My True Love

by Karen Ranney

  She reached out one hand to forestall him before he began to read. “How do you say ‘warrior’ in Latin?”

  “Proeliator.”

  “Not a pretty word.”

  “Not a pretty occupation,” he conceded.

  “What will you do after the war?”

  He smiled. “A question that is forbidden on the battlefield. Did you know?”

  She shook her head.

  “A superstition. Never question another soldier as to his future plans. That way, fate is not challenged.”

  “Otherwise he may not survive?”

  “So it is said. But we are not on the battlefield now, and I’ll answer you,” he said. He sat against the trunk of a tree, looked up at the canopy of branches above them. “I want to rebuild Langlinais,” he said. “One day I’ll replace the windows, erect walls where there are now only piles of bricks. I’ve plans to have the gates at both ends of the baileys restored.”

  “A monumental undertaking,” she said.

  “Perhaps a foolish one,” he conceded. “As it is, Langlinais can barely withstand another disaster. But it seems a shame to let crumble into dust something that has stood for so long.”

  “It is your heritage.”

  He smiled. “My father used to say that nobility is my heritage.”

  “He sounds like a very wise man,” she said.

  He raised up one knee, placed his right arm upon it. He looked off into the distance. “I used to think him uncommonly so until I realized that he took credit for the thoughts of other men. He was fond of quoting historians and philosophers. Except, of course, he claimed their words as his own. It is easy for a rich man to give away a loaf of bread. But for a poor man to do the same is an act of true generosity. Give any man a country, and he can be a king. Narrow his kingdom to a hovel, and you’ll discover the nature of the man. All repeated wisdom, borrowed words. I remember the first time I read something he was purported to have said. It was a great shock.”

  “How sad,” she said, “that he did not trust his own thoughts.”

  He glanced over at her, the expression on his face one of surprise.

  “There is a woman at Dunniwerth who does the same. If she hears a tale that sounds intriguing, then she retells the story as if it is her own. As if her life is not worthy enough without adventure and she must collect the experiences of others in order to enhance it. Perhaps she simply wishes for people to like her. Or admire her.”

  “I doubt my father cared about the opinions of others. Except for the king, perhaps. But he never understood that the king had little use for him. As long as Charles received Langlinais loans from time to time, he was content to have a fawning earl in attendance.”

  “Why do you fight for him when you so obviously dislike him?”

  “My opinions do not matter,” he said, smiling. “If all men refused to fight unless they admired their leader, there would be nothing but anarchy.”

  “Or peace, Stephen.”

  “I suspect this same argument has been made between men and women since before Juliana’s time.”

  He opened the codex, effectively changing the subject.

  “‘There were those who would judge Sebastian, although he was a force of goodness and kindness. Judgment is in itself a form of evil, that one would condemn without kindness, seek to destroy without understanding. But his horrible secret became the basis for the miracle of Langlinais. It is a sad thing that no one will ever know it transpired or that Sebastian of Langlinais was touched by God.’”

  “A miracle?”

  His frown echoed her confusion. “I’ve never heard of a Langlinais miracle,” he admitted.

  “‘I have come to wonder and to marvel at the workings of Almighty God, that He might have granted me this joy. Too many years separated us, but they were years of preparation, each for the other. I would have loved him regardless of his secret and blessed the fact of it.’”

  “Do you think Sebastian loved her as much as she loved him?” she asked softly.

  “I’m certain he did,” Stephen said. He glanced over at her. “You’ve never seen it, have you?”

  “Seen what?”

  “Come, and I’ll show you how much Sebastian loved her.”

  He stood and held out his hand for her.

  A few minutes later they were at Langlinais. He led her through a doorway and to a place she’d never before seen, not even in her visions.

  The timbers that had once supported the roof of this chamber had long since crumbled to dust. The back wall had caved in upon the hall, and bricks lay in an orderly pile, a monument to destruction. There was rubble in the middle of the chamber, bits of stone and wood that looked to have fallen from the second floor.

  But there were clues as to what purpose this chamber had once served. A few shards of ruby-colored glass hinted at a once magnificent stained glass window. The placement of an altar rail was still marked in the stone floor.

  Anne followed Stephen through the chapel to where a large statue dominated one corner. A woman and a man stood together, their figures life-sized and carved in white stone. She was lovely, the first blush of youth having left her face, but the hint of it was there still. Her smile appeared to hide a secret, the twinkle in her eyes hinted at mischief or a deeper humor. The man who stood beside her was dressed as a knight. His face reminded her of Stephen’s, his smile gentle and restrained, but the expression in his eyes matched that of his companion. His fingers held the woman’s in greatest gentleness, the gesture, even carved in stone, one of deep reverence.

  “This is Juliana,” Stephen softly said. “Their graves were moved, but this effigy must have been too heavy to transport. It’s remained here ever since their deaths.”

  “She was very beautiful,” Anne said, awed.

  “I wonder if she was truly so or if Sebastian only saw her that way. He had the effigy carved after her death. It is said that he described each feature in such loving detail that the sculptor fashioned her likeness exactly. Then, when it was done, Sebastian went to their chamber and lay down to die.”

