FitzClifford greeted Swen with his usual pleasant manner, revealing nothing of his reason for being there beyond a request to speak with him. After introducing him to William, Swen suggested they move inside out of the cold to talk. FitzClifford proved amenable to William’s suggestion and waved his men off, then followed Swen to Anna’s workshop.
“When word came of your approach, I sent the woman who lives here inside with orders not to open the door to any but William or myself,” Swen told him as they took the path to the workshop. “Murat is small, with few buildings of any size, but Mistress Anna’s workshop is spacious. We can talk here, if she’s willing.”
Faint light shone through the shutters. Anna must have come back downstairs after he’d left. He pounded his fist on the door. “Anna, you may unbar the door now,” he called. “’Tis safe. It was friend, not foe, at the gates. I’ve brought someone with me. May we come in?”
At the sound of Swen’s voice outside the door, Anna set aside the panel she’d tried to work on since he left—not that she’d made any noticeable progress on it—and rested her hands palm down on the smooth surface of the table to steady their trembling.
He was safe, and he’d come back to her.
Beyond that fact, at this point, she dared not think.
“A moment,” she called, not quite able to quell the tremor of relief in her voice. She drew a deep breath and let it out on a sigh, tried to smooth her unruly curls back from her face and removed her apron. That was as presentable as she got, she reminded herself wryly. Swen had never seen her any other way; it would have to be good enough for his friend as well.
Taking up a lamp from the table, she went to the door and, working one-handed, tugged the bar from its supports and leaned it against the wall.
Swen pushed the door open before she could reach for the latch.
“Come in and be welcome,” she said, standing aside so they might enter.
She tried not to stare at Swen, but given what they’d been doing, and what they’d discussed before he left, ’twas a nigh-impossible task. After permitting herself a brief glimpse to assure herself he’d come to no harm, she looked past him to the other man who entered her workshop.
Tall—though not so tall as Swen—and lean, garbed in a mail hauberk and leather braes, his wavy hair glowing reddish in the lamplight, he was a handsome man. Warm brown eyes met hers as he inspected her in turn, then smiled.
A kind man, she thought, though used to war as well, to judge by the well-worn scabbard belted about his waist.
She glanced back at Swen after he closed the door. He had a look in his eyes more serious than any she’d ever seen there. Pain, and hurt—and dread.
Who was this man—this friend—who arrived unannounced in the dead of night, to cause Swen such torment?
If she refused to leave Swen alone with him, perhaps she’d find out. And protect Swen in the bargain.
He took the lamp from her, his gaze sweeping over her in an assessing look. “You came to no harm when you fell?” he asked as he turned and set the lamp on the workbench.
She laid her hand on his arm, the warmth of his skin against her palm somehow reassuring. “I’m fine,” she murmured. Sliding her fingers to meet his for a fleeting moment, she added, “And you?”
He nodded, then moved away from her and came around to include the other man in their conversation. “My apologies, milord,” he said. “I should have introduced you at once. Lord Rannulf FitzClifford,” Swen gestured toward him, then nodded toward Anna. “Mistress Anna de Limoges, chief artisan of the Abbey of St. Stephen of Murat.”
Lord Rannulf stepped forward and, taking Anna’s hand in his, bowed over it. “It is a pleasure to touch so skilled a hand, demoiselle,” he murmured, raising that hand to his lips. “Your work is a joy to behold.”
Already flustered by Lord Rannulf’s attention, Anna couldn’t hide her surprise at his words. “You’ve heard of me, of my work?”
He smiled. “Of course. King John is justifiably proud of his protégée—’tis how he refers to you at court,” he added at her questioning look. “I saw several of your enamels gracing the altar of the king’s own chapel in London this past spring, when the nobles gathered to negotiate Magna Carta. I understand they’re in great demand, and prized highly by those fortunate enough to possess them.”
Anna hadn’t a clue what charter he referred to, but she’d never imagined that King John himself would mention her work to anyone.
