My True Love

by Karen Ranney

  “We’ve less than two days,” she said, “before we come to Dunniwerth land.”

  They followed the road for a while, stretching their legs. To an onlooker it might appear that they were simply content in each other’s company. In truth, silence was easier. Words might have led to the spilling of emotions, and it was simpler to just exist in a dull state, neither enlivened by joy nor tossed into despair.

  It did not mean, however, that thoughts were as easily numbed. Two days until he left her. Two days. She did not count the hours. She would bear it because she must. What were the choices? To sink into despair, or to hold herself tight in order not to shatter into a thousand pieces. To keep her silence and endure.

  For nearly ten minutes they continued their walk, and in unison turned and were starting back. She wondered if she would recall these silent moments for the rest of her life. Would she regret that she had not spoken? No, because the words trembled on her lips and craved release. Not those that would explain, but instead, beseech.

  “Will they lose their pardons by being with you?” she asked finally, looking ahead to the assembled men. Even at ease they congregated in a group, sent men ahead and behind them. She had heard her father say that the measure of a commander was the behavior of his troops. How would he judge Stephen? They obeyed him without question, held him in high esteem, witness the devotion they showed. But there was fondness, too. He was occasionally the subject of a joke, a remark that caused him to raise his eyebrow and stare. He was their commander and occasionally acted as their father. Some of them were so young that they looked barely beyond their first growth of beard.

  She’d heard that he assessed fines for drunkenness and disobedience. He did not, she’d been told by James, hesitate to order a man flogged if he raped, or looted, or burned a field. Yet his men had showed no hesitation in following him to Scotland when they might have surrendered their arms and returned to their lives as farmers or tradesmen.

  “I doubt the Parliamentarians will fault them for a journey to Scotland. Most of them will return home today.”

  She turned and looked at him, surprised. “And you?”

  “I must be exceptionally careful not to be caught,” he said, the edge of a smile curving his lips.

  “Won’t the Parliamentarians punish Lange on Terne?”

  “Because I escaped?”

  She nodded.

  “They have more to lose by alienating the citizenry than by showing them favor. Lange on Terne is now a Parliamentarian town, whether it wishes to be or not. They will not suffer. Besides, as much as I dislike Penroth for his military tenacity, I’ve always known him to be fair. Such acts would be beyond him.”

  “You have evidently given this much thought,” she said softly.

  “I had to weigh my life, Anne. Whether it mattered enough if I lived or died. In the end, I found that no one would be penalized by my survival.”

  “Is that the only reason you did not surrender?” She felt the sting of anger. An emotion to be desired as much as humor. “Because you decided no one would suffer for it?”

  His laughter rang through the air. “No, my fierce Anne, it’s not.”

  He looked beyond the road to where the mist still clung to the rolling hills. It was noon, but the sun was still a watery globe in the sky, the air damp, although it had not rained. Nature had sensed her mood, Anne thought with a wry smile, and duplicated it.

  Because she did not want to look back on these times and regret that she had not told him things in her heart, she spoke now, divulging at least one of her secrets.

  “She’s my mother,” she said, looking at Hannah. A half smile was on her lips, even as she batted Richard’s hand away. They were too far away to hear their conversation.

  “I know,” he said surprisingly, moving to cover her hand with his. “Richard told me.”

  One of her secrets exposed already, then.

  “How do you feel about it?”

  She moved away from him, stood at the side of the road looking over the valley before them.

  “I might have done the same,” she said, obviously surprising him.

  He came and stood beside her. An onlooker might think them each engrossed in the view. Instead, she was painfully conscious of how close he was.

  “Do you carry my child?” he asked suddenly.

  She had not expected that question. She placed her hands over her stomach. A protective gesture. She did not know. How could she? It was too soon.

  “No,” she said, to reassure him or to absolve him, she didn’t know which. Perhaps to release him.

  He stood with his back to his men.

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, giving him the truth. It was evidently something he did not like by the expression on his face.

  She reached up to frame his face with her hands. He didn’t pull away, but neither did he move forward. Here was the man who’d led troops across England, who’d fired his home. There was a studied stillness to him, as if he held himself tightly so as not to expose any of himself.

  Her thumbs reached to the corners of his lips, and she brushed them softly as if to encourage them to curve upward.

  She would never forget him. Not the dawning smile that lit his eyes and seemed to color even the air. Not the sound of his voice reading Latin and translating it for her. Not the look in his eyes when he’d watched his home burn. Her fingers stroked through the hair at his temples. She marked the line of the scar there and held her breath as she traced its path with trembling fingers.

  “How did this happen?” A tremulous breath of question that he answered just as softly.

  “A stone fell at Langlinais.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  He smiled then, a soft, prompting smile that seemed to be tied to her breath, so tight did it feel in that moment. “I was a boy determined to prove my courage. It no doubt hurt abominably, but I pretended it did not.”

  “So brave,” she whispered.

  From the corner of her eye she saw Hannah approach. She quickly stepped back, absurdly grateful for the interruption. She was too close to confession, and it would do no good to speak those words that trembled on her lips. I love you.

  “I would speak with you, Anne.”

