The Blue Falcon

by Robyn Carr

  “I’ve had no dealings with her family on that score,” Mallory returned sullenly. “Nor do I intend to. I am not a suitable match for the maid.”

  “And what of the maid? Has she nothing to say on the matter?”

  “Nay, she will not speak of me, because I forbade her and she will honor me. I begged her hold her tongue so that no suspicion of ill doings would lay heavy on her father’s mind, though I tell you true, I have not spoiled her. Yet I would stay in the family’s good graces. I know they cannot have me.”

  “You have not thought of acquiring the wealth needed to buy her hand?”

  “There is no time. Her father’s wealth could bring her a fine lord, and a year of full moons could not bring me the livres to buy her.”

  “Perhaps her father would allow you the time.”

  “Without a family name to lean upon? Nay, he would not be so foolish.”

  “She must indeed be a goddess, for I have never known the dame that could leave you with such a low opinion of yourself. What is her preference?”

  Mallory sighed. “She swears she will take the veil rather than the choice of her father. ‘Tis a burden of guilt greater than I had hoped to bear, since I cannot free the maid from such an oath.”

  “A better fate for her, I think, than should her wish come true.”

  “By the rood, Conan, ‘tis a poor time for jesting--”

  “Jest? Nay. In truth, the maid’s determination outpaces your own. If you love her, find a way to have her. What more risk than laying your life in your king’s hands? For a damsel worthy, I would risk all.”

  Mallory looked at Conan closely. He could easily guess what problems Conan had. “What would you risk, Conan?”

  Conan was quiet for a moment. Working hard and fighting would not bring him his love. That was no longer an option. “I am pledged to my lady wife and I would risk all for her--on my honor.”

  Mallory made no response. Both men stared into the fire for a long while. Conan finally broke the silence. “We ride at dawn’s first light.”

  “I will be mounted with the rest,” Mallory returned, rising to leave.

  Conan stayed before the fire, considering the events that had led him to this position. His decision to marry was hastened by his mother’s advice and warning. He regretted his haste now. Regardless of the stress of fighting for a maid, he would welcome the chance to try.

  As the embers faded, he lay upon the rushes, his eyes closed as he tried to envision how things might have been. By the time the sun cast its first rays over Stoddard walls, he was up and in the stables, preparing for the long day ahead.

  Strict orders were left with the bailiff to see to matters in the hall, and the word was passed that Conan would not return until he was well satisfied with the game.

  Conan was astride before many of his men had eaten and finished dressing. His head was covered with the hood of his woolen gamberson, and a surcoat and heavy woolen mantle of dull gray were still little protection against the biting cold. His helm was resting on his saddle horn, and he watched impatiently as his riders scrambled to mount their horses before he was far ahead of them.

  Two men near the rear of the troop grumbled as they hurried to catch up with the departing troop. “Curse the lady for not keeping him abed until the sun rises,” said one.

  “He was up the night,” said the other. “There must be nettles in his bed.”

  “And for those nettles we will pay a dear price,” returned the first. “He will ride us until we drop.”

  ***

  The game the hunters sought was deep in the forest. They returned with boar and deer, rabbit and fox. Conan kept his troop in the wood for three days, giving himself time to set his mind to his oath again and giving the castle folk time to prove their worth.

  As he entered the keep, he thought perhaps he had returned too soon, for he found the hall cold and dark. He could almost feel the lash in his hand, believing the villeins had paid no attention to his warning. He did not wait for any report from the bailiff but strode in, barking orders. Fires must be stoked, pots hung, meat cleaned and applied to spits for cooking. Within moments there was a new light in the hall and a mad scurrying to comply with the lord’s wishes. Kegs of ale were swiftly provided, and the men entering met with servants eager to help them disarm themselves and to offer a drink.

  Conan had not noticed that Edwina was not there to greet him. A castle woman approached him and gently tugged at his sleeve. “Monseigneur, your lady is ill.”

