by Robyn Carr
“Madam...” Edythe breathed, her head growing heavy and her body weak. “Mother...”
Edythe’s eyes slowly closed, and her limp form fell from the stool to the hard, cold floor.
Udele turned to Pierce, who had waited silently just inside the door. “Take her from here tonight, but be not long about it. I would not want your absence noticed.”
Pierce looked at his mistress with pained eyes. “Aye, madam.”
“Do not face me with your righteousness, Pierce. Even if Lord Alaric were to hear and pardon me, Conan would hear of it and ever wonder. You would see me beggared and groveling for the merest crust of bread in my own hall. If you defy me now, I am ruined.”
With that she left the room.
***
The heat of late July chafed at Chandra as the weight of the child within her grew more burdensome. Tears threatened to spill from exhaustion and sadness. She had not slept at all the night before: she had attended Wynne in childbirth.
She knocked softly at her husband’s door and entered when she heard his response. He was donned only in chausses and did not turn from his washbasin to greet her. Her hand rested on her own swollen belly as she spoke to his back. “Your son, my lord--was born dead.”
He ceased his washing for only a moment, finally turning to her as he dried his face with a linen towel.
“And when will our glad day come?” he asked.
Chandra caressed her stomach. Wynne’s labor had been torturous, her child born limp and still. It was horrifying for a woman nurturing her own babe in her womb.
“My heir, madam,” Tedric pressed, “is well and strong?”
Chandra’s chin trembled. She nodded and looked away.
“When?”
“I am not sure,” she replied with practiced nonchalance. “Sometime early in the new year.”
“You are not sure? Are you sure of the father?”
Cold and snapping blue eyes darted to his face, and Tedric laughed at her anger. “And who would it be if not you?”
“Were Conan not so far away, I would wonder.”
“But he is far away. How long will you accuse me?”
“Until he is dead,” Tedric replied easily. “And that will likely be soon, lady. He will find war less pleasurable than chasing pretty damsels.”
Her child moved restlessly within her, and Tedric’s cruel words could not be hushed.
“I will be leaving this morn,” Tedric advised her.
She nodded, keeping silent. She feared the tears would come. She turned and left him to dress, fleeing back to her chamber and leaning against her closed door. It was first a shudder and then a single tear. Conan must live, she thought helplessly. The child. The child will be healthy and strong. Within moments she was racked with sobs, her head falling against the oaken door to her chamber.
Much later in the morning, she was called away from the weaving room when a small troop of men from Anselm had been allowed to pass and waited below to see the lord or lady of the hall. As she went to see them, her heart thumped wildly. By the time she reached the courtyard, her face was white with fear and she bade them tell her quickly what their purpose was.
“We seek out Lady Edythe, lady. Might she perhaps be here?”
Confusion replaced the fear in her eyes and the color came back to her face. “Edythe?” she replied in confusion. “Here? Edythe is not here.”
“Your pardon, lady, your word is good, to be sure. But I dare not carry that alone to my lord Alaric. He asks that we search with our own eyes every corner of England.”
“Why do you seek Edythe? Why is she not with her father?”
The young man shrugged. “We cannot say, madam. Only the Lord knows why she has fled her father, but she cannot be found. No one saw her leave the hall, and no village between Anselm and hell saw her passing. We find nothing. No matter where we look nor whom we ask. Nothing.”
“And what does Sir Mallory say to this? Does he perhaps have his wife?”
“Nay, madam. Sir Mallory does not know his wife is missing. Lord Alaric sent messages of other matters to Vezelay so that his men could search for Lady Edythe, and she was not there. Her husband cannot leave the king’s service now, and Lord Alaric greatly fears that news of this would cause Sir Mallory to commit an act of treason in leaving the Crusade, or at least show less care with his own life.”
“Then Conan does not know?” she heard herself ask.
“Nay, madam. May we look through the village and hall?”
“Of course,” she said softly.
Chandra watched as the men filled her hall and questioned each passing servant with care. Every room, anteroom and hallway was looked through carefully. These men were quite serious in their search. The keep suddenly became stifling, and she fled to the courtyard, hoping the fresh air would clear her mind.
Edythe would not flee. There was no reason. Why would Edythe leave the protective walls of Anselm alone? Someone must have taken her away to do her harm. But who would wish to injure Edythe?
Chandra shuddered suddenly, but it was not from cold. Conan left England for war because even his close guard could not protect those he loved. He could not save Edwina with his nearness and he could not aid Chandra. Now, the moment he was gone, Edythe was missing. In her mind, Tedric was suspect.
“Oh, my love,” she whispered miserably, “how many more tragedies will you find on your return?”
Chapter 18
The first time Chandra saw her childhood home since her wedding was at the burial of her dear father. Sir Medwin of Phalen had been ill, his health steadily declining as he realized the losses in his life. He had buried his beloved Millicent and given his Laine to the convent. Next, he had buried Edwina, who had passed on leaving no issue. His last hope was his youngest, Chandra. Medwin had thought her marriage contract through carefully, placing her well-being in the hands of a family that was known and trusted in England. But it was not long before he could see that in this too he had failed.
