What!” Clifton thundered. “What have you done?” He came toward her in a fury, his hands outstretched toward her throat as if he would choke her on the spot. She did not back away or even flinch. She wished to know the truth.

  Sloan stepped between them, his back to Anne, facing Clifton. Clifton stopped almost instantly. There would be no tussle. “Nay,” Sloan said almost solemnly. “Perhaps she is not good, but she is my mother. You will not abuse her. It is no longer your right.” He turned around and faced his mother. “And it is unnecessary. I will not live as the bastard son of a rebel.”

  “Think hard on it, Sloan,” she said.

  “Oh yea,” he said, his eyes tearing despite his struggle to maintain control. “It should never have happened thus, madam. You should never have passed me off as another man’s son – you should have borne me rightly, naming the sire. Now you and Clifton have left me dirty work to do.” He sighed heavily. “I will bring Gage home.”

  Her lips trembled, but she clenched her hands together so tightly that her nails bit into her flesh. She remained silent, looking into his eyes, praying he would change his mind.

  “Don’t you beg me to spare deFrayne, Mother?”

  “Nay,” she whispered. “If you wish to kill him, you will find easy success. He will not raise a sword against you, Sloan. He loves you. His silence was for you.”

  “He is England’s rebel now, alive, he can say me his son. His illegitimate son.”

  “You are who you are, whether he lives or dies.”

  “I think I hate you, madam,” Sloan whispered. He looked at her long and hard and then, whirling away, quit the hall.

  Anne stared at Clifton for a moment and then with eyes downcast, slowly ventured toward the stair. She was one step up when she heard a shuffle and the clang of crossed halberds, causing her to stiffen her spine and pause.

  “Do you protect her from me? Even now?” she heard her husband ask. She sensed that the knights prevented him from following her.

  “Yea, milord. Even now,” one quietly replied.

  ***

  It was hard to meet the eyes of her villeins, for Anne was certain that the word had spread rapidly through Ayliffe. That the Countess of Ayliffe had preserved for another noble a forbidden love that defied two marriages and shamed her children made for a scandalous story. In the three quiet days since her son had left Ayliffe, she kept to her rooms and forbade Jane to repeat what the residents were saying about her.

  Then Clifton came to her chamber. He was allowed to enter by her bower guards and, once within, he dismissed Jane. The servant looked at him warily. “There is no need to worry, mistress. We only converse, my wife and I.”

  When they were alone he leaned wearily against the hearth wall, staring into the glowing embers. When he finally turned, Anne saw something rare in his eyes. He was sober and controlled. “What has happened?” he asked solemnly. “All I wanted was you.”

  “Then why?” she replied. “Why seek more of Ayliffe? Why pursue revenge on Dylan, through his own son? Surely you knew I could not let you do that.”

  “You could never love me,” he said.

  “I gave you all I promised to give you,” she replied. “I was loyal, I stood firm beside you; I never strayed. Am I the fool, Sir Cliff, that I did not see that one day all those things you said would keep you happy would fail to be enough for you? Would title to Ayliffe succor you where I could not? Would Dylan’s death please you where I failed? Would Sloan’s pain give you pleasure?” She shook her head. “Ours was not a perfect marriage, Sir Cliff, but we might have survived it better. Do you pretend that it was love you wished from me? Would you even know it if I loved you? Twas the brew you loved, the fat table and wenches. Was that how you proposed to gain my undying love? From your drunken rages? From your fist?”

  “I did love you,” he said sincerely, with a pleading look in his eyes. “It was not my desire to hurt you, but to force you to love me. You are wise and scholarly, Anne. Why do you not see that you’ve made me a desperate man?”

  “And what could I have done, Clifton? I tried my hardest ... until it was too late.”

  He looked down into the embers again. One hand was pressed against the wall and the other was plan
ted on his hip. Both hands shook.

  “Richard has called my promised arms to Westminster. I am leaving to answer his call. Those left at Ayliffe will let you escape, if you can do so without causing a great stir. I suggest you flee. I do not want to hurt you more, but if you are still here when Richard has finally put down the rebellion, I cannot swear that I will be a kind husband. Sometimes it happens to me without my desire. Hide well.”

  He went to her chamber door without looking at her again.

