by Karen Ranney
Karen Ranney
My True Love
To Eura West
A woman of great moral courage
who taught me to love learning
and how to be brave
Contents
Prologue
“Is she going to die, Betty?”
Chapter 1
Anne tied the rope to the post erected for just…
Chapter 2
Anne thought that the only jarring note to their journey…
Chapter 3
“Why in hell did you not get treatment for this,…
Chapter 4
Her laughter was full and rich, coaxing forth his own.
Chapter 5
Hannah sat in a chair beside her, eyes closed. But…
Chapter 6
She was capable of sitting for hours focused upon a…
Chapter 7
Anne held tight to his hand, wished that she were…
Chapter 8
Anne answered the knock on her door to find Betty…
Chapter 9
“I knew I would find you here,” Richard said, looking…
Chapter 10
Stephen sat against a backdrop of yellowing brick. His black…
Chapter 11
Anne sat in her chamber and surveyed the night. She’d…
Chapter 12
Stephen rode Faeren hard, the straining muscles of the animal…
Chapter 13
Betty sent one of the maids to the place Stephen…
Chapter 14
The ale was hearty, the cheese sour but balanced by…
Chapter 15
The view of rolling hills and green-bearded land was serene…
Chapter 16
Stephen didn’t bother greeting the royal messenger, simply walked back…
Chapter 17
Stephen placed the codex back into its coffer, locked it…
Chapter 18
Stephen turned as William entered the room.
Chapter 19
“It’s all your fault, you know, that you’re trapped here,”…
Chapter 20
Anne looked up as the door to Stephen’s study opened.
Chapter 21
Stephen stood at one of the dormer windows on the…
Chapter 22
Hours later she roused. She had not drifted to sleep…
Chapter 23
“He has agreed?” General Penroth stared at the messenger who…
Chapter 24
Stephen walked into the kitchen, intent upon one of his…
Chapter 25
“If you will just roll with the gait of the…
Chapter 26
They rested at noon the next day, the site a…
Chapter 27
“You look pleased to be in Scotland again,” Stephen said.
Chapter 28
The dungeons of Dunniwerth were as dim and dreary as…
Chapter 29
“You haven’t said why you left Dunniwerth, Anne.”
Chapter 30
Anne did not want to be at Dunniwerth when Stephen…
Chapter 31
In only moments she returned to the clearing.
Epilogue
Stephen.
Afterword
About the Author
Other Books by Karen Ranney
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Dunniwerth Castle, Scotland
January, 1629
“Is she going to die, Betty?”
The child, Anne, stirred in her bed. The low murmurs summoned her from sleep. At first she thought it was the distant rumble of thunder. But it wasn’t an oncoming storm, only a soft impassioned whisper that seemed to brush against her cheek. She turned and cuddled into the soft down pillow. There was warmth beneath the covers and safety within this room. But outside the chamber, the world was a bitterly cold place as Dunniwerth shivered beneath a mantle of snow. The moon waned, the chill air frosted the lips and made painful the breath.
“Oh, my little love, I do not know. But I must go and be with her now. You must be strong and brave, Stephen.” A faint scream punctuated the words.
“I will, Betty.”
Anne was enticed into awareness by the sound of a boy’s voice. Young, still, with a hint of what it might be when he grew to manhood. She rubbed her fists against her eyes, then blinked them open and yawned. It was dark, perhaps even midnight, when the world should be shadowed and still. Instead, there were people in her room.
Anne sat up and peered through the opening of the bed hangings at the foot of the bed. There was no one there. Her parents slept on the other side of the castle, their chamber reached through a long and wide hallway that loomed with shadows and drafts.
It was only the edge of a dream, she told herself, and lay back against her pillow, wrapping her arms around it.
“Please. Do not let her die.”
She blinked and sat up again. A frown marred her eight-year-old forehead as she scrambled to the side of the bed. She pulled open the hangings but there was no one there. She slipped from the bed, made a face as her bare feet touched the cold wooden floor, then pulled the extra wool blanket from the foot of the bed. Wrapping herself in it, she scurried to the window.
She had to stand on tiptoe in order to open the latch. The shutter opened silently on oiled hinges. From here she could see the moonlit outline of a sentry on Dunniwerth’s square tower, his breath a whisper of white against the dark sky. But no one stood on the walk outside her window. She closed the shutter and darted to her chamber door.
She drew it open, peered outside. The hallway was empty, save for a sentry seated on a stool near her parents’ door. She lifted her hand in a wave, but he did not respond. Hamish was asleep again.
It was only a dream.
She was Anne Sinclair, the only child of Robert Sinclair, laird of Dunniwerth. She was very much her father’s daughter, and he highly prized courage. For that reason, she always pretended not to be afraid of storms, and dared herself to touch bugs. Now she pushed aside the bed hangings and slipped into her bed again, huddling beneath the covers. But instead of laying down and pulling the blanket over her head, which was what she dearly longed to do, she scooted along the soft feather mattress until her back was against the carved headboard. Her arms went around her blanketed knees as she stared into the chilled darkness.
