by Robyn Carr
It was during this portion of the voyage that Anne decided to confide in Sir Gravis. But Gravis declined to hear her confessions. He had heard enough, he said, in her conversation with Sloan. And he had known for quite a while that he had delivered Gage to Dylan deFrayne. It was not solely out of loyalty to Lady Anne that he had offered to do so much. In part, Gravis was motivated by an enduring respect for Lord deFrayne – he hoped deFrayne would liberate Ayliffe once again. But Anne was not so sure. She was left to assume that Sloan searched for Dylan and meant to kill him.
By the time Gravis was able to get a local fisherman to pilot a small craft from Plymouth into the deep inlet in which the safe house was supposed to be located, they were exhausted and famished. Anne had expected that it would be a long while before they could rectify most of their ills, since she expected a vacant house. She was reduced to tears of relief and happiness, however, when she met the residents already there.
The caretaker was the first to meet Sir Gravis and inquire who they were. Next was Sir Markham, who had been bidden by Dylan to keep the women safe. And within the comfortable house Anne found Daphne and Deirdre. There were shrieking, embracing, and many tears among all the women when they were reunited, and it was a long while before they could even settle into the many questions and answers that had to pass between them.
Once Anne and Jane were fed and clean, the four women settled before a hearth fire with goblets of sweet wine. The house on the coast was cold, though it was July, and they burned wood year-round. For the first time in years, Anne felt as though she were secure and at home. Her first question was whether there was a midwife to attend Deirdre, who had blossomed full on Justin’s child and would have her lying-in soon.
“With Justin following a rebellion ... ,” Anne began.
“Did I not tell you that they would find a way?” Daphne laughed. “At least you had the good sense to get them wed in time.”
“At least you are not as young as I was,” Anne reminisced. “I was barely sixteen when Sloan came, and frightened. You are nearly a score. Ah, how my children grow old before my eyes.”
“I’m afraid it is up to us to deliver my great-grandchild. Praise the saints, I am still alive to see it come,” Daphne said with laughter in her voice. “At least there is more than me now.”
“Deirdre, you are well? No problems?”
“None, madam, but that there is no word from Justin or his uncle. We do not know where the men are, nor what they do. Sir Markham travels weekly by horse to Plymouth to buy supplies from the merchants he knows, and there is nothing yet. I am afraid for my husband, but not for his child.”
“And your brothers,” Anne said quietly.
“My brothers? Sloan is in Calais, and Gage ...”
Anne shook her head. “An explanation is long overdue.” She quietly excused herself and returned a moment later with a large tapestry bag for keeping sewing supplies. Resting it in her lap, her hands on it, she took a deep breath and began to tell her story. Oddly, she did not tremble. Deirdre, in love with her husband and full on his child, would not abandon her now.
“My sweeting, it is Dylan deFrayne I have been most loyal to all these years. He is the father of my sons, your brothers. It was not my wish to defy two husbands, to hurt my sons with the truth, nor to have you ashamed of me. I loved him because I could not make the love stop. Somehow, we always found each other. And now ... I sent Gage to Dylan to keep him safe from Clifton. And before Sloan left Ayliffe, he knew the truth. He hates me for it.”
Deirdre smiled at her mother. “I know, madam. I think I know all of it. Daphne had to explain to me why her son would go to such lengths to help you. I am not ashamed of you. I could never be that.”
Anne checked eyes with Daphne. Daphne shrugged. “There is a great deal of time to think and talk here, as you will soon learn.”
“I should thank you, but first tell me how long you have known.”
Daphne laughed lightly, too old now to blush over these scandalous trials. “I saw that light in Dylan’s eyes when he was a boy. It was the same glow that I had seen in another young knight’s eyes--your father’s. But Ferris Gifford and I were never to have our day. I was wed to Lord deFrayne before I could even think of running away with my chosen knight. Thenceforth, I gave all my energy to bringing up my sons. My life was not sad, dear Anne, but mostly good. I am only sorry that Ferris suffered so.