  Anne touched the statue’s arm, almost surprised to feel the cold stone beneath her fingers. Juliana’s smile was so real, the look in her eyes one of such transcendent joy that she looked almost alive.

  “Sebastian showed his love by this statue, while Juliana did so with her chronicle. Deeds versus words,” she said softly.

  “Perhaps it is the way of men and women,” he said, turning to her.

  “Except for poets,” she said, “who would give the lie to that theory.”

  “Who is Alexander Scott?”

  She glanced at him, surprised.

  “You mentioned him that day and said it was not appropriate poetry for the moment.”

  She could feel her face warm.

  “It was something I heard,” she said.

  “When you were silent and listening?” he teased.

  She nodded.

  “Tell me.” His smile dared her, and she was not above a challenge.

  “‘The thing that may her please

  My body sal fulfil,

  Whatever her disease,

  It does my body ill.

  My bird, my bonny one

  My tender babe venust

  My love, my life alane,

  My liking and my lust.’”

  His smile had slipped a bit or simply changed character. “Another man ardent in his thoughts of a woman.”

  “Did you hear no poetry in London?”

  “Scores of it. Reams of it,” he said. “Too much to wish to quote. Most of it was written for only one purpose. When that was accomplished, I doubted the words survived.”

  She smiled, well aware for what purpose the poetry had been written.

  “Did you like London?”

  Stephen touched Juliana’s hand. A curious benediction. Anne placed hers beside his.

  “There are parts to London that are surprisingly beautiful. But then you turn the corner, and th
ere is squalor. One moment you’re in a building crafted with the skill of Inigo Jones and the next in a street with buildings built up so much the sky is hardly visible.” He smiled, obviously reminiscing. “I can speak, read, and write five languages, but there are places in London where I cannot understand my fellow Englishman. It took days for me to decipher that ‘stren’ meant the Strand, and ‘wostrett’ Wood Street. Sometimes I felt as if I were woefully out of place there, that it was a grand jest that everyone but I understood.”

  “I’ve felt that way sometimes,” she said.

  “Have you?” He glanced over at her.

  “Don’t you think everyone does?”

  “Even at Dunniwerth?”

  “Haven’t you noticed,” she said, only half teasing, “that it’s possible to be the most alone when there are other people about?”

  “When I’ve been in a crowd lately, it’s been a battle. I’ve less time to worry about whether I’m lonely than whether I stay alive or not.”

  “Do you ever talk about it, Stephen?”

  He smiled down at her. “You will find that soldiers rarely discuss war. What time not spent in battle or endlessly traveling to or from one is spent in celebrating life.”

  She could not hold back her smile.

  “What are you thinking, with such a look on your face?”

  “It’s an immodest thought, one a sheltered girl would not think,” she said sweetly.

  “I’ve a feeling Dunniwerth did not shelter you as much as support you, Anne Sinclair.”

  She laughed. “My mother would agree with you, Stephen. And so would Hannah.”

  “You have still not answered my question.”

  “My thought was that there had been quite a bit of celebrating life at Dunniwerth,” she said, glancing away. “Especially after the men returned from war.” In fact, there had been a decided increase in the number of babies born almost exactly nine months from the day the men had returned. But no amount of coaxing would induce her to say that.

  “Is there a suitor in your life, Anne? A young Scot waiting until you finally ease his suffering and say yes to his proposal?”

  “No.” They could not compete with you. A thought that she did not voice.

  “Just no? No list of men you’ve spurned?” There was a tight smile on his face.

  The miniature of Sarah floated into her mind at that moment. She smiled, absurdly pleased that the irritation appeared equally shared.

  “What about Ian? He watches you closely. I would not be surprised if he had been seated in a tree observing our meal.”

  Such a comment surprised her. “Ian?” She shook her head. “No,” she said emphatically, “never Ian.”

  She walked away from him then, stood and faced what must have been the ruin of a magnificent window. She’d never seen the chapel before, yet it seemed rife with echoes of ceremonies of long ago, of witnessing marriage and knightings and bap tisms and burials. She was certain that if she tried, she could hear those sounds, entreaties to heaven itself. Immortal whispers of mortals. As if to prove it, a gust of wind swirled around her skirts, cast leaves and small pieces of plaster into the air.

  It began as whispers.

  Forgive me, for all my sins, my God. Thank you for bringing her here to me, that forever long as I might live, all my days and nights will be made bearable by the memory of her face, the sound of her voice.

  Then the echoes became words spoken aloud, proud declarations that rang in the corners and seemed to sing on their own.

  Will you swear to be my vassal, Jered, for all the days of your life? To grant me loyalty and honor, and protect mine as you would me?

  I swear, my lord, on my honor.

  Affirmations shouted through the room, echoed by an angry infant’s cry, a tyranny of the feted and loved.

  This child, and how shall he be named?

  Harold of Langlinais, brother. Known as his father’s heir and pride.

  The imagined words lingered in the air, a benediction of sound, a hint of the life lived here. Not only in joy, but in sorrow, too, and all the emotions in between.

  They could have been spoken. Once. Now the chapel was a sanctuary for only the wind.

