by Zelma Orr
Rebecca clasped her hands together, looking down. “I am from Gloucester. She hesitated, twisting her hands and glanced up at three interested faces. “I ... Papa—”
“Gloucester?” Margaret said. “That is many days from here.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Papa.” She hesitated. “I was with child and papa sent me to London to hide me because I would not tell the father's name. I shamed them.” Her voice quivered, and she swallowed. “The baby did not live, but I cannot return home to cause them more suffering. I ran away.”
She sat with her head bowed, squeezing her hands into fists.
The pain was not pretense. She hurt as though the tale were true. The hurting was real if her story was not.
“Do not cry, little one,” Margaret said, kneeling in front of her. “Each of us has a burden to bear so we help each other. We do not condemn a body for being human.” She picked up Rebecca's clenched fists and rubbed them with long, freckled fingers. “You are welcome to stay with us. What say?”
Her heart stilled within her. They were strangers ready to take her in, strangers who questioned not whether she was a good woman or not. Even with her lies, they took her for what she said she was—and without blame.
She lifted her eyes, swimming with tears.
“You are most kind. I will try not to be a burden.”
“Never,” Hugo said, helping her to her feet. “Are you able to walk? We have two animals to carry our goods, but the Big One can carry a bit more weight such as yourself.”
“We are on our way to London,” Gerald said, “but we will hide your beauty beneath a jongleur's outfit, lass. No one will know you.”
“Ha,” Margaret said. “She is much too pretty not to be noticed. Mayhap we can use her as a dwarf. She's that small.”
“We are on our way to London to perform for Queen Eleanor. She is fond of our entertainment. But,” Hugo said, bending to pick up Rebecca's small packet of belongings, “you will go as one of us, and you will not be noticed as being different.”
The jovial conversation went on as the horse Hugo called Big One was brought out of the trees where he had been tied while a meal was prepared. A smaller donkey, not much bigger than papa's largest sheep, trailed along behind.
“I can walk,” Rebecca said.
“You are weak from loss of the child and tired, lass. Here. Up with you.” Hugo lifted her onto the broad back of Big One and handed her a rope. “No need to guide. He will follow us.” His hand remained on the horse's rump. “What are you called then?”
“Rebecca.”
There was no need to invent a name. She would not be searched for in the company of minstrels making their way into London along England's back country roads.
Hugo's long legs took them down the muddy tracks and Gerald trotted a few feet behind while Margaret stayed near Big One. Rebecca's body ached, but she said nothing as the hours passed. She was thankful she did not have to walk.
Rebecca lost count of the days and at night, lay wearily on a sheepskin spread over piled rushes, unable to sleep. She tried not to think of Stephen but to think only of the beginning of a new and different life. The minstrels lived simply, far from the comfort of the Glastonbury home she had left. For Rebecca, it mattered not. She would not be alone, and the offered friendship gave her a warm feeling of belonging.
“I am lucky the child did not live,” she often whispered to herself, ignoring the ache even as she spoke the words. “I would not want to raise him in a home without a loving father, and Stephen was not pleased that he was to have a son.”
She heard Hugo stirring and saw him tend the fire. When he finished, he moved to where Margaret lay, there was a murmur of voices, then he slipped beneath the sheepskin with her.
Rebecca looked away, envying Margaret and Hugo.
* * * *
Rebecca looked down at the stream at her feet. It was cold, very cold. But she needed a bath. Her clothing stuck to her with dampness and mud caked the bottom of her long tunic. Color was no longer distinguishable. Tomorrow they would be in London, and Hugo would give her a jongleur's robe to appear before the queen. It was a long gold wrap with matching hood to hide her pale hair that had grown too long to let hang down her back. She could not abide putting her unclean body into the clean clothing.
She had brought her sheepskin with her to wrap in once she bathed. She discarded it and, taking a deep breath and holding it, slid into the icy water.
“Ohh-hh-ohh,” she moaned, her teeth chattering.
