The Yearning Heart

by Zelma Orr

  Rebecca swallowed, trying not to retch.

  “ ‘Tis only that I do not wish to meet him. Or ... or anyone.”

  How many times had she thought of meeting Stephen once more? How many nights her heart ached for just the sight of him, for a touch of his fingers on her cheek, to hear his deep voice as he spoke to Aubin, or Bundy, yea, even Malvina, who had been his favorite, after all.

  How did he come to be at the tent of the minstrels? Did he not have a rich man's rooms in Troyes where he spent great amounts of money for market goods?

  Rebecca's heart twisted as did her hands.

  She turned away, catching the legs of her costume up so as to move quickly. No matter if Stephen wished to meet her, he could not know she was Rebecca, his wife, and he must never know.

  She stumbled and a hand reached to help her. Mumbling her thanks, Rebecca looked up into Stephen's stern face.

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  * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stunned, Stephen stared into Rebecca's face, hers no longer the face of a child, but a beautiful woman. Spots of paint lingering along her cheek reminded him of the day he took her from Grinwold in her sixteenth year. Blood from the rabbit she'd slain with a bow and arrow had stained her fingers, face smudged with dirt and dark rings beneath her fingernails. He'd thought her a plain little urchin then.

  Rebecca was no longer plain. The wheat color of her hair had lightened from hours spent in the sun and all kinds of weather. The blue of her eyes had deepened, or perhaps it was because thick lashes were blacker and curled at the ends. The childish features had disappeared, and in their place, was a lovely woman with thin, high cheekbones, a generous wide mouth and lips the color of the roses atop the arbor she and Aubin worked so diligently the long days he left her alone. Her body was slight, but there was a gentle swell to her breasts and a defined flare to her hips that he did not recall.

  This is Rebecca, he told himself, but she has changed.

  For many fortnights after Rebecca disappeared, Stephen had railed and cursed her, had blamed her for his misery and unhappiness, his inability to take care of the smallest duties. Everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of the woman he had married under duress, the one who made his days pleasant and his nights delightful. The servants spoke in whispers lest he chastise them for idleness and gossip. Aubin watched him with worried eyes, hovering to make sure Stephen was comfortable.

  Finally, he'd admitted to himself that it wasn't entirely Rebecca's fault. He had been remiss in reassuring her that he cared for her, that he truly enjoyed having her near him, was glad she was his wife. Oh, yes, he had meant to tell her such things, but the time had never presented itself.

  Then the loss of the child. He didn't know how to console Rebecca in her sorrow, didn't know how to tell her he, too, felt the emptiness, the pain, the sadness that a child would not fulfill her wishes. He knew, deep down, he knew that Rebecca needed someone, something of her own, to love. He had not given her the things she needed most, and she had left him.

  There were many words he could have spoken, reassurances he could have given, had he not been too prideful, too caught up in his own unhappiness to give Rebecca the support she needed, yea, deserved. And so, long since, Stephen had taken most of the blame for his own unhappiness in losing his wife. A wife who, years before, had been unwanted, unneeded, even resented. And, even yet hard to admit, one he had learned to love. With Rebecca, you could not help but love. She had given him her innocence, her unbridled passion after he took that innocence. And he had given her naught but neglect.

  Yea, Stephen thought now, how much I would change had I but the chance to do it over again. Regret went deep.

  Without taking his eyes from his wife's face, he said, “I will talk with the Lady Rebecca alone.”

  “Who art thou that canst come here and demand such of Rebecca?” Hugh said.

  “I am her husband.”

  Margaret opened her mouth but no words came.

  Hugo shook his head, then murmured, “'Tis true, Rebecca?”

  She pushed Stephen's arms away and stepped back, turning to face Margaret and Hugo.

  “Aye, ‘tis true.”

  She clasped her hands together to prevent their trembling, but her voice was low and uncertain. Her friends knew she had been married but did not know her husband.

  “We will not leave thee alone with him if thee art afraid,” Margaret said.

  “Nay, nay. I am not afraid. It is well that we talk. He will not harm me.”