  He frowned. Even though the condition of things in this hall had not pleased him when he had returned from his earlier business, the hall had not been so quiet and dark. Fear gnawed at him and he stared at the woman.

  “My lord, she calls for you.”

  “What is her ailment?” he asked.

  “She has miscarried, my lord.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “The child? Dead?”

  “Lost, monseigneur. ‘Twas a son, far too early born.”

  Conan felt an ache creep into his throat. He had never wept, even as a child. A man child was taught early to mask hurt and pain behind a strength that was impossible to penetrate. He looked about the room for some sign of comfort, but there was none. Even this hall held no pleasure for him. But the men were quiet, watching him. The word had traveled quickly.

  He turned abruptly so that no one would see the glistening of his eyes. He felt a sudden rush of tears threatening to spill. He moved quickly in the direction of his wife’s bedchamber. Just inside the door stood Mallory, watching Conan’s flight in confusion. Conan did not pause to explain his sorrow to his friend.

  In the chamber above, Conan pulled back the bed curtains to see the pale and drawn face of his wife. Around her were servants and the priest. He found words impossible and cleared the room with a wave of his arm, kneeling then beside the bed.

  Her eyes were reddened and dull; her hair, her best feature by far, was damp and stringy. Her lips, the same color as her sallow skin, were dry and cracked. He looked at her with pity and pain.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she croaked weakly.

  “Forgive?” he gasped. “Forgive me, my love. I should not have left you.”

  “Conan,” she moaned, tears coming to her eyes. “Conan, I could not bring your son to life--”

  “Edwina, love, it is not your fault.”

  “Do not hate me, Conan.”

  “Hate you? Nay! You are my wife! I love you!”

  “My sister, Conan. Please. Send my sister to my side.”

  His agony increased. She did not know what she asked. Guilt churned within him. Knowing he did not love her totally, even as she lay here suffering with the loss of his child, even as he uttered the words he hoped would give life to her eyes again, he did not know if he could bear the temptation of having Chandra in his own house. As much as he wished it was not so, he thought of Chandra every day, loving her.

  “My sister, Conan,” Edwina repeated. “Chandra...”

  He placed a kiss on her fevered brow. “Aye, love,” he whispered. “I will send for her at once. She will know how to care for you.”

  Chapter 8

  The bedchamber in which Edwina lay was kept dark and tightly closed to prevent death from making an entrance. Serving women entered and left throughout the day, and the priest from the village kept close guard over her soul. Conan ventured there several times a day, sitting patiently at her bedside. She had no fever and the bleeding was controlled, but still Edwina lay in this weakened state, showing no improvement.

  Sitting at his wife’s bedside brought Conan the greatest feelings of inadequacy. Fighting a strong and widely ac­claimed knight had never made him feel helpless. Managing the burdensome chores of a large hall were not confusing or upsetting. But faced with this delicate woman in need brought out the worst in him. He could not care for her or protect her from the weakness of her body that caused her to deliver the child much too early.

  Edwina would awaken fro
m time to time and find him there. She would attempt to smile or squeeze his hand. His heart was torn with guilt. Even as he stood vigil at her bedside he thought of another--and then cursed himself for feeling such emotion. All knights were not so bound to their code, but Conan knew he could find no escape in being a lesser-bound knight. Honor was the blood that flowed through him.

  Mallory and Thurwell, his most trusted friends, were the leaders of the troop that rode to Phalen to bring Chandra. He knew she would leave at once and travel swiftly. He was in the hall when the doors were opened for her. He was afraid. He feared the wild and painful wanting as their eyes met. Even with Edwina so ill he could feel no differently.

  A woolen mantle of deep green covered her to the ground, the hood hiding her golden locks. Her eyes were alive with the excitement of her hasty journey as she burst into the hall. Her cheeks were flushed and she did not look at all weary despite her long ride.

  She bowed briefly and wordlessly. Two maids were close at her heels, struggling to keep up with their mistress and looking tired and worn. She threw back the hood and her golden hair unraveled about her shoulders.