But she stayed, splashing water over her until she became numb enough not to notice the cold so much, then she went underwater, washing her hair as best she could. She stayed as long as she dared then stepped out to wrap the sheepskin around her. Her teeth chattered, but she laughed lightly. How good it felt to be clean! Ah, it was lovely.
Numbness slipped away as she rubbed her body dry, and she hummed one of the old ballads she once sang to Richard. Her voice rose, its lilting melody carrying through the early morning quiet.
In camp, Margaret lifted her head. Across the breakfast fire, Hugo and Gerald listened.
“Bring my love, though darkness fall, bring my love to me. Hold thy nearness, thy dearness, hold me eternally.” Rebecca's clear voice lowered until its softness brought an ache to the throats of the three listening. It was warmth and sweet pain and a deep longing all mixed in the clearness of her words.
The sound stopped, but the three of them sat staring at each other. When Rebecca stepped into the clearing, wrapped only in the sheepskin, they looked at her as though she were someone they had not met.
Rebecca, unprepared for an audience, stopped, her mouth open in surprise. She had hoped to find the robe Hugo put aside for her and be dressed before the others saw her.
Now they watched her wonderingly.
“Where did you learn to sing like that?” It was Margaret who first found her voice.
“Oh. Oh.” Rebecca smiled. “I learned music in Sister Emilie's school in Suffolk. I cannot sing, but I do like music.”
“Dost perchance play an instrument?” Henry said.
“Only the harp. I could never learn the flute. I kept bumping my teeth.”
“You have a lovely voice, Rebecca.” Gerald gazed at her as though entranced. “Have you ever performed?”
“I sang to Papa's cows and sheep.” She laughed. “They did not complain of my noise.”
“Minstrels and jongleurs are favorites of Queen Eleanor. She loves stories and songs. You will help us in the Christmas celebration.”
“But, I have never ...” She knew Eleanor loved songs and stories. Last
Christmas ...
Would Stephen be in the royal palace this holiday season as in years past? As last season when she first realized she was in love with him? The same Christmas she became pregnant with a son he did not want.
“No one will recognize you, Little One,” Hugo said. “You'll perform with robes and a mask.”
She trusted him. She trusted Margaret and Gerald without knowing why. They were strangers, but they had saved her life and were willing to care for her. The least she could do was help them entertain.
What had Stephen told her about entertainers?
“Are not jongleurs banned by the church? With trouble between the archbishop and the king, will we be allowed to perform? Sir Thomas is strict in such things.”
“Ha,” Hugo said. “That is why we are invited. The queen loves us all the more because we are a thorn in the side of Sir Thomas and will cause her king anguish.”
“I think perchance Queen Eleanor doubts her husband's love and mayhap looks for ways to make him unhappy.”
“It will be good to make her happy for a short time.”
“What dost know of royal unhappiness, my child?” Margaret said.
“Only gossip. The king's affairs are talked of even in the country.”
“Aye,” Hugo said. “'Tis true, but let us not talk of such. We will prepare a roy
al performance to brighten the queen's day.”
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* * *
Chapter Eleven
It was the bellow of an angry boar.
“Lady Rebecca is not about? What say ye, vassal? She has departed to what place?”
Stephen's body fairly shook with outraged disbelief.
“I know not, my lord.”
The manservant knelt in front of Stephen, awaiting the whip on his back. He had dreaded lo these long days when his master would return. It was best to be over and done with his punishment.
Stephen grasped the man's mantel, drawing him upward until he stared into the frightened eyes.
“Speak, vassal,” he whispered hoarsely. “Tell me wherefore the Lady Rebecca has gone or, by God's eye, I will have your head.”
“Sir Stephen.” Malvina spoke behind him.
He whirled to face her. “Well, sayeth the truth!”
Malvina curtsied.
“She left two days hence your departure, Sir Stephen. We sent word by a traveler when one passed. Didst not get the message?”
“I left London early.”
He had been in a hurry to return to Glastonbury. To Rebecca.