  As Margaret and Hugo left, Rebecca swung around to face Stephen. It was beyond belief that she was standing in front of her still-beloved husband. The strength of his hands had bit into her arms, and she rubbed them, trying to hold the warmth to her. The old yearning returned a hundred fold, the old love so well hidden, all the feelings nurtured in her two years of living with this man. How could he be standing in front of her with his usual demands? The resentment he felt when burdened with an ugly, unwanted bride, filled the air around them. Even so, she was his wife, and she was duty bound to remain with him no matter the circumstances. No matter her heart belonged to him and he didn't care.

  How many times had she dreamed of such a happening? How many times had she awakened with wet cheeks after her dreams and fantasies? The years that had passed since her last sight of Stephen faded as she watched the blue eyes darken with anger, saw his fists clench at his sides. No doubt he would love to use them on her, but being the gentleman, he wouldn't. She wouldn't have cared. At least, then he would have had to touch her.

  Ah, Stephen, you and I did, indeed, miss our chance at happiness. And who, I wonder, could we blame but ourselves?

  Her chin went up. “How art thou, Stephen?”

  “I am not here to speak of myself, Rebecca. Give me reasons why I have looked for word of you for near two years. Why didst leave without cause?”

  His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

  “Without cause, my lord?”

  Rebecca drew in her breath to chastise him. But for what reason? Their marriage was over and done. Stephen had made his choice, and there was naught Rebecca could do. He had been forced to marry her, mayhap not at the point of a sword, but just as binding. Why shouldn't he resent her? Why shouldn't he wish for a wife who lived to please him, who should be thankful she had a home, food on the table, and a fire on the hearth?

  In Stephen's eyes, she had everything any sane woman could want. Well, mayhap I'm not sane, she thought as bitterness left a bad taste in her mouth. Here was Stephen, demanding as always. Thinking himself right as always. He would never change.

  “I thought perchance it would make the way easier for you should I go.”

  “You speak in riddles, Rebecca. Say clearly thy meaning.”

  Stephen folded his arms simply to prevent his reaching out and drawing her back inside them. His tall body trembled, but he would not let Rebecca see this. His breath came through parted lips, hurt his chest, aroused pain he had buried lo, these long, long days and nights since Rebecca's departure.

  “Riddles, my lord? How so? Dost not remember the unwanted child I carried for you? Dost not remember days, nights, fortnights, away from home because you could not bear the sight of me growing big and clumsy with your son?” She turned away. “And forbidding me to ride Tor?” She glanced across her shoulder, and Stephen was surprised to see her smile. “Tor was my best friend at Glastonbury, and I was forbidden to ride him because you believed harm would come to the steed along the rocky shores of Moon Cliffs. Thou didst not worry about me, so why say ye that I caused later worry?”

  Once more, she moved away from him, this time pulling aside the tent flap and dropping it behind her before Stephen could enter. Margaret and Hugo were not there, and Rebecca turned as Stephen slammed his way inside, his mouth a straight, angry line, his eyes sparking blue fire.

  “You have no right to speak that way of me, Rebecca. You will come home with me straightway,
and you will do as I say. I am your husband, the wronged one, and...”

  “You purchased me as a chattel, Sir Stephen. That I refuse to be. I was an innocent, but no more. I learned by living that men are loud braggarts, egotistical adulterers, loving no one but themselves. My manuscripts are wrong. Being a man's possession is not romantic.” Rebecca watched him unsmiling. “You went as King Henry's messenger to soothe his queen's feeling, but he sent no love to her. He sends you whilst he has women in every city.”

  “You cannot argue the king and queen's business, Rebecca. That is not for you to question.”

  With chin lifted, eyes smoldering, Rebecca refused to answer.

  Finally, Stephen said, “Your voice. You never sang at home.”

  “You were never there, my lord. How wouldst thou know? I was but a chair to be pushed aside when not needed for your male greed. One cannot hear a chair sing when one sits upon it.”

  She could not bring herself to mention Malvina, his lover. Some things cannot be spoken.

  “Not so, Rebecca.”