  She nodded and followed Hannah.

  They sat on the trunk of a felled tree, the next seconds spent in gathering their skirts around their ankles, brushing cloth over their knees. Identical gestures Anne might never have noticed a month ago.

  All those times when she’d burst into Hannah’s cottage came back to her. The instant joy on the older woman’s face. The tenderness of her expression, the times in which she’d kissed Anne’s face or held her tight in an embrace. A thousand times, a hundred moments. All strung out like glistening drops on a spider’s web.

  She sat silent, waiting for Hannah to speak.

  “Do you hate me, Anne?”

  A simple question. “No,” Anne said honestly. But it would take longer for the feeling of betrayal to subside.

  “I am glad,” Hannah said. She pinched the material of her skirt between her fingers. “I would have done the same thing again,” she said, glancing over at Anne, “if it meant protecting you. Fault me for that, if you will.”

  “I do not fault you at all,” Anne said. This conversation was difficult, the moment too strained. “Only that you never spoke of it.” Hannah had confided in a stranger, but she’d not told her own daughter.

  Reason enough for anger.

  She’d grown up with one identity and learned to live with who she thought she was. Now, all of her life was suspect. The knowing looks, the whispers that had followed her as a child, they now took on a different meaning.

  For the first time, she truly understood what her father had been trying to teach her, about circles, and perspective. Only this time, the circle was her life, and she was standing outside looking in.

  The only thing constant, the one thing that ha
d not changed, was Stephen. The visions she’d had as a child, the longing she’d had as a woman, none of that had altered. Yet, in only days he would leave her. Was she supposed to meekly acquiesce to that fate? Accept it with good grace?

  “I am not going back to Dunniwerth, Anne,” Hannah softly said.

  She glanced over at Hannah. Her face seemed younger somehow, less lined.

  “I find I cannot go back to the island,” Hannah said, folding her hands on her lap. “It will be easier for you if I do not return.”

  Anne rubbed her palms over her face, pressed her fingers against her eyelids. The back of her neck ached, her shoulders felt stiff. Her breath was tight, and a headache had lodged in her temples and would not be eased.

  “It is not because of me,” Anne said, her lips thinned with the effort to contain her anger. It bubbled free, despite her will. “It is because of your own choice. It’s what you wish to do. Do not hide behind good intentions.”

  Anne stood and looked to where Stephen was talking to his men. He turned as if he had felt her rage, stared at her. They were too far apart for him to hear her words, but Anne did not doubt he could ascertain her expression well enough.

  “It sounds so honorable to think of the betterment of others. So noble.” She glanced down at Hannah. “But it’s only a cloak, Hannah. What is wrong with wanting something simply for yourself? I would welcome pure selfishness at this moment. It seems more honest.”

  “There is nothing wrong with wanting something for yourself,” Hannah slowly said. “If you are willing to pay the price for it.”

  “Are you?”

  “I always have been,” Hannah said surprisingly. “I gave up my life to love your father, and to give you a future.” Hannah looked to where Richard stood. “And now I’m going to do what I truly wish. I am going to marry that silly man. He wants me to debate medicinal practices with him, and brew teas and discuss the works of some idiot by the name of Culpepper.”

  She glanced up at Anne. “But you are right, Anne. It’s not for you. It’s for me. And perhaps you are right about the other, too. I was frightened to be on my own with a child. I wanted the best for you, but I also wanted to be near your father.

  “I’ve never regretted a moment,” Hannah said. “Or my decision.” She appeared to study Anne. “You are a daughter to be proud of, however it came about. I have watched you grow into a woman any mother would cherish.” She stood, joined Anne. “But I do regret any pain I may have caused you.”

  She touched Anne’s arm gently with just the tips of her fingers. As if she feared she would be repudiated. “Forgive me,” Hannah said.

  “It will not be the same without you,” Anne said, forcing the words from her lips. The anger was still there, but added to it was a sorrow too deep to measure.

  “Life never stays the same,” Hannah said. “A lesson you’re learning even now.” She looked beyond to where Stephen stood. Anne thought she might speak again, but she said nothing more.

  Hannah turned and walked away. Richard waited for her, smiled in greeting. Behind him were eighteen men of the regiment. They had families at Lange on Terne to protect and would be returning to the town now that they were sure their lord was at a safe distance.

  Anne had the curious thought that the moments of her life were slipping from her grasp like sand through her fingers. In only minutes, Hannah would leave and with her, the opportunity to repair their rift.

  She could not allow that to happen.

  Hannah had chastised the child and counseled the woman. She’d been her friend and held her se cret, reassured her. Through it all, she’d given her affection and love. Without explanation or even hope of it being returned.

  There was one last thing she needed to do. “Hannah,” she called out. The older woman turned. Anne walked to her.

  “Will we see each other again?”

  Hannah only nodded, her eyes filled with tears. “Yes,” Hannah said. “There are not enough wars in the world to prevent that.”

  “Be happy, Hannah.” Anne said, her voice shaking from a surfeit of emotion. The girl would not have said the words, but the woman could not prevent them. “I love you, Mother.”