It was only a dream. Just like a storm, it had passed. There is nothing to be afraid of, Anne.
“I will be very good if you let her live. I’ll not go to Langlinais, and I’ll be more diligent with my Latin. I’ll try to like my father. Only, please, let her live.”
A voice, not her own. The sound of a young boy’s entreaty to God.
She knelt up on the bed and clenched her fists together, hid them beneath her arms.
Ian told her that ghosts liked to frighten young girls. But Ian was a ten-year-old bully who liked to frighten her.
They wait until you’re asleep, Anne, and then creep up to the side of your bed, all soft and silent-like. If your foot falls over the edge, they gnaw on it.
They know if you’ve disobeyed and come to punish you.
Ghosts would like you, Anne. You’ve eyes like a puppy.
She should waken her mother. She would come into the bed with her, reassure her with a soft voice. But Anne was eight, not a bairn.
Was it Ian, come to play a trick on her? Her eyes darted around the room. Her father would not take kindly to anyone invading the sleeping chambers of Dunniwerth, let alone a boy who had made her life miserable ever since she could remember. He was a bully, was Ian, and she tried to ignore him when she could.
“Please, God. Do not le
t her die.”
Anne clenched a fist tight against her mouth until her teeth bit against her knuckles. There, in front of her, at the end of the bed, the air seemed to waver, turning silvery along the curved edges. It looked not unlike one of the bubbles escaping from the laundry tubs on wash day, gliding on the air and rising as high as the treetops around Dunniwerth.
But it wasn’t wash day. She was at Dunniwerth on a Monday night in January. All these things she repeated to herself even as the bubble expanded.
A boy sat on the edge of a bed.
Suddenly it was silent in the room. The faint screaming had stopped. The boy brushed the backs of both hands against his cheeks as the door opened and a tall woman entered. Her apron was spotted with blood, her brown hair damp from sweat.
“There, now, I knew I’d find you still here,” she said gently.
The boy looked up at her, a look of concern on his face. “Is Mother all right, Betty?” There was a quaver to his voice.
“Have you seen nothing of your father, then?” the woman asked.
He shook his head.
“It’s all well and good then,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “that he’s stayed in London.”
Betty knelt on the floor before the boy, reached out with large, red-knuckled hands to touch his shoulder.
“Your mother’s gone to God, Stephen, just as we all must one day. She’s taken your baby brother with her.”
She brushed back his black hair when he said nothing. “Such things sometimes happen, my dear boy. Women do not always survive childbirth. It is the way of the world.”
Betty cupped his cheek, smiled gently into his face. He only bent his head, but Anne could see that his hands were clasped into fists on either side of him. A moment later, the woman left the room.
“I don’t want her to be with God,” Stephen whispered. “I want her to stay with me.”
Tears fell down his face, unchecked. As she watched, Anne felt a tear slide down her own cheek.
What would she do if her mother died? Even the thought of it made her hurt.
Anne could not bear to see the boy’s silent grief. It seemed so much worse because he was alone. She stretched out her arms to him, as if she could pierce the bubble that separated the two of them. If she could be with him it would be better.
“Don’t cry, Stephen,” she said, her voice a chilled whisper in the wintry night. “Please, don’t cry.”
Her hands stretched out imploringly, palms up. As if she expected him to put his hand on hers and pull her through the silvery mist. She wanted to touch him, to help him.
Nothing happened, even as she wished it with all her heart. She could hear the sounds of his tears, felt them on her own cheeks. Felt, too, the horrible gray pain surrounding him.
It hurt, this grief. More than anything she’d ever felt. As if she cried inside, too, but those tears were hot.
One moment he was there, the next he was gone. The bed hangings were simply bed hangings, not a giant bubble. The ceiling was straight and flat, not curved. The only silvery shimmer was the moonlight filtering into the room from between the shutters.
Anne sat back against the headboard and studied the shadows around her. There was nothing there, nothing but soft silence. Even the sentries outside on the walls seemed to be mindful of the sleeping occupants of Dunniwerth.
Her hands clenched on the edge of the sheet as she brought it up to her face.
She stared into the darkness, certain of only one thing. It had not been a dream. Her tears were proof enough. That, and the aching emptiness she felt inside.
The loch bordering Dunniwerth land was not large; Anne could see its dimensions clearly from her chamber window. The island in the middle of it was mostly overgrown, a place of trees and green shrubbery.
The island had always been forbidden to her. Up until this moment she’d never questioned such a dictate. Nor had she dreamed of disobeying it. This morning, however, she sat in the flat-bottom boat and pushed herself away from the small dock. It took her some time to figure out how to use the oars, but finally she did.
This is wrong, Anne. You should not do this. Father will be angry. The admonitions accompanied the journey, but they made no difference. She had to see the wise woman. She had to know.
She reached the island finally just as her palms, reddened and sore, began to hurt. Placing the oars in the bottom of the boat, she jumped onto the shore at a place that looked to be well trod. There was no dock as at Dunniwerth, only another small boat tied to a post embedded in the earth. She tied the rope of hers to the same stake and followed a path that led away from the shoreline.