Sir Tedric stopped pretending loyalty very soon after his wedding. Chandra was abused and mistreated in her own dower home of Cordell. Despite Tedric’s promise, she was forbidden visits to her father at Phalen. Though aging and often in ill health, Medwin had visited his daughter twice: once when she was swollen with babe and again when her son was born.
Chandra could not hide from her father the fact that she lived with a man whose demands were great, love for her little, and whose cruel rages came often. Tedric’s demands on Medwin became greater as well. “I have given you your only grandchild,” Tedric reminded the old man. “Will you let Conan take Phalen and pass it along to the issue of some future bride, or will you hearken to the fact that his right to Phalen is gone--gone with the passing of your daughter?”
Medwin held to his oath to let no one but Conan take Phalen, but in the final days of his life, Tedric pressured him mercilessly. When Tedric returned to Cordell from yet another visit to Phalen Castle, he brought the news that Medwin had died in his sleep. It was a cool spring night in the year 1192.
There were not many visitors for the burial. Even though Medwin was a respected man in England, nobles were struggling out of a long, hard winter and many were still away with Richard. Sir Theodoric did not journey to Phalen to attend Medwin for the last time. Lord Alaric and Galen did go. It was difficult to tell whether their interests were to put a good friend to his final rest or be assured that Conan’s property was secure.
The weight of grief that pressed on Chandra with her father’s passing was difficult to bear. He died in great sorrow. On their last visit together, when he had journeyed to see Hugh, his only grandchild, he begged forgiveness from his youngest daughter. He had failed them all, he wept. Chandra could do nothing to give him peace of mind. He had made a mistake in forcing her to marry Tedric, and whether or not Edwina and Laine had been failed also was not certain, but they were both gone forever.
It was for her father’s sadness when he died that Cha
ndra wept. And there was the fear that now, with Medwin gone, there was no one to stay Tedric’s hand.
Chandra watched cautiously to find a moment to ask Lord Alaric for word of Conan, a moment when Tedric was not near. She worried that Alaric would brush her spitefully aside and refuse her any information. It was early on the morning that Alaric prepared to leave that Chandra saw her chance and went to him in the courtyard, clutching Hugh close to her.
“My lord,” she beckoned. “What is your word of Sir Conan?”
Alaric smiled kindly. “You have heard nothing?” he asked.
“Nay, my lord. Tedric brings word of the Crusade from time to time, but nothing of Sir Conan. I know he would tell me if--” she stopped, looking down and wishing she had not said so much.
Alaric reached out and touched her cheek. “Aye, lass, he would tell you if Conan were dead.” Chandra looked up at him and saw the kindness in his eyes. “There is nothing I can do to help you,” he said softly.
Chandra straightened her back and blinked to clear her eyes. “I manage well enough, my lord.”
“I can imagine,” Alaric snorted. “Is this the first time you have been allowed to leave Cordell since your wedding?”
“Yea, but I am safe there. He guards me well, but he does not hurt me overmuch.”
Alaric shook his head sadly. “It pains this old heart, Chandra, knowing how you suffer; knowing how we were unable to prevent this.”
“Sir Conan, my lord. Is he well?”
“This war is an ugly thing, Chandra. He will be greatly changed, I vow. But he will return; he is well.” Alaric looked closely at the babe Chandra carried. He was a sturdy child, his skin more bronze than the ivory of his mother’s. The shining pate was just barely covered with a dark fuzz. “Tedric has a fine son,” Alaric remarked.
“The child is a great joy to me,” Chandra said.
“He is dark.”
“My father was darker of hair and skin than I,” she replied.
Alaric did not respond to her. “You will have to be prepared for the change in him, lass. He will not return the same man. But he will return.”
“That is the only important thing, my lord,” she said quietly.
Alaric looked toward the keep. “Go inside, lass, before you are found here and chastised.”
“My lord? Should you send a missive to Sir Conan, tell him--” She paused and looked down again, shaking her head negatively.
“Tell him--” Alaric urged.
“Nay, there is nothing.”
Chandra felt his hand under her chin as he raised her tear-filled eyes to meet his. “Give me something to tell him, lady,” Alaric said.
“‘Tis cruel. There is nothing he can do. He must not hope--” Chandra could not look at Alaric, she could not face him. She wanted to send word that she loved him still, that there was a son--his son--but Conan would be burdened with the weight of duty to them both. If he loved her still, he would come to her of his free choice--not out of duty. She could not plead for his aid.
“Chandra? What may I tell him?”
“Please, monseigneur, tell him that I am well. Tell him I pray for his safety.”
“Is that all?”
“Aye,” she said, sniffing back her tears. “That is all.” Chandra could not send her love to Jerusalem. She cuddled Hugh closely to her and rushed away from Alaric so that her tears could be private. Within the keep, she leaned against the closed door and the wetness coursed down her cheeks. It had been two years--two very long years since Conan had climbed to her chamber and promised he would return to her. He left a part of himself with her then, and he did not know there was a son. No one knew, although Wynne must have suspected.