“How are your lovely wife and daughter, milord?” Swen asked, his voice cool enough to break through her musings. She gazed at Swen, confused by the sudden, but clear enmity in his expression. However, when she noted how he stared at her hand, still joined with Lord Rannulf’s, a possibility occurred to her.
Could Swen be jealous?
Strange though the idea seemed, ’twas all she could think of.
The thought caused her heartbeat to trip with nearly as much excitement as his kisses had.
A faint smile on his lips, Lord Rannulf pressed her hand once more, then released it and took a step back. From the amusement in his eyes when he turned to Swen, he’d noticed Swen’s strange reaction as well. “Gillian and Katherine were well when I left them, thank you.”
Of a sudden he looked away; when he glanced back at Swen, his expression had sobered. “I fear I cannot say the same for Lady Lily, however.”
Swen crossed the chamber to them with quick strides, his face pale in the soft glow of the lamp. “What has happened?” he asked, his voice urgent—almost fearful, she thought.
A rapping on the door interrupted them, then Trudy bustled into the room without waiting for an invitation, a heavily laden tray balanced in her hands. “Bess thought you might be needin’ refreshments, mistress.”
Swen stood near the door, one hand on his hip, the other sweeping his pale hair back from his brow, impatience clear in every line of his body. To her, he looked as if he were ready to flee—or he wanted to, at least.
Anna hurried to the table and shoved her work aside with scant regard for its safety. “Just set it here, Trudy. Thank you, and thank Bess for me, will you?”
“Of course, mistress.” Trudy glanced at the men and evidently took note of the strange tension between them. She gave Anna a commiserating look and nodded, set the tray down with more speed than grace, then bobbed a curtsy before hastening out the door.
Whatever lay between Swen and Lord Rannulf, they needn’t stand about here to discuss it. It seemed to her that Swen could use a chance to sit down. And surely they owed Lord Rannulf, a guest, more courtesy than to keep him standing about in her workshop, especially at this time of night.
“Come with me, sirs,” she said, picking up the tray and heading for the stairs.
Swen muttered something that sounded like a curse and came to take the tray from her hands. “What are you doing? You cannot carry this up the ladder!” He glared down at her skirts. “Are you determined to break your neck tonight?”
If she hadn’t heard the concern in Swen’s voice, she’d have taken offense at the words. But she could see that he was upset; at this point, she simply wanted to discover what the problem was so that they might resolve it.
“Thank you, Swen.” She took the lamp in one hand, gathered the trailing hem of her gown in the other and headed up the stairs, Lord Rannulf behind her and Swen following them with the tray.
Her living quarters took up most of the loft area and contained her bed, two tables, a chair and several stools spread out around the room. She kindled a branch of candles and set it on the larger of the tables. Drawing the chair away from the small fireplace in the corner, she settled it at the head of the table. “Milord?” She gestured for Lord Rannulf to take the seat.
The candles and lamp made little impact in the spacious room, so she started a fire in the hearth, then lighted several of the thick candles scattered about on wall prickets.
Meanwhile Swen removed the platter of food, pitcher of ale and thr
ee cups from the tray and set them out on the table. Anna poured ale for the men, thumped the pitcher down on the table and stood, hands clasped to still their trembling, beside Swen. “I believe you’ve things to discuss,” she said pointedly. “I’ll leave, if you wish to be private. But I’ll tell you now, Siwardson, my friend—” he raised an eyebrow at her tone “—that I’ll only hound you about this later…”
He stared down at the table, apparently set to ignore her feeble jest. But then his hand snaked out and captured one of hers in a firm grip. “Stay,” he said. He looked up at Lord Rannulf, seated across the table from him. “That is, if you’ve no objection, milord.”
Lord Rannulf looked from one of them to the other, his gaze lingering on their joined hands. “I don’t mind, if Siwardson doesn’t. Please, mistress, sit down.”
Anna slipped her hand from Swen’s grasp and pulled up a seat on the side of the table between them, where she had an equal view of them both.
Swen broke the silence that had fallen, shoving the stool back, then leaning forward, his forearms propped on the table. “’Tis too much a coincidence to assume that you came to Murat for any other reason than to find me, FitzClifford. Though I don’t understand how you knew I was here.”