  Hannah closed her eyes, then opened them. She took a few steps, then a few more. Her lips were clamped shut, but her arms opened wide. The tears flowed down Anne’s cheeks. Long moments later, she pulled away, wiped her face with the backs of both hands.

  She stepped back, watched as Hannah mounted her horse. It was difficult to swallow and she could not seem to stop crying. But she offered up a watery smile and a wave, then stood and watched until Hannah and Richard and the rest of the men were no longer visible.

  She had the oddest thought that in saying farewell to Hannah, she was also saying goodbye to the person she had once known herself to be. No longer Anne of Dunniwerth. No longer the spoiled child of the laird. Not a woman so certain of her own destiny that she reached out and gripped it with both hands and pulled it to her.

  Who was she? Perhaps only time would reveal the answer to that question.

  Chapter 27

  “You look pleased to be in Scotland again,” Stephen said.

  “I am,” Ian said. “It’s a more civilized country than England at present.”

  Stephen could not argue with that assessment.

  Ian rode abreast of him. Stephen had been careful up until now to avoid the man. The brooding look had eased somewhat since they’d entered Scotland, but the dislike was still there in Ian’s eyes. So palpable that Stephen could not help but feel it.

  He looked ahead to where Anne rode in the center of his men. She turned back at that moment and glanced at him, as if she’d felt his antipathy for the man at his side. He narrowed his eyes as Ian Sinclair smiled at her.

  She turned, faced forward again. She sat erect in the saddle, her skirts folded around her. He would have believed her almost oblivious to him if he hadn’t noticed her glancing at him from time to time with a look of sadness on her face. As if she were finding a way to say farewell to him.

  A bit of appreciation for his seeing her safely home and a kiss on the cheek. A sour thought.

  Parting with Hannah had been difficult for her. Yet not once had she spoken of it. He decided that he did not like this habit of hers of holding her thoughts tight to herself. In the short time they had been together, she’d never been cautious before of telling him what she thought. But in the last day, she’d been remarkably silent.

  He was struck suddenly by how utterly lovely she was. Not strictly in form, but the essence of her, the wholeness of her. Women of artifice are careful to guard themselves and careful to project only their better qualities. She was not wary of showing him her anger any more than she was her fear of storms. Yet now she sat aloof in the dampness.

  “She’s been a pest to me ever since she was a child,” Ian said, studying Anne. “Always following me around and then telling the girls that she thought my dimple was cute.”

  “Damning to a man’s consequence,” Stephen agreed, his tone amicable, but his smile missing. The absence of it didn’t seem to affect Ian’s sudden, surprising candor.

  “I was ten when I first noticed her,” Ian said, “and determined to show that I was as manly as my father. She is my laird’s daughter, and I will protect her with my life.”

  “I would expect no less of you.”

  “Just so we understand each other,” Ian said.

  The two men shared a long look.

  “Does she know you love her?” Stephen asked carefully.

  A shake of Ian’s head was his answer.

  “I doubt I would be as complacent as you, Ian. Or as silent.”

  “I will always be part of her life. Can you boast the same?”

  No, he could not. In fact, he wasn’t certain exactly what it was she felt for him. It could range from apathy to antipathy.

  Would Ian be the man Anne finally chose? The thought was not one he wanted to entertain.

  The f
uture had not been a subject of conversation between them. An oversight, he saw now.

  There were times in the last few days when Stephen had known they were cutting through Parliamentarian lines, but they had managed to avoid being detected. Leaving England had made him breathe a little easier. Once in Scotland, though, the danger was less by only a degree.

  However, Scotland had something that occurred only occasionally in England. Rain. Incessant rain. This morning was no different. It began to rain again as if nature had known the exact moment he’d condemned the weather. For two hours they continued slogging through it, their eyes downcast, huddling in the misery of being drenched to the skin with no surcease in sight. The air was almost white with rain.

  Even the horses plodded along with a dispirited air, their necks bowed, mire up to their hocks. It was a graceless day, and one that nicked at the edge of his temper.

  The jingle of harness, an occasional equine snort, a cough, and the patter of the eternal rain all served as a backdrop for his thoughts.

  He told himself that she was being wise. Their parting would come in days. It was simpler to pull away now. Not to meet his look, not to speak to him in passing. A kind word might well be misconstrued. A smile might bring forth memories that should not be summoned before their parting.

  They seeped into his mind with too much ease.

  My home is a huge sprawling place of red brick, aged over the years until it is almost black. Nothing as lovely as this place. Words to describe her Dunniwerth. An apology had prompted a protest. If I did not feel the same? Would that excuse your honor? Other words, that spoke of her talent. My father’s map maker taught me. She spoke of circles and fears and knowing that it was possible to feel the most alone in the midst of a crowd.

  The most precious memory of all, a strong woman’s vulnerability. A confession spoken in a whisper. For all the years left to me, I don’t want to wish I had come to you tonight and feel regret that I did not. Yet she did not look at him now, and seemed to barely know his name.

  He should congratulate her on her wisdom. Praise her for her foresight. He might, then, be given a small smile, and a whispered farewell. Or did she intend to leave him without a word?