“When I saw that same glow in young Justin’s eyes, I knew we had to rise above that old feud. We cannot continue to torture our children with an old, futile hatred. Bless you, dear, for wisely delivering your daughter out of Ayliffe to my grandson.”
“Deirdre,” Anne said solemnly, “I did love Lord Forbes. I did try my best. And he adored you.”
Deirdre nodded, her eyes becoming misty, more in sympathy for her mother’s painful confession than any feelings of loss of her own. She had been only a little girl when her father died. She was a married woman now. She could not imagine never being in Justin’s arms again. “I ... think I know, madam, what you must have felt.”
“And Heathwick?” Anne asked.
“Trenton is there, but the place is full of Richard’s army. There is attainder on all the deFraynes from having it.”
“We may be attaindered from Ayliffe soon,” she sighed. “It will surely be closed to me.” She looked around the modest, pretty house. “We may have lost everything but life. Yet, if I could stay here all my days, I would be content.” She opened her cloth case and retrieved an old, yellowed parchment. The ink had faded badly, but she passed it to Daphne.
The older woman held it away from her eyes, straining to read the ancient writing. Finally, she looked up at Anne, her eyes round and surprised. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked.
“The letter from Lord deFrayne to Lord Gifford. Can you make out the writing?”
She smiled suddenly. “My eyes fail me these days, but one thing is clear. I had not thought to see it ended this way.” She rose to leave the room, carrying the letter with her. When she returned she had more than one parchment, the second one in two pieces from having been folded for many years. “I should have guessed we were of like minds, Anne. I, too, saved the precious letter.” She passed the pages to Anne. “The dates are at the top.”
Anne squinted to make them out. The letter written to the Earl of Heathwick by Lord Gifford of Raedelle was dated October 1, 1399. It explained that Henry of Bolingbroke was in London, Richard II was in the Tower, and Parliament had read Bolingbroke’s claim to the throne. Gifford offered to lay down the arms that had been raised in defense of Richard for amnesty. The request was somewhat humbled and called on his old friend for compassion. Gifford had already lost many in defense of Richard.
The other letter, Anne’s possession, written by the Earl of Heathwick, said very nearly the same thing, if just a bit more pompously, since his side had found the seat of power. DeFrayne called for Gifford’s surrender, but offered both friendship and safety for fealty to Henry. It was dated October 2.
“The first could not have been received,” she began. Daphne slowly shook her head. “Then who is to say--?”
“Exactly, my dear Anne. Had we compared the letters fifty or sixty years ago, we would have found the error. The couriers must have passed each other – the two small bands of knights and archers met each other too soon, midway between Heathwick and Raedelle. They may not have even known they fought each other. The battle that ended the lives of the Earl of Heathwick and the Earl of Raedelle was said to have happened on the fifth day of October, eight days before Henry’s coronation ... only three days after Lord deFrayne wrote his offer to Lord Gifford. The two earls may not have even received their respective offers.” She shrugged her shoulders. “There were no survivors. Who is to say there was not a third force of arms that did them all in, carrying away their own dead with them, removing their presence from the field? We will never know--there was war all over England then. Those of Raedelle were attain
dered and lost their high rank because of their loyalty to Richard.”
“It was all a mistake,” Anne said in a breath. Tears came to her eyes and she blinked hard. “None of it should have ever happened.”
“Later, I think, there were other reasons why they fought. After the deaths of Gifford and deFrayne there were other skirmishes. Each family sent out little troops to lie in wait for the opposition. But this was the beginning,” Daphne said, pointing to the old letters. “And that was nothing more than a mistake. God’s pity on us.”
Jane and Deirdre were both silent and alert as Anne and Daphne recounted the years and the battles they could remember between the families. Anne told Daphne how she had met Dylan and how they had put down the feud together in that first meeting. Finally, Anne pulled another letter from her satchel and gave it to Daphne.