“The abbot—Father Michael?—sent a man to Gwal Draig, to question Ian about you. It seems he wanted to know more about the man who had just offered to guard the abbey’s treasure,” he added, his steady gaze fixed on Swen.
Swen felt that gaze like an accusation, a gauntlet tossed down upon the table. He raked his hand through his hair and shifted his feet like an errant child. Should he accept FitzClifford’s challenge? He wasn’t even certain what it was—or if this sense he had of being brought to account was naught more than the product of a guilty conscience.
Whatever the reason, ’twas torture to sit there, but to move about as he wished would show his confusion. His wandering gaze came to rest upon Anna, who gifted him with a smile. Reassured by her presence, he sat back and took a gulp of ale. “I assume Lord Ian didn’t say anything too terrible about me, since William hasn’t booted me out through the gates.” Shoving his drink aside, he added, “Although perhaps that’s the reason you’re here?”
FitzClifford shook his head, but he raised a brow questioningly. “I didn’t realize Ian knew anything terrible to report,” he said, his voice mild. “If he did, I doubt you’d have left Gwal Draig in one piece. My brother by marriage is nothing if not thorough in administering justice,” he said with a wry laugh.
An understatement of vast proportions, Swen silently agreed. Schooling himself to patience, he waited for him to continue.
FitzClifford took a chunk of bread from the platter and tore off a bit. “I am here at Lily’s request. My wife’s sister,” he told Anna. “She is wed to the Dragon.” He chewed a bite of bread and washed it down with ale.
Swen fought the urge to snatch the food away until FitzClifford finished what he’d started—and sought to quell the growing sense of dread looming larger by the moment on the edge of his awareness.
“I was at Gwal Draig when the abbot’s messenger arrived, Siwardson. I’d brought Gillian to stay with her sister for the end of her confinement.” Frowning, he pushed the platter of food away. “We’d gone early, lest the bad weather prevent us from traveling once Lily would have need of her. I nearly lost Gillian and Katherine both when my daughter was born—’twas a difficult time.” He glanced down at the table and pressed his fingers to his forehead.
When he looked up, his eyes were filled with sorrow. “’Tis a blessing we went when we did. Gillian delivered Lily of a seven-month babe nigh a fortnight past. It was a difficult birth. But the child—a boy—was yet alive when I left Gwal Draig three days ago, thanks be to God.” He crossed himself. “But Lily…”
Lily dead? Swen could have sworn his heart stopped for a moment, before pounding wildly in his chest.
If she was, then he’d as good as killed her himself.
Chapter Thirteen
Swen surged to his feet. He felt as though all the blood had drained from him, leaving him weak and shaking. You could have prevented this, he berated himself. You’re naught but a coward.
Or was that his father’s voice he heard taunting him yet again?
He struggled to remember exactly what he’d seen in his dreams. A tiny babe, motionless in Lily’s arms…And Lily herself, pale and unmoving, eyes closed…in death, he’d believed.
“She’s dead,” he said, unable to keep a note of finality from his voice. Feeling as though the hounds of hell nipped at his heels, he left the table and began to pace the far end of the room, eyes unseeing, his shoulders feeling as weighted as if he carried all the world’s sorrows upon them. He should have tried to warn them!
But would they have believed him if he had?
He drew in a shaky breath. Even if they had believed his warnings, how could they have prevented this?
’Twas his past, relived again. “But dear God,” he whispered, hanging his head. “Why did it have to be Lily?” He slammed his fist against the stone wall, but that hurt made little impression. “I knew…”
Anna heard such pain in his voice! She made to rise and go to him, but Lord Rannulf stood, placed his hand on her shoulder and shook his head. She would obey him for now. But if it turned out that Swen needed her, or the comfort she could give him, no one would hold her back.
“Siwardson,” Lord Rannulf said, his voice carrying the edge of command. Swen stopped, straightened but kept his back to them. “Lily was alive when I left Gwal Draig. God grant that she still is. Gillian is a skilled healer, and she believes she can help Lily recover, though it will be a long time before she’s well. She’s very weak. But she’ll not give up—neither of them will. They’re fierce fighters, those l’Eau Clair women.”