  Stephen tried to remember the things Rebecca accused him of, but he recalled only the warmth of her body, how it was to hold and possess her. Anger built, not at Rebecca as much as at himself. Why had he not realized how much she meant to him? Why had he not known that he would not want to live without Rebecca?

  His voice grew stern.

  “You are my wife, and you will journey to Salisbury with me. I will return within the hour. Prepare yourself straightway.”

  Stephen stalked away, his temper rising with each step through the muddy arena where the jongleurs still carried on merrily for the French audience. Damn the woman, he thought. She is mine, and she will return to my keeping.

  Doubts beset him.

  Had she met men who gave her attention? Who said romantic words to her that he had never thought to give? Only when her body gave him satisfaction had he spoken tender words, and even then, the words were only in the heat of the passion she caused to burn in him. His mind had known what he should say, but he had, in his arrogance, ignored them.

  Regrets. He had many regrets.

  His clothing was packed, already waiting for Aubin to put aboard the carriage, which would take them to the ship for sea passage. His purchases were to be shipped later and would go to Glastonbury.

  A knock came at his door and Stephen barked, “Come.”

  Aubin stepped inside. “My lord.”

  Stephen motioned to the cases and boxes near the door. “Make these secure and then return to me.”

  While Aubin heaved and stored his merchandise, Stephen stood at the window, staring towards the arena where wagons and carts made a circle for the minstrel performers. He could not realize Rebecca traveled with such persons, rowdy, dirty, living in hovels on the road, in tents. She was used to a gentle life with her needs taken care of. With servants to do her every bidding, a husband to care for every expense she wished to make.

  How dare she? he fumed. How dare she insult me by preferring their company to mine? Why would she leave a comfortable abode and live as a gypsy in a cold and barren world?

  He slammed a big fist into his open hand. I should have dragged her with me here.

  A maddening thought came. Suppose she runs away again? She's capable of it. Suppose she ... oh, yes, if Rebecca wished to disappear, she would, as she had proven she could do.

  “Aubin!”

  Not waiting for an answer, he was through the door and on the street. His manservant stared from beneath a huge box.

  “Sire?”

  “Make haste to follow me,” Stephen said, and strode off across the muddy tracks towards the minstrel's tent. At the opening, he stopped, swallowing to prevent his fright from showing, fright that she would be gone. Aubin puffed to a stop behind him.

  “Monsieur Benet?” Stephen said.

  The tent flap lifted.

  “My lord.” It was Margaret, not Hugo, who stood there.

  “I would see the Lady Rebecca,” Stephen said.

  “Rebecca will not...”

  “It is well, Margaret,” Rebecca said from behind her.

  She had had time to think since Stephen's departure, and she knew what she must do. She would go with him. There was no other way. Should she fight to stay with Margaret and Hugo, Stephen could—and would—make trouble for them. He had the power to stop their performances, the means by which to cause them financial distress, and this she would not willingly do. She could not hurt the only friends she had. They had taken her in when she was penniless, had fed her when she was hungry, had paid her for appearing in their shows for royalty as well as peasants. They were real friends who would stand by her no matter the danger.

  She stood now in the doorway of the tent, not inviting Stephen inside, with no pretense of politeness to King Henry's favorite manorial officer. Nobleman with a cause. Her lips curled in scorn.

  “Do me the courtesy of allowing me to say goodbye to my friends,” she said.

  Stephen's temper soared.

  “Rebecca, I will have thee...”

  “If I am to accompany you to Salisbury, be kind enough to allow this farewell to the best friends I have.” Her wide blue eyes did not blink. “Please.” There was no entreaty in her ‘please’ but a disdain Stephen could not ignore.

  “I will return shortly. Do not think to deceive me again, Rebecca.”

  “No, my lord,” she said, curtsying.

  * * * *

  The trip across the water to England was no more pleasant for Rebecca than the first time. Indeed, less so, because this time, Stephen stayed by her side, scarcely leaving her for any reason. He did not touch her, but each time she lifted her head, it was to meet his eyes, calculating how far he could trust her, knowing he could not. His anger was such that she could feel it, knew that he ached to strike her to insure her attention, that he strained at the resentment he felt toward her, toward Hugo and Margaret. Toward anyone who had known her in the two years they had been apart.