“I don’t know why my father attempted a letter to you, since the date indicates you were already wed to Lord deFrayne. And perhaps this is one of the reasons my mother hated you so ... for I found it with her belongings after she was dead. But this was for you. You should finally have it.”
Daphne’s hands trembled slightly as she accepted the old letter. Tears came to her eyes, but she smiled bittersweetly. “He was a good and kind man,” she said softly. “I think he suffered much more than I did. Did you know, Anne,” she began, her voice cracking from emotion, “that it was your father who delivered me a tabard bearing Ayliffe’s badges, that I might have my son rescued?” Daphne nodded affirmatively before Anne could even respond. “Just before he died.” And then, rising, she very quietly asked to be excused. Daphne took the old letter out of the room. Anne suspected she wanted privacy for the reading, and for her memories.
“What will happen now, Mother?” Deirdre asked.
“Now?” Anne replied in kind. “There is nothing to do now but wait. I believe Sloan rides toward his own father with a hurt, angry vengeance. My youngest child has been delivered to his sire, and my husband is driven with a sick vengeance of his own, although in a moment of rare mercy he did allow me to escape. If I could end it all by tossing these mistaken letters into the fire, I would do so. But,” she said with a sigh, “I’m afraid it will not be that easy for us.” She reached into Deirdre’s lap, giving her hand a squeeze. “I will pray for Justin, my love. You are young and deserve to have happiness.”
For herself, Anne would ask for nothing.
There was no chapel, nor a priest to hear Anne’s prayers, but she found that both the wilderness beyond the house and the beach offered her a sense of serenity that aided her prayers of thanks, of repentance, and even her requests. There were few duties in the small house, all of which the caretaker’s wife and Jane could manage quite well. Sir Gravis and Sir Markham hunted, or traveled to Plymouth for news, so Anne was often able to enjoy the solitude and beauty of her surroundings. It was the first time in twenty-six years that she did not have to worry about the care and feeding of multitudes.
At this stage in her life there was very little she wanted for herself. She would be grateful just to know that her sons were safe and well. If she could hold her grandchild in her arms, her most ardent prayers would be answered. She prayed Dylan would survive the unrest in England, but she asked for no more, even on his behalf. They had been through so much, she would be content to know that they had repaid the saints by uniting Deirdre and Justin. She hoped Sloan would one day overcome his anger and his hatred of her, but she wasted little time praying for that. She had given Sloan all she had to give – she had taken him from her breast and nurtured him into manhood with the greatest of care. If he clung to useless hostility now, it was his burden.
For her husbands, both of them, she prayed that they would finally find peace. Brennan, after death, for his goodness and forgiveness, for the love he gave her when she was less than deserving. Clifton, in the remainder of his life, for those early days, as she had promised, because of his loyalty to her. She hoped Clifton could somehow overcome the madness that threatened to consume him.
The first month in the safe house brought Anne renewed health, for the quiet and peaceful place allowed her to empty her heart of hurts, pray for forgiveness, and give thanks for the many times she had been rescued. The second month brought cooler breezes and a new strength of spirit. She was two score plus one and felt many years younger. There were good years left to her – at least a score. Brennan had been far older when she wedded him, and even that shy girl of sixteen had found youthful vigor in her mature mate. Whether her days would be played out here, or abroad in some convent or sanctuary, she could look back over her life and feel with certainty that it had all been worth it. She had no regrets. She was only a woman, and her failings were no more than her virtues.
The leaves were beginning to fade when Deirdre went to childbed. The young woman had been courageous in wait for the birth, but was stricken with terror when the pains began, for there was neither physician nor midwife to attend her. She cried piteously for Justin, still fearful he would not live to see his child. She cried for herself, for there was no one to nurse the babe if she died. It took all of Anne’s and Daphne’s strength to see her through the birth.