Swen gave a weak laugh. “That they are. Either of them would face down Death himself with naught but her bare hands, should the need arise.”
“I pray it does not.” Eyes dark with pain, Lord Rannulf lifted his hand from Anna’s shoulder and returned to the chair. He stood behind it, head bowed, and grasped the back with both hands until his knuckles showed white against the dark wood.
To give him a moment’s privacy—and herself a chance to see how Swen fared—Anna rose and went to Swen. She rested her hand on his back and her head against his shoulder, offering what comfort she could. Though he didn’t turn around, she could feel some of the tension leave him.
“She needs all the encouragement she can get if she’s to recover, Siwardson. ‘Tis why I’m here. Lily has asked for you repeatedly, since soon after the child’s birth. And though the fact that the boy survived has heartened her, her spirits remain low. We’ve all tried to do what we could, but…” He shook his head. “When Llywelyn held her hostage for Ian’s loyalty, your support helped her survive. We hoped you might return to Gwal Draig, lend her your strength and humor once again.”
Anna felt the tension flow back into Swen’s body with every word Lord Rannulf spoke. By the time the other man had finished, Swen might have been a stone statue, he stood so stiff and motionless.
“Will you come back to Gwal Draig with me tomorrow?” Lord Rannulf asked.
Swen shrugged away from Anna’s touch and spun to face him in a smooth movement, his visage so forbidding that Anna nearly gasped.
Gone was the jovial man she’d come to know. His eyes were cold, his mobile lips flattened into a tight line, as though he sought to hold in words too horrible to speak.
He looked like a stranger.
“Nay, milord,” Swen said in a voice to match his expression. “I fear I cannot leave Murat. My place is here now. I gave my word to protect Anna. I’m sorry, but I cannot help you.”
Ignoring Anna’s gasp, Swen carefully nudged her aside. He watched patiently as FitzClifford, his face pale—with anger?—straightened, then flexed his hands on the back of the chair. Wishing ’twas my neck, most like, Swen thought.
Would F
itzClifford cross the chamber to him, take him to task for his crude and unfeeling disregard for Lily?
If he did, it mattered not at all. His response would be the same.
He would not abandon Anna, not even for Lily.
Thus was the measure of his cowardice—that he would use his ever-growing regard for Anna as an excuse to avoid facing the truth about himself.
Although God’s truth, he did not believe he could leave Anna for any reason at all, he realized.
He’d jumped from the steaming cauldron into the fire, and there was naught he’d do to save himself.
Whatever happened now, ’twas likely a fitting reward for all the times he’d run. He fought back a mirthless laugh; it was no more than he deserved.
“Damn you, Swen!” FitzClifford ground out. “Can you let Lily pine for you and do nothing?” He let go of the chair and stepped back, raked his hands through his hair. “I beg your pardon, Mistress Anna,” he said with a sigh. “It’s not for me to tell him his business—nor to make light of your situation. But we’ve been so concerned about Lily that I had hoped…”
She went to him, laid a hand upon his arm. “Nay, my lord, don’t berate yourself. You want to help Lady Lily. I wish there was something I could do for her besides pray that God will watch over her and her child.” She released him and fixed her steady gaze upon Swen’s face. It seemed he still held something in check. “All I can do is to release Swen from his duties here, free him to accompany you to Gwal Draig.”
Sudden fire flared in Swen’s pale eyes. “You haven’t the right to send me away, Anna. I vowed to protect you, and I shall.”
Easy words to speak, Swen thought, watching as disappointment tainted Anna’s eyes when she looked at him. But he meant them with all his heart, whether she wanted to hear them or no. It mattered little—nay, ‘twould most likely be for the best—if Anna no longer welcomed his presence in her life. Judging by his lack of willpower where Anna was concerned, this might be a blessing in disguise.
But he couldn’t prevent the sense of loss that filled him. For a short time, he’d known what it was like to share life with Anna, to hold her in his arms.
The Shielded Heart Page 11