  “There were some years, Sir Cliff, that were not painful,” she said quietly. “I respected your strength, your devotion to my sons. I thank you for that. I am sorry that we failed each other so badly in the end. In my memory, I will try to keep only those first, good years.”

  She saw him nod after a moment. Then he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Clifton Warner went to London to attend an execution, but the king vacillated; he postponed Brainard’s execution, waiting for Sloan. Clifton knew with certainty, for the first time, that Richard was not inclined to reward him. All would pass over him en route to Sloan, who was young, smart, and sober.

  Clifton had abandoned his indulgences on the day Sloan left Ayliffe, at first from absolute necessity. He did not wish to be caught sleeping off a heavy and intoxicating meal when some conspiracy was blooming. He did not fully trust the villeins at Ayliffe, and later he wondered about the men he took with him to Westminster. It was fear that kept him sober and without wenches.

  Later, it was penance he did. The demons of envy, jealousy, and greed had overpowered him and caused him to try to crush the only person he had ever loved.

  The date of Brainard’s execution came and went. Richard was busy with spies, soldiers, supporters, and plans. The king meant to wipe out the rebels and maintain control of his kingdom, and he would do nothing to the Ayliffe heir without the next heir in place. And Sloan, who had left home with an oath that he would not live as Dylan’s illegitimate son, had not been heard from. In frustration, Clifton went to the Tower.

  Brainard was not an important political prisoner, and so he was allowed a room, locked from the outside, but without guards posted. The dozen or so that guarded the corridor where he passed had seen Clifton enter, but his presence in Westminster and the Tower was common and no one questioned him. A ring of keys that he had lifted from the cookery served him well, and on the fifth try he found one that opened Brainard’s door.

  He stood just inside and waited for Brainard to look up. It irked Clifton instantly that Brainard sat at a writing desk; his room was appointed too richly for a prisoner. He had a bed, a chest, a table, which he used for eating and writing, a stool, and a generous stack of papers, grooming articles, bowl and pitcher.

  But Clifton was pleased to see that Brainard was pale and thin. He was not doing well in the Tower. His pallor spoke of no sunlight, and the stench in the room was hideous. Dark circles hung under the man’s eyes, and his hair was falling out – he had a round bald head and long locks of reddish-gray hair to his shoulders. His clothing, once rich and ornate, was now old and threadbare, and his shoes were falling apart. But he smiled at Clifton.

  “My teacher,” Brainard said ruefully. “It has always been between us, hasn’t it, Sir Cliff? Betimes I thought she was my enemy, or her brat, Sloan. But in the end it was you.”

  Clifton said nothing. He closed the door quietly, not bothering to lock it, and faced Brainard.

  “Did she send you?”

  “Nay. No one sent me.”

  Brainard laughed. “Not even the king? What of my execution, then? I had marked off the days, what is amiss? Or, my question should be, why must I die? What was it I did? Oh, of course, I lived. That’s it, isn’t it? I lived long enough to be a threat to Ayliffe.”

  “Nay,” Clifton said, his voice rumbling like a distant thunderstorm. “You are no threat. Ayliffe has already been awarded. Sloan takes Ayliffe.”

  Brainard shook his head, and a sadness crept into his eyes. “I do not know why you have betrayed me,” Brainard said. “Once, we were friends. Once, I looked up to you.”

  Clifton laughed. “When was that? You were no more than six years old and named me your lackey. You slept me in the stable to protect your harnesses and shields. Even she did not do that to me.”

  “Oh? She treated you so well, then?”

  “Aye,” Clifton replied simply, recalling that even as he had struck her and her guards had held him from killing her, she had addressed him as a wife should, as “my lord.”

  “Now seems a strange time to come here to gloat. I am imprisoned. Why bother?”

  “For her,” Clifton said.

  “And ... was she worth it, Cliff?” he asked quietly.

  Clifton’s eyes watered, but he ground his teeth, causing his jaw muscles to tense. “All she wanted was to be left in peace. All she ever asked was that no harm come to her or her children.”

  “Her children by deFrayne,” Brainard flung with an ugly grimace.

  “You would have hurt her, no matter the sire of her children. You hated her the first moment she arrived in your home. I was there and I remember.”