Conan would return to find England itself had changed. The land was wasted by the sacrifices made to finance the fighting. Count John, first banned from England, had returned and been given by his sovereign brother the right to rule a large accumulation of land in the central part of England. Those living under his rule were a saddened lot, for John’s insatiable hunger for power, combined with his cruel and harsh disciplinary hand, left many a sorrowed soul in his path. And while Richard had given him land and power, he continued to surround himself with supporters and warriors, conquering and holding more land to call his own.
Those eager for money and power were willing to pledge their fealty to John in return for his promise of support. One such individual, unsurprisingly, was Tedric. Tedric had powerful friends now. He was no longer the lowly son of little inheritance.
When Conan returned, he would also see the guards who surrounded Chandra, and the improbability that he could ever wrest her away from Tedric’s tight hold. She could not send her love and beg him to free her. The desire must come from his own heart. And his heart may have changed: on some faraway desert manor there might have been an emperor’s daughter whose eyes were more a promise than a memory.
Chandra dried her eyes and made her way to her chamber to begin the preparations for traveling back to Cordell. Clothing had already been placed in trunks, and when she entered, Wynne gratefully took Hugh from her arms. “My lord husband?” Chandra questioned. “Did he tell you when we leave?”
“Nay, lady, only that we are to make ready.”
Chandra picked up a small jewel coffer containing a few things that had been her mother’s and held it reverently. She prayed Tedric would not take these and sell them as he had done with some of her other things. There was not much of value within, but the gems were precious in a sentimental way. She opened the coffer to look at them and found it filled with parchment, many pages rolled together. She lifted the pages in confusion, carefully unrolling them to see what this missive was. It was sent to “Father” and was signed with a scrawling “C.” It took her only a moment to realize that it was a letter Conan had written to Alaric. And Alaric had found a way to give her word of Conan even before she asked. He must have stolen into her chamber when no one was about to hide the letter among her personal things.
Quickly she closed the lid and fetched her cloak, covering her shoulders and hiding the coffer beneath the folds.
“Wynne, keep Hugh for me. I will be back soon.”
Chandra went swiftly down the stairs and through the keep, nearly colliding with Tedric as she was leaving the hall.
“Pardon, my lord,” she muttered, attempting to pass him.
“Where do you go?” he demanded.
“To visit my parents’ graves once more, Tedric, if you will allow it,” she said with cautious respect, but her eyes dared him to stop her.
“Make this the last time, lady,” he warned. “We will leave here early on the morrow.”
“Has Lord Alaric gone?” she questioned.
“Aye, but he leaves Sir Galen here to protect the keep.” Tedric laughed suddenly. “No one would dare trouble the knight!” Tedric walked away from her, laughing, and Chandra hurried to the garden, to the place where her parents were buried.
She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching her. The small cemetery was almost completely concealed from the hall by bushes and trees, and she knew no other place to go. Tedric was not interested in watching her as she sat and stared at the earth, as she let her mind commune with the spirits of her family in this place. She knelt on the damp ground and opened the coffer to take out the parchment. She did not have time to savor every word, but the comfort of seeing writing in Conan’s own hand brought a warm and tender feeling to her breast.
He wrote of the violent storms of Jaffa: the hail and winds, the mud so thick the horses could not move and the men could not walk. On the voyage over, there had been much sickness and strife. Men were forced to kill and eat their horses to stay alive. Many landed with sores and ailments requiring weeks of recuperation before they could travel with Richard. The king, no less human than they, was often ill and bedridden. No one could guarantee his survival of the war. There was no greater in battle, no finer mind for the strategy of war, bu
t his constitution was weak where ailments were concerned, and he was often beset.
The infidel enemy was a new sort, appearing easy to best, with their immodest linen wraps and their petite horses. But they were sleek and fast, their steeds accustomed to the sliding terrain and light weight. And their lack of armor did not permit them to hold fast and await return attack. They flung their arrows from the backs of moving horses and quickly retreated out of range. The Negro and Bedouin foot soldiers hurled arrows and darts while the horsed heathens attacked in waves. The first reaction to this alien form of fighting was paralyzed horror on the part of the heavily fettered knights. In the end of the battle of Arsuf there was a victory for the Christians, but in truth it was a miracle they even survived. And even so, many a warrior lay stricken and immobilized from the severe heat and lack of water.
The taking of hostages in battle was common. And execution was a necessary evil to be dealt with. Chandra shuddered. Conan wrote his father that he thought he had hardened himself to the facts of war, to the blood and agonized cries of the beaten. But the day he witnessed the slaughter of over two thousand prisoners taken at Acre, he found that he hadn’t.
There were snakebites, the victims writhing in delirium and pain before dying. The depletion of food stores, a severe lack of meat and fruit, caused the slow starvation of some. Illness. There was a new unknown disease in every heathen village. One local complaint struck both kings, laying Richard and Philip on their backs. As if a noble bug had bitten, Conan, too, was stricken. Fever and delirium reigned, and though he remembered nothing when he regained consciousness, Conan found that Mallory had closeted himself with his ailing comrade and would allow no other near.
“I could not see his purpose and would rather have had him leave a more expendable servant to the task of tending me,” Conan wrote. “But my sister’s husband said that the name I called out in my sickness would not have pleased my other comrades in arms.”