“For what reason does she depart this house while I am absent?” Stephen stood tall and wide above the two servants. “Has she perchance gone to Gloucester?”
“She left no word, my lord,” Malvina said. “I went to awaken her the morning, and she was gone. She took only two garments. And Tor.”
“Tor?” The great hall shook with the thunder of Stephen's rage. Had he not forbid her to ride the stallion lest she get hurt? “She took the stallion?”
“The steed has returned, Sire,” Jonan, the manservant spoke timidly. Mayhap the safe return of Tor would lessen the master's anger.
Stephen looked over the servants gathered to welcome him home, their faces expectant, albeit fearful. He was a good master, but all knew his temper, not often shown. Since the arrival of Lady Rebecca two years before, he had been given to less displays of rage. But Rebecca had left the great stone house, and they did not welcome the emptiness. Nor, it seemed, did their master.
With a final roar of displeasure, Stephen climbed the steps to his bedroom.
Rebecca gone? How dare she leave a good husband for no cause? When he returned her to his house, she would know not to soon disobey him.
He stood outside his bedroom but did not enter. Across the hallway was the room Rebecca kept for herself. Once he visited her with regularity but since her illness, he had stayed away. Slowly, he moved to the closed door, turned the knob, let it fall open and walked inside.
There was only the bed with its shucked mattress, a stool and small rocking chair Aubin had made for her. A chest for clothing.
Near the cold fireplace, he saw an object and bent to pick it up. A bone pin she used to hold the long braids of blonde hair. He stood in front of the closet with clothing he had purchased for her when she journeyed with him to London for the royal holiday festivities. The lovely gown of blue velvet to enhance Rebecca's eyes. How light she had been in his arms. How hot-blooded she had been that night as he made love to her. Vibrant, alive, something to behold.
She had become a woman.
He stumbled to the bed and sat down, moving his hand over the pillow, beneath the coverlet that held Rebecca's soft fragrance, of outdoors, of honeysuckle she loved. With a curse, he rose, shoved his hands beneath the mattress and threw it into the floor. With a wild bellow, he reached for the rushes piled beneath the bed for softness.
Papers flew through the air.
Paper. Vellum. Expensive vellum. Page after page had been spread beneath the mattress so as not to wrinkle. He sat on the floor and gathered the pages. They were faded from much use.
He read. Rebecca Grinwold, Suffolk School. Miss Emilie Goodfield. The year of our Lord, 1163. Rebecca would have been thirteen that year. He turned the page.
When he read the last page of the manuscript, Stephen laid them on the rushes as they had been, replaced the mattress atop them, and spread the dainty coverlet.
He, too, had read the romance of Homer. He, too, had nurtured romantic dreams and had found them in Mary. When she died, his romantic dreams died, too. Or so he'd thought.
Until now.
A hoarse moan was born deep in his chest.
Rebecca's search for love spilled into the much-read manuscript. She did not know that he, too, loved but had denied her that knowledge because it seemed another weakness among all weaknesses he suffered. He did not let her know he grieved for the lost child—that he worried over her. His selfish despair, his neglect, drove her away from him.
Where would she go? She had no money, no possessions save those he had given her. She knew no one in this desolate country outside Glastonbury.
Shaking with grief, anger and helpless rage, he strode from the room, bellowing for Aubin to make ready for a journey.
* * * *
Wide fields cultivated and cleaned for spring crops bordered the road to Gloucester. Stephen didn't see any of the preparation that would result in crops by which he might collect the king's taxes next year. He thought of the day he took Rebecca away from Grinwold, her small, scared face, big eyes stretched to hold back tears, hoping Lady Elizabeth would speak up in her behalf so that the big blond stranger did not take her away from all she knew and loved.
Where is she now? Is she hungry? Has some stranger done her harm? Rebecca had been sheltered all her life. Not loved, but sheltered.
Stephen shivered.
It was nearing dusk when Aubin drew the horses to a stop in front of Grinwold. Two years of wear showed on the untended shutters over the front windows. And on the gabled roof with its cracked tiles. The steps needed repair, the hinges rusted on the heavy door.