  He met Chandra’s eyes. It was the same. His love for her pierced his heart and hung there dripping from the wound of wanting her.

  “Where is she, Conan?” Chandra asked.

  “Her chamber is at the head of the stairs,” he answered. He did not offer to take her there.

  She smiled at him and moved closer to touch his hand. “Don’t worry over her now, Conan. I am here and she will mend.”

  “Chandra, I--” He looked away briefly and struggled with his words. “I left her alone, though I knew she was not feeling well. I have protected her poorly.”

  “Conan, ‘tis no fault of yours. You could not have known she would deliver the child so early. It is no one’s fault that Edwina has earned this sad circumstance. She is so like our mother in so many ways. My lady mother did lose several children before a healthy child was born.”

  “I fear she is dying,” Conan thought aloud.

  “Nay, Conan. She is not strong, fair to say, but Edwina will pull through this. I am here to see to that.”

  “She mourns for the child...”

  There was a flicker of emotion in Chandra’s eyes. She looked up at Conan and he thought perhaps he saw a tear gather there. “As you must,” she said softly. Chandra took a breath and braved a smile, looking pert and energetic as quickly as a snap of the fingers. “But you are both young. She will yet deliver you sons.”

  Without further discussion, Chandra went directly to the stair, looking over her shoulder at the two maids. Impatiently she snapped, “Come, come!” and turned to go, knowing they would follow with a bit less enthusiasm.

  It was not long before Mallory and Thurwell joined him in the hall. “The journey was safe?” he asked.

  “Aye, and speedy. Lady Chandra travels easily,” Mallory returned.

  On the first day after Chandra’s arrival, there was naught but quiet in the hall, Conan’s ear often turned toward his chamber while he stayed mostly away from that room.

  On the second day the pace in the hall picked up and there was more light and more movement. Chandra was quick to see that Conan was spending more than the usual amount of time with his horses. She put a stop to the morbidity all about her and snapped many a melancholy servant into action. It was without great labor on her part that the hall was run­ning smoothly and efficiently and Edwina was showing improvement. It never occurred to Chandra that witnessing her ease in managing a great hall, even one she did not know, tormented Conan the more.

  There were no problems in setting a good meal before the men-at-arms, and there was no idleness among the castle folk. Some worked hard to spare their backs the lash and others worked for the reward of her quick smile and praise. She had no time to sit and chat. The people would see her in virtually every room in the hall, from the kitchen to the lord’s chamber, never staying in one place for very long. When she was near Conan she paused only long enough to tell him that she was pleased with Edwina’s recovery. He usually grunted his thanks and the two parted as quickly as they had come together. In these days, many would exchange bemused stares as they judged Conan and Chandra’s reaction to each other.

  The chair beside Conan was glaringly empty at mealtimes. Had Chandra chosen to don her best and slip into that chair beside him, no one would have criticized, but she would not presume so much. She was never seen garbed in a fine gunna and gold trinkets, but a rough working tunic, with her hair pulled back and hidden under a wimple. She worked from early morning ‘til late at night, taking her meals with her sister and sleeping on a straw pallet beside Edwina’s bed.

  Chandra found a certain peace once Edwina regained some of her health. They would talk of the way things were when they were children and wonder aloud what life was like for Laine now.

  Late on the seventh day after her arrival, Chandra knelt at the hearth and poked at the fire. Edwina was sitting up in her bed and her fingers plucked daintily at a stitchery project.

  “I have written to Father that you are better and will soon be managing your own home. He wanted to come with me,” she said, looking at her older sister and rolling her eyes. “Traveling with Father has become a chore. He grows old, Edwina. I fear he will not have many years left. And the chatting he wants to do now--Jesu! We must sit and discuss the king and the situation in France every eventide!”