A few moments later Anne came to a clearing. In the middle of it was a tidy cottage. The thatch was so thick upon the roof that it draped down the walls, shading the small structure before touching the ground and blending into the grass. It was as if the cottage were part of the earth itself. A meandering path set in a necklace of smooth stones led the way to the front door, now ajar.
The old wise woman was said to be privy to all manner of knowledge. She could reduce a boil simply by looking at it. Or ease an aching limb by the touch of her hand. Too, she was known for the mixtures that eased a winter’s cough and the bitter tea that soothed a bellyache. But most of all, she could see inside a person’s heart and divine the future. Anne had heard some girls whispering about having their fortunes told.
This pleasant-looking, mushroom-shaped cottage did not appear to be a place of mystery but one, rather, of laughter. From somewhere came the sound of singing, a tune so light that it urged her closer.
As Anne neared the door, the song ceased. Inside, a shadow turned, came toward the door, was bathed in a shaft of sunlight.
Hannah, the wise woman, was neither old nor frightening. Her face bore a type of sweetness not unlike that of Anne’s mother. Her smile was coaxing, gentle, her eyes the color of a summer sky. Her blond hair was wound into braids and sat upon her head like a crown. She’d adorned the coronet with tiny blue and white flowers. The dress she wore was a simple one, flowing to her ankles and topped with a spotless apron.
She stood quiet and still with her hands folded together at her waist, a tall, slender woman who bore Anne’s wondering inspection with a simple grace.
“Did your father send you?” Even her voice was different from what Anne had expected. It seemed crafted of small bits of melody.
Anne shook her head and dared a word. “No.” She looked away, then back at the woman, who stood motionless before her.
“Then why have you come? To have your future told?”
Anne could not frame the answer. It was some thing more important than the future that she wished to learn.
“Give me your hand, then,” Hannah said kindly.
Anne slowly extended her hand and placed it in the wise woman’s. Hannah looked down at the palm. Her smile never faltered as she studied it.
“You will have a long and prosperous life. You will be happy all your days.”
The words tumbled from Anne’s lips before she could catch them. “Am I a witch?”
The smile disappeared from Hannah’s face, and once again there was the impression of stillness.
“Why would you think that?”
“I see things,” Anne whispered. Visions that made her hurt, they were so real.
Hannah stepped aside, a wordless invitation, and Anne slowly entered the shadowy cottage. It was small and tidy, with a scent of spice in the air. A rack of hardening candles sat near the lone window. From somewhere came the chirp of a bird, and she finally located the sound coming from a wicker cage along the far wall. A sparrow sat at the bottom, his wing wrapped with a length of cloth.
“He’ll be fine in a week or two. He flew into my door. Didn’t you, little one? I think he was trying to impress a lady bird.”
Hannah reached out and placed her hand upon Anne’s head, the fingers warm against her scalp. The other hand tipped up Anne’s chin. Her blue eyes softened
with some emotion Anne could not discern. It was not anger, nor was it pity. It looked not unlike her mother’s glance when she’d done something well, pride mixed with love.
“What sort of things do you see, Anne Sinclair?”
“How do you know my name?” Fear sat like a cold and solid thing in her stomach.
Hannah’s smile broadened. “You have your father’s eyes and the color of his hair.”
“Will you tell my parents that I’ve come here?” She stepped away from the wise woman, trying to hide her fear.
“If you do not wish me to, I shall not.”
“They would not understand.” Silence, while she met the woman’s gaze. “Please do not tell them. My mother would cry and my father think me evil.”
“Evil?” The word seemed to hang in the air between them, drifting there in the silence. Hannah’s hand felt cool as she reached out and cupped Anne’s cheek.
“I must be,” she said softly. To want to be at a place she had never seen, with a boy she did not know. But when the visions came, they seemed to take her from Dunniwerth, and make her wish with all her heart not to be here. To be, instead, with him. Wasn’t that evil?
“Then tell me, Anne. Tell me what you see and why you think yourself evil.”
Silence while Anne wondered how to frame the words. Then she realized it did not matter how she spoke them. The wise woman would either believe her or she wouldn’t.
Twice more she’d seen pictures of the boy, Stephen, in her mind. Just before sleep he came, until she could almost believe it was a dream.
“I see a boy,” she said, reaching into the wicker cage with one finger. The bird uttered a sharp little chirp of alarm, then subsided. He did not flee from her gentle touch upon his head, but instead seemed almost to lean into it. “A boy named Stephen.”
She turned and looked at Hannah. “I feel like I know him.” As if he was my very best friend.
Hannah went to a jar, filled two tumblers from it, then placed them on the table. Sitting on one chair, she smiled and gestured to the other.
“Come,” she said, “share some cider with me. It comes from Dunniwerth fruit.”
Anne pulled her fingers free of the cage, held them out as if they belonged to someone else. They still trembled, and she curled them close to her palms.