Stephen's fist shook dirt loose from the porch beams. His lips curled in disgust at seeing Grinwold rotting into waste because Sir Oliver gambled away money made on his vast land holdings.
He raised his fist once more when the door opened and a woman stared at him. A gray wimple hid her hair, but her face was old, it's aging not from years but from work or worry or both. Gray lips pursed with distrust.
“My lord?” The voice whined the question at Stephen.
“I am Sir Stephen Lambert. I would see Sir Oliver.”
The flabby chin quivered. “Sir Stephen? Aye, ‘tis Lady Rebecca's husband.” The whine became almost a voice. The bundled figure retreated, holding the door open, and curtsied. “I will fetch Lady Elizabeth.”
So. Rebecca is here, he thought with satisfaction. The pain inside him retreated, and anger began to build. He would teach her to run away and cause him worry. Impatiently, he strode across the room, and then whirled as footsteps sounded behind him.
Lady Elizabeth came towards him, hands extended, a smile lighting her pale face. Blue eyes, faded where Rebecca's were dark, looked behind him as though for someone else.
“Sir Stephen,” she said.
He bowed over her hand as he took it in both of his.
“Lady Elizabeth.” He straightened and frowned down at her. “I would see Rebecca.”
“Rebecca? But Rebecca is your ... Rebecca ... is not here.” Her voice faltered. I thought mayhap you had brought her to visit ere we left for Genoa. We travel within the fortnight.”
He was not listening. “Rebecca is not with you?”
“I have not seen Rebecca since her visit a year hence. Since before she ... the baby.” Her hands twisted together. “Why didst think she was here?”
He did not like telling Lady Elizabeth, but he could not avoid it.
“Rebecca left Glastonbury while I was in London. She did not leave word as to her journey.”
Lady Elizabeth sank down on the velvet chair.
“Why? She seemed happy with you. Mayhap someone took her.”
The two years since he had last seen Lady Elizabeth had not been kind to her. The powder for enhancing her features had
settled into the lines of her face and resembled crevices of powdered stone on Moon Cliffs, Stephen thought unflatteringly.
“Rebecca was not happy since she lost the child. I asked if she would have you visit her, and she told of the Genoa journey you were taking with Sir Oliver. She would not trouble you.” His anger disappeared, and he was only weary. “Is Sir Oliver about?”
“He is over to see Richard to instruct him what is to be done while he is away. He will return ere darkness. You must stay the night.”
He did not want to remain overnight, but it would be an insult to Sir Oliver to leave so quickly. He owed the man nothing, but he was his father-in-law. Gentlemanly manners demanded bending a bit. Too, he was tired. He had driven himself long and hard to get to Grinwold thinking he would find Rebecca.
“My driver will require lodging and food also, my lady,” he said.
“Nora will see to him,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Come. I will show you to a room.”
* * * *
Sir Oliver came as the sun struck low clouds over the ragged roof of the outbuildings. The man was rounder than when Stephen last saw him, and he moved with a graceless limp. His waistcoat hung open and a huge belly sagged over dusty black pants. From a distance, Stephen could hear his grunts and heavy breathing, mark of a man not accustomed to working.
“Sir Oliver.”
Sir Oliver stopped, a thick hand propped on his knee, as he made ready to aid his slow progress up the low hill from the stables. Dark eyes, sunk into folds of pink flesh, darted over the straight figure in front of him. He recognized Stephen, smiled, pink lips stretching tightly over his teeth.
“Sir Stephen. ‘Tis surprised I am.” He looked beyond his son-in-law. “Things are well, I trust?”
“If you mean Rebecca, I fear not, my lord,” Stephen said.
“Aye. ‘Tis trouble the girl has been since birth.” He shook his head. “I thought perchance marriage would do her well.”
“Where is Rebecca, my lord?” a quiet voice said, and Stephen looked behind Sir Oliver to a younger man. He stepped closer. “I am Richard, Rebecca's brother.”