The Yearning Heart

by Zelma Orr

  Rebecca laughed and touched her hair.

  “Nor to any of us.”

  “Thou art changed only in being the lovelier, Rebecca.”

  She shrugged. Her mirror reflection showed a plain face with freckles across a small straight nose, fair teeth, blue eyes that stared at the world with curiosity. Nothing to excite the heart of a nobleman, or even a peasant.

  “I do not expect that you saw Richard.”

  “Yes, I talked with him.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Tell me what he is doing.”

  “He was sore worried about you and still angry with his father for giving you to me. He was to take over care of the land whilst Sir Oliver and Lady Elizabeth journeyed to Genoa.”

  Wonderful, sweet Richard. How she still missed him.

  “I am sorry to have worried him.”

  “And cared not that I worried?”

  “About what, Stephen? I sent Tor back to you. ‘Twas only the steed's well-being over which you worried, so I took care to return him to you.”

  “Rebecca, I care not to talk of your childish complaints about things of which you know naught.” He wanted to grab her, shake her, and hold her close. Instead, he folded his arms. “Wouldst like a glass of wine before sleeping?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She sat on the bench, sliding one hand over a plum-colored velvet cushion. A glass of wine might cause her to sleep and keep her from dreaming of Stephen. Or from thinking that he might make love to her. If he wanted her, there would be nothing she could do to keep him from her bed. It would not be love, but lust. However, he was in New Sarum now where Malvina resided also. He would not need Rebecca again so soon.

  Her thoughts punished her, so she clenched her fists and waited for Stephen to return with the wine.

  * * * *

  Stephen idly watched his hands tremble as he handled the wine flask and two delicate glasses. He turned the glasses around in his hand, seeing the sparkle of expensive crystal, a prism of light flashing. Rebecca would not be impressed that the glass she drank from was costly or that it was shipped from France. He frowned. Nothing impressed her, it seemed. Not New Sarum, more spacious and comfortable than Glastonbury. Not the numerous servants to do her slightest bidding. Not him, who loved her beyond thought. And could not say the words for fear she would laugh at him.

  He missed the light laughter he had become accustomed to in the two years Rebecca lived in Glastonbury. He wondered at the light steps she took, always in haste, as a child, anxious to see what was behind the next door, over the next hill. They were missing, those light moments. She walked as a woman, quietly, assured, distant.

  Distant.

  His body was suddenly hard and tight, his breath rasping and quick. Rebecca's body was that of a woman's not the child's he had bought from Sir Oliver. Satin-skinned curves beneath the rough clothing in the gypsy camp, the gold and silver sequined jongleur outfit. The lovely gown she wore tonight. Anything she wore, she made beautiful. Even when wearing nothing ...

  He glanced to where Rebecca sat, unmoving, on the velvet covered bench. Her head was down, and thick golden ropes of hair fell over her face so that he could not see her expression. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving as though in prayer, but Stephen did not see it. He saw only the straight, insolent appearance of his wife of four summers.

  He breathed deeply and sought to control the raging desire he felt for her. He could take her if he so chose. He had done so a few hours before, over and over, but the next time, Rebecca would do the begging. He would see to it.

  Stephen strode back and stopped in front of Rebecca. She looked up, curled black lashes shadowing her eyes, causing them to darken. Without speaking, she took the glass from his outstretched hand.

  “To your safe return, Rebecca,” he said. “And to our continued happiness.”

  “Art happy, my lord?”

  “Aye. And thee?”

  “Do I dare be otherwise?”

  Rebecca got up and moved across the room to the windows. There were four of them, unusual in a manor house sitting room, she imagined. Mullioned, they reflected the candlelight broken into light and shadow and, in the center of the wavering reflection, stood Stephen, tall and wide-shouldered.

  How she had missed him. All the endless days and nights, roaming the countryside, performing in rain, sun, wind and snow, he had lingered in the background of her life. Just to look at him, just to know he was nearby, even though he still used her as a chattel and demanded obedience, her heart longed for him, for his attention, for a word that would mean he had missed more than her body's favors, more than someone to greet him when he returned from long trips, more than someone to take to bed until his desires were quenched.

  She longed to be the cool drink to help him survive. She wanted his arms reaching for her because she was the only one who could fill them to his satisfaction. If a love song wafted on the air, she wanted to be the one he turned to for enjoying the sweet music of love. She wanted, oh, how she wanted, and she dreamed. After all these years, after all the disappointments, she still dreamed.

  Stephen was surprised to see a smile light Rebecca's face. He could not know she was laughing at herself for her romantic dreams, dreams that remained with the jongleurs where she could sing and dance and think thoughts of love with Stephen the center of them. Where she could remember all those long-ago hours spent in his arms, carefree and loving, believing that he returned that love. She could build her own dream world with Stephen the center of it, pretending he returned all the love she held in her heart for him.

  And no one knew or cared.

  “Who remains at Glastonbury to care for your animals and lands? Who tends the garden Aubin and I worked?”

  “There are servants to tend the house. I gave land to the older serfs in payment for services, and they likewise, tend to what is mine.”

  “And Tor?”

  “Bundy is there yet.” Stephen drank the last of his wine and reached for Rebecca's glass. It was full. “The wine is good, Rebecca. Finish it.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She tilted the glass and sipped, paying no attention to the frown forming on Stephen's face. She well knew his anger when she called him ‘my lord’ but she cared not. If he took his hand to her, at least he would have to touch her.

  “Dost Malvina like New Sarum?”

  “Yes. The house is bigger, there are more servants, and she has a separate room with place for bathing, and the ovens are nearby. Why would she not like a place more comfortable and easier to care for?”

  “Why indeed?” Rebecca murmured.

  She drank her wine and passed the goblet to Stephen.

  “If it pleases you, my lord, I am tired and would go to my room.”