  Brainard began to laugh nervously. “If you do me any harm on her behalf, Sir Cliff, you are a fool. She will not thank you for it. Ayliffe is rich – there is room enough--”

  He broke off suddenly when Clifton turned back toward the door. He hung the ring of keys on the nail by the door, and one of his hands crept under his short tunic as he approached Brainard. Brainard stood and kept the narrow table between them. In a swift motion Clifton drew the thick, sharp knife from his belt and plunged it, underhand, into Brainard’s midsection. The younger man’s eyes widened in shock, but the assault was so fast that he had not even raised his hands against Clifton. His palms were still pressed to the table, and a stream of blood began to run on the parchment on which he had been writing. A cough escaped Brainard, then another as his knees gave out and he began to sink behind the table.

  Clifton held fast to the knife as the victim fell, and finally held the bloody weapon in his hand. Brainard was still, his hands grasping his opened gut. Clifton walked around the small table and crouched, wiping the bloodied knife on Brainard’s shirt. He slowly stood, looking down at his first student. Brainard looked like an old man now, bald, pale, lifeless. His eyes were open – he died with the shock of betrayal etched on his face.

  “You never understood,” Clifton said. “Aye, she was worth it. She asked nothing of me but what I offered. And she would belong to me still, had I not betrayed her.”

  He replaced his knife in his belt, grabbed the keys, and departed, locking the chamber door. Brainard would be found when his next meal was delivered. Clifton left the Tower to go back to Westminster, but he left by the back stair. He dropped the borrowed keys in a barrel in the courtyard when no one was about.

  She would never have asked it of him. She never wished for any man’s death. Sloan was the rightful heir to Ayliffe, if not through birthright, then through his training and knowledge. Clifton was not certain, though, that he could keep himself from hurting Anne again. He was most unsure of his demon. Every moment the devil struggled in him, wishing for his day again. But at least Brainard could not be freed now to assault them.

  He hoped battle would come soon. He could not endure the waiting.

  ***

  One could almost feel the unrest in the rising of the dawn, in the sunset. Anne and Jane took ship with Gravis, for the land route through most of the breadth of England was far too dangerous. She left her people without a leader for the first time since her marriage to Brennan Forbes. She said good-bye to very few, for she did not know who was still loyal to her. And she did not know who owned Ayliffe. By now it could be Clifton, or Sloan, or even Brainard. She advised the castellan to open the gate at his own discretion.

  “You take very little,” Gravis had commented when he saw her modest baggage.

  She had taken only simple clothing, some of the jewel
s that were hers from Brennan, some silver to see them through. Beyond the safe house to which Dylan had directed her, she had no idea where she would be welcome. Ayliffe would be at the fulcrum of a devastating struggle, and she knew better than to move toward Richard’s court. There were few acquaintances who would open their homes to her, especially after the gossip about her and her children had circulated. She thought about Elizabeth, still in sanctuary. The queen, now called Dame Grey since her marriage to Edward had been declared void, would welcome her. But Anne did not dare chance London.

  “I am leaving all this behind, Sir Gravis. A woman needs very little for retirement.”

  Anne had always felt her heart tug sentimentally when she traveled away from Ayliffe, for she had always loved her home. She had felt safe there, even through the brutal last years with Clifton. But this departure was different. She would never return. If her son succeeded in gaining the estate, he would not welcome her as the dowager. Clifton would only die there, fat and encumbered. Brainard? He might send out bands of soldiers in search of her. Surely he would hope to find her and make her pay. Anne thought of her hideaway and knew even that would be temporary. Perhaps she would eventually have to go to the continent and find a cloister of forgiving nuns. But first, she must learn of the fate of her children--Deirdre and Gage.

  They traveled three days to Harwich by palfrey, pulling one cart for the slight baggage. They boarded a ship at Harwich that was bound for Calais. In the foreign city Anne disembarked with Sir Gravis to find the best vessel to carry them back to England and around the southern coast. She finally found a merchant trader that would land at Portsmouth. That portion of the journey was the most terrifying, since the king’s ships occupied the Channel. Anne and Jane hid in the bowels of the ship for three days. At Portsmouth Sir Gravis was able to find a boat that would take them on to Plymouth, but the ship was not in good repair and was blown off course in a summer squall, leaving them aboard, tossed about mercilessly, for over a week.