  Stephen came and stood beside her, placed his finger on her cheek, exactly as gently as he had on Juliana’s. “Why do you look so sad?” he asked softly.

  “It seems a place for sadness,” she said, granting him the truth.

  She remained still and quiet, trapped by fascination. There was a look in his eyes, one she’d never seen before. As if he felt the same enchantment as she did now.

  His finger poised upon the lobe of her ear, held there by the stillness of his body, a habit he had of seeming to become stone. His eyes were as motionless, but in their depths she saw them widen, their black centers expanding.

  A cloud passed over, blown by a playful gust of wind. It seemed to trap the sun behind it until it was colored luminous, tinted rose and peach and yellow. The statue of Juliana was touched by an errant sunbeam emerging from that cloud. It dusted the smile on her face with radiance until it appeared as if she smiled tenderly.

  Her hands brushed against his chest, not to forestall, but rather to entice. Her fingers opened wide, felt the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt. She lifted her head, watched as his lips neared hers. Then let her lids flutter shut as he kissed her.

  It was like being welcomed. His lips were soft and warm, the touch of his tongue both shocking and evocative. Her mouth fell open beneath his, her hands clenched his shoulders.

  Was life given in the power of a kiss? She felt her body change, her breath grow tight. A sensation like fire raced through her, as if a cord tied all the various parts of it to this kiss.

  One hand wound around his neck, the other strayed to his cheek, thumb pressed against his jaw as if to hold him closer. His skin was almost hot beneath her palm. He pulled her to him, the tightness of their embrace accentuating all their differences. Curves against solid muscle. Hollows pressed into hard flesh. His height and strength. Her softness.

  It was almost as if a chasm divided them, one that could only be conquered by the flesh. Their joining was necessary and almost painfully needed. Something within her whimpered, craved it. Demanded it. Something wild and yearning and ancient.

  She pressed up against him, felt his hand upon her back. An urging she did not need.

  An odd time to fall in love. Or perhaps it had happened fifteen years ago when she was a child cowering in her bed and he was a boy suffused with grief. Perhaps her soul had reached out to him then with love and understanding. But it didn’t matter when it had happened. Only that it had.

  The love she felt for him was not that of a child. It was not a soft and comforting thing. It was strong, a beast of intent. One that had been dormant for so long and now demanded attention and sustenance. Completion. Acknowledgment. Fulfillment.

  He stepped away, the kiss ended as quickly as it was begun. On his face was a look of surprise. Or regret. Do not let him speak of apologies. A plea she voiced in silence.

  Twice he’d kissed her. Twice they’d been lost to passion, the two of them. Would they to pretend now that it hadn’t happened? As if each of them were turtles that retreated into their shells? How could something this powerful be ignored? Or per haps she was wrong and he did not feel the same.

  Were there words to measure this longing? If so, she did not know them. Or they had never been crafted. Not in English, nor in Gaelic. Perhaps in his Latin there were such sentiments. Something to express the pain of this moment and the near beauty of it.

  When she’d first seen him, he had startled her. Then she’d felt only a strange sort of sadness because he had not recognized her and she had found it difficult to reconcile the man of her visions with the silent man whose eyes were blank and flat.

  But she’d grown to know him, and they’d each imparted part of themselves to the other.

  She knew, finally, that she loved him. Not the vision but
the man.

  He raised his head. If there was regret in his eyes, she didn’t see it. Or did not wish to. But even that thought was stripped from her as she turned and saw them. Her hand brushed his arm.

  “Stephen.”

  He followed her gaze.

  Ned was approaching them. Behind him was a man dressed in livery. He looked oddly out of place, a peacock among pigeons. His trousers and jacket were a jonquil yellow; his cape a sky blue. There was a bouncing yellow feather on his hat. His boots of pale brown leather were over-sized, lace hanging from their thigh-high cuffs.

  In contrast, Stephen’s garments looked almost Puritan. His white shirt was loose at the neck and flowing at the sleeves; his black breeches and boots were coated with a fine dust.

  Yet there was no doubt between the two of them who was the Earl of Langlinais.

  Stephen nodded to the messenger, then turned back to her.

  He did not have to tell her; she knew it without a word being said. This idyll, these moments of peace, this time of sweetness was at an end.

  Chapter 15

  The view of rolling hills and green-bearded land was serene and without a flaw. The flowers were beginning to bloom in the gardens and the trees bud in the forests. A bucolic scene.

  If she’d had to be injured, Hannah decided, at least it was a pleasant place to recuperate.

  She had been led to her chair by Richard, who’d walked up and down the hallway with her. She allowed him to accompany her, feeling an amused tolerance for this man that surprised her.

  He was now, he said, attempting to find something that would give her a better disposition. Something to make her sweet. She hadn’t told him that with other people she was considered quite charming. It was just with him that all of her comments seemed acerbic. She wondered why that was and why both of them enjoyed it so.

  She turned and folded her hands in her lap, wishing that she had something to occupy herself.

  The faster she healed, the quicker they could return to Dunniwerth.

  But one blessing had been accomplished by her injury. Not once had Anne mentioned her visions, nor had she attempted to cajole her in allowing her to continue on her quest.