  Stephen set the glasses atop the table and opened the door to the hall, allowing Rebecca to walk past him. She moved quickly, entered the gallery, passed another fireplace with roaring fire, and on into the orchid room. She paused and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Good night, my lord.”

  “Good night, Rebecca.”

  Uncertain, she stood there, wondering if he would follow her into the room.

  “Wouldst care for me to join you?”

  “Nay, my lord.”

  She closed the door and leaned against it, her head back, her eyes fastened on the vaulted ceiling. How could she endure this kind of life? How much punishment and rejection could her heart take before it shattered into tiny pieces?

  She had changed, but Stephen was the same man. She could not explain her feelings, could not account for loving him, knowing full well he cared naught for her. Instead of a child worshipping him, she was a full-grown woman, loving him with all her heart.

  But Stephen would never know.

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  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stephen did not return to her room. She didn't see him except at evening meal, sitting at the head of the table, talking to passing pilgrims who s
topped for the night in the shelter and warmth of New Sarum. There was gossip about the Plantagenets, about Sir Thomas Becket, about ever-increasing tax demands from the king. Rebecca listened and wondered how long it would be before Stephen's presence was demanded back in King Henry's court. Not long, if past experience was an indication.

  Snow blew in from the hills, covering the meadows, frosting the glazed windows, icing the courtyard, and forming peaks on the stone walls. Malvina brought fresh-scented boughs for the halls and, one day, left a vase of berry-laden branches for the stand in Rebecca's bathing room.

  Rebecca, inhaled the fragrance, looked from the rushes to Malvina, but she did not speak. Where she had once asked her maidservant questions of every kind, she could not now bring herself to talk of everyday chores. It was too much to remember that Malvina and Stephen ...

  She turned back to the linen piece she was embroidering, a troubled frown wrinkling her forehead. Sometimes, she thought she would scream at the dullness of her life here with no one to talk with, nothing appealing for her to do. How long must she suffer being near Stephen and keep her useless feelings of love to herself? ‘Twas only pride that made Stephen refuse to let her go. He didn't love her, so why was he such a stubborn man to hold onto one he didn't care for? She'd asked herself the questions over and over, and she feared that neither she nor Stephen would ever answer them.

  “ ‘Tis near the Christmas season, my lady. Wouldst like to help with the cakes and sweet loaves to give to the peasants who have naught?”

  “Are there those who live on Sir Stephen's lands without food, Malvina?”

  “No, my lady, but on the moors and in the villages, the poor are many. Sir Stephen orders that we bake and deliver to them.”

  “Only during the yuletide?”

  “Nay. Each fortnight.”

  Rebecca smiled at Malvina for the first time since arriving at New Sarum. There was a good side to Stephen after all.

  “I will help.”

  * * * *

  Stephen remained cold and distant, speaking with Rebecca seldom, working in the stables and shops during the day and disappearing into his rooms after the evening meal. He did not demand her body, and Rebecca accepted his not wanting her as meaning he took his satisfaction from Malvina. If her heart ached at his neglect and the thought that Malvina had replaced her in his arms, she hid it well. If the hurt inside was sometimes unbearable, she suffered quietly.

  She watched and waited, but she saw no way she could venture forth into the country alone and on foot with the snow falling daily and the cold gnawing its way into the far recesses of unheated rooms of the huge manor house. Her escape would have to wait until spring when the weather improved. If she didn't die of boredom before then.

  Rebecca stood near a vat of stew, stirring with a long wooden spoon. She watched a tiny girl crawl beneath a table and pick up a bread crumb to poke into her pink mouth. Had her son lived, he would have been two years old. She would have someone to love and to hold, someone who would love her in return. Stephen had spent his seed inside her several times. Was she even now with child? Was that the reason he avoided her? He did not wish to repeat his mistake of long ago so he stayed away.

  “Dost not know how to keep from getting with child?”

  Rebecca yet tasted bitter regret, a distant grief, over Stephen's words when he learned she would bear his child. Since then, she had heard ways to prevent such, but she had not the proof it would do so. No man had touched her—before or after Stephen—to challenge such precautions. Until now. She would have to wait and see.

  Margaret had offered what Rebecca thought the best advice.

  “If thou wouldst truly prevent getting with child, Little One, you will not sleep with a man,” Margaret had said one day when they talked, as women will. “That is the only way to be certain.”

  Rebecca believed her, but she had not to worry. Men approached her in towns and villages, their bawdy remarks plain in their meaning, but Hugo or Gerald had been there to frighten them away. They were never allowed to get close enough to talk with her much less to touch. Rebecca had always laughed at them. She had no desire to give herself to a man.

  Stephen took what he wanted, and he had taken her then left her alone and, she supposed, that was all he wanted of her.

  She sighed, tested the stew and called one of the servants to take over the stirring. As she passed a bench, the baby she had noticed moved into her path. Rebecca stopped, then reached down and picked up the child. Her face was dirty, but a wet smile spread over her tiny mouth, and a finger came up to touch Rebecca's cheek.

  A tremor ran through her as the baby's exploring hands played with the lace at the throat of her blouse. She had forgotten how empty her arms were, the sense of loss at not holding her own child. She had thought to put behind her the desire to love Stephen's child, but no, cuddling the warm body to her own, Rebecca knew failure. Would the feeling never go away?

  “Nay, my lady, ‘tis dirt she will put on thee,” a voice said, and a young woman reached for the baby.

  Rebecca smiled but released the child to its mother, watched her retreat, speaking quietly to the infant. Her throat felt tight, her eyes burned, and there was a deserted feeling somewhere deep in her chest. She would get over it. Hadn't she always? There was no choice, so why punish herself?

  She turned, walked towards the gallery off the kitchen, passed through the arched walkway, and looked up to see