  Chandra went to sit on the bed and a little laugh escaped from her. “It would have been your just reward had I brought Father! You would not dare to complain of the ennui of being bedridden. He would--”

  Chandra stopped abruptly as she noticed a tear tracing its way slowly down Edwina’s cheek. She could remember her sister being beset by illness after illness all through her childhood, but she had not remembered her tears.

  She held Edwina’s arms and tried to look at her eyes, but Edwina kept them downcast, looking at the little piece of linen she held. Chandra could see that a tapestry face was being worked onto the fabric.

  Edwina sniffed back her tears and tried to smile, but the effort was lame. She shrugged as if embarrassed. “It was to be a doll. A child’s toy.”

  “Oh, Edwina,” Chandra sighed, not knowing how to comfort.

  “Father is growing old and I had hoped he would see the child that would one day earn Phalen by right of birth. It was a son--somehow I knew it was a son.”

  “There is time, Edwina. You will yet give Conan a son.”

  “I must give him a son,” Edwina said softly. “He is such a fine, strong man, so good and so kind. His rewards are so few, having me for a wife. If I can give him a healthy son--”

  “You will, Edwina,” Chandra said, as if making a promise. “He does not suffer because of marriage with you! You are a fine wife, Edwina!” Chandra felt an ache creep into her throat and she could feel tears threaten. She embraced Edwina and said, “You love him so very much.”

  Edwina did not respond. Chandra wondered if Edwina could see that look in Conan’s eyes, that faraway, pained expression that she had witnessed so many times. For the first time Chandra felt his torture as acutely as he did! Edwina was so devoted to him. She loved and worshiped him with every fiber of her being.

  “You need rest,” Chandra said softly. “Here, lie down. I will be back in a moment.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “You have not had a moment alone, Edwina. You have been set upon by serving women, priests, castle folk and me. When I feel the need for time alone I run and hide, but you cannot. I will leave you to your thoughts, and if you want me, I am near.”

  “You are wise, Chandra. Beyond your years. And I love you so.”

  “And I love you, Edwina,” Chandra said in a near whisper.

  Chandra left the room and stood outside the chamber doors for a moment to collect herself. The guilt of feeling drawn to Conan had been strong before, but faced with Edwina’s devotion, the discomfort was greater, the shame a
lmost consuming her. And there was nothing to be done but to hope that one day Conan could return Edwina’s love.

  The hall was quiet when Chandra went to the lower level. Conan sat there before the fire, staring into the glowing flames. He turned to look at her as though he felt her presence. She hoped he would not see the stain of tears marking her cheeks.

  “All is still,” he said huskily.

  “You must go to your wife, Conan. She needs you.”

  He stood abruptly. “Has she worsened?” he asked anx­iously.

  “Nay, she is improving more every day and soon, I think, will be well enough for me to leave.”

  “She calls for me now?” he asked.

  Chandra shook her head and looked down so that Conan would not see the tears gathering in her eyes. “She weeps for the child. I cannot comfort her. That is your place.”

  As Conan moved past her toward the stair, Chandra took his place before the fire. Passion did not move Conan to his wife’s side, she knew that. Even so, the bonds that held them together, the ties of marriage, responsibility, duty and honor, would keep them tightly bound for years to come. The tears spilled freely as jealousy tore at her. She would rather have that much of him than what she had now.

  Am I so wicked, she thought in despair, that I deserve no reward for my labors and prayers?

  She buried her face in her hands and gave vent to her tears, hating herself for loving wrongly, hating herself for coveting what was her sister’s, and knowing that the one thing that could give her ease in her troubled state was to be held in the arms of the knight she could not forget or deny.

  ***

  No one was prepared for the arrival of a long train of knights and servants from Anselm. When Conan was given word of the approaching retinue, he went in some confusion to greet his guests. To his surprise he found it was Udele and Edythe who had come.

  “Madam,” he said in greeting. “What brings you here?”

  “My daughter, your wife, is ill. What better reason?”

  “I brought her sister here to care for her. You are good to come, but there is no need.”