  Aubin guarded her door when Stephen was not about, his face wreathed in a happy smile to see Rebecca once more. He did not question her. He only did her smallest bidding before she ever made a sound. His big, rough hands were gentle as he held her shawl for her to wrap her head against the wet wind coming off the water.

  “I have missed thee, Aubin,” she said. “Is Bundy taking care of Tor?”

  Aubin grinned.

  “Glastonbury has not been the same since thy departure, my lady,” he said. His smile vanished. “Sir Stephen was as a wild man when he found you gone.”

  “Indeed? I did not think he would take notice.”

  Rebecca watched the simple driver's expression as he struggled for words.

  “ ‘Tis notice he took, for truth. He is unhappy and does not accept kind wishes from me or even Malvina. The servants cannot speak or move without he threatens punishment, my lady.”

  Rebecca could not imagine Stephen beating anyone because of her, and it gave her a cold feeling to think she might cause such pain. Most of Stephen's servants she knew only by name, but Malvina and Aubin and Bundy had been as close to her as family, closer than Sir Oliver ever came to her. Even as dread filled her at what was to come once they reached Salisbury, she was anxious to see Stephen's household once more.

  Salisbury. She had never seen the city.

  “Salisbury is close by London, is it not, Aubin?”

  Aubin was nodding by the door to the cabin where Stephen held her prisoner. He did not chain her, but his looks promised such if she dared disobey him in any way. Aubin gave her his sweet smile.

  “Aye, ‘tis but two days from London, my lady. Sir Stephen stops by the wayside inn for the one night, then ‘tis an easy ride to Salisbury. ‘Tis easier for Sir Stephen to reach the king in case he summons him in the middle of the night.”

  Of course. King Henry and his demands. When trouble threatened, Stephen was the only name the king remembered it seemed to Rebecca. Were not there other reeves, no
blemen, and officers of great ilk who possessed talents that could be lent to their king? Was Sir Stephen Lambert the only name registered in the royal trouble book?

  Rebecca sat on the small stool beside Aubin, her chin resting in both hands propped on her knees.

  “What is it like, this manor home Sir Stephen is building?”

  Aubin frowned, fumbling with words to describe the house for Lady Rebecca. His short arms, ending in thick hands and gnarled fingers, spread wide. His lash less eyes became round when he looked at her.

  “ ‘Tis big. So big. The roof is steep with many chimneys. It has the kitchen over here and a great room across the wide hallway.” He was drawing in the air with his crooked fingers. “There is a staircase which goes in curves like so.” He made an S sign. “There are many big rooms up the stairs with wooden beds.” He grinned. “Real wooden beds with cloth mattresses that have feathers in them. Feathers shipped from Troyes.”

  Rebecca could not imagine such. For more than a year, she had slept on rugs, wrapped in animal skins, and out in the open with nothing over her save a piece of cloth. The shuck mattresses in Stephen's house in Glastonbury were comfortable, but what would a feather one feel like against her body? It would be softer when Stephen's body pressed hers into it.

  Her skin burned with the thought, and she turned away that Aubin might not see her flushed face. He would think her a fallen woman should he be able to see what she was thinking.

  Aubin talked on.

  “There are chandeliers from every ceiling with many candles. Some windows have wooden shutters, but most have the glass that shows the outside garden. It is most beautiful, my lady. You can work there for many days when the weather turns warm and dry again. The roses, milady, they will bloom most beautiful for you.”

  Aubin leaned towards Rebecca, the gentle smile he reserved for his very favorite person lighting his pudgy features. “And, best of all, my lady, Malvina is there to care for you.”

  Rebecca stiffened, and although she was suddenly cold, her body was bathed in sweat. Malvina. Stephen had moved his lover into his new manor house. He desires his wife and his lover in the same place for his pleasures. Aubin could not know the anger and hurt his words brought forth.