Deirdre labored through one afternoon and the whole night, finally bringing forth a son at dawn through frightful screams of pain. She was held down, and it was Anne’s own hands that brought her grandson from her daughter’s womb. The infant was large and squalling, pink and healthy.
“He is alive?” Deirdre breathlessly asked. “Whole?”
Anne’s tears coursed down her cheeks. She was reminded of Sloan’s difficult birth, his large size. She remembered holding him to her breast, thankful to have that part of Dylan, though she might never again have him. Did Sloan find his father? she wondered. Did he ever know how he had been loved?
“Alive. Strong. Beautiful.” She wrapped the babe in a linen towel and passed him to Deirdre. She felt her hands trembling. She knew Deirdre would be all right, but she wondered about her other children. A mother, she learned, never stops fearing for her children, even when they have grown and left her.
Daphne’s hand was on Anne’s shoulder. “Leave Deirdre with me, Anne. She will sleep soon. It’s all right.”
She has seen my tears before, Anne thought, and has always understood. That my own mother never knew my joys or sorrows always pained me deeply, but that the gift of this woman’s love is mine, has always been mine, has ever eased the pain. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Anne removed the apron, soiled from the birth, and descended from Deirdre’s room. She looked at the inlet first, seeing the glitter of a rising sun move on the water, and then she opened the door to the front of the house to join the forest for the dawn. Each morning here was like a birth as the animals came alive, made their early morning noises, and the sea fog began to lift from the land. She could smell the fish, the dew on the trees and flowers, and the thick moss from the nearby marshes. It was good and clean.
The clearing before the house was small. She sat on a favored stump left by the caretaker last spring and let the chilling morning refresh her. Deirdre had done well.
Suddenly, the chirping ceased and she was aware of another sound. She heard the rustling of brush, but the morning fog was still dense and she could see only the trunks of the trees at the clearing’s edge. The marshes and woods around this place were plentiful with boar and deer, food for their table, and she stood, thinking she might have to make a dash for the front door if a beast of the forest threatened. Sir Markham and Sir Gravis were not yet evident this early morn, but the door was stout and would keep even the meanest beast at bay.
But the beast was not of the four-legged type. Through the brush that blocked the road, bushes that had purposely been left in place to keep the passages concealed, Anne saw the two booted feet. Her heart thumped at the sight, her first thought was that they could not be rousted and arrested by the king’s men on the morning of Deirdre’s birthing. Then the man broke through and she saw the wea
ry traveler emerge, his visor up and his tabard covered by a heavy cloak. Her lips issued a voiceless prayer. He led his horse and was followed by another man, still astride, likewise dressed for warmth. A third. Tears blurred her eyes.
Dylan left his mount while the others stayed astride behind him. He approached her slowly, limping slightly. There was a contrite smile on his lips, a smile of sorrow and joy. In his eyes there were also tears. He paused a few paces in front of her.
“The battle was done in Bosworth Field,” he quietly told her. “Richard fell to Henry Tudor’s own sword. So did Clifton Warner fall in the fighting.”
Her hand rose shakily toward him, as if she would touch his chest to be assured he was alive. “My sons?” she asked in a fearful whisper.
Dylan stepped closer, a limping step, and took her trembling hand in both of his. “Your family is come home, my love,” he whispered. “All of them.”
She looked past him and saw there were three riders moving closer to dismount, slowly penetrating the fog. She could not yet see their faces, but by their silhouettes she assumed it was Justin, Gage, and even Sloan. She looked at Dylan again. Dylan tilted his head and smiled. “It appears he grew into a man who could feel love ... for eventually he seemed to understand. Not well, but well enough to accept a father’s pain, plight, and commitment.”
Anne advanced, leaning against him and touching his beard and roughened cheeks with both hands. She sobbed his name and required his strength to keep her upright. “Do not leave me, Dylan. Do not leave me again.”
“Nay, my Anne,” he whispered. “Never again.”
Be sure to check out Robyn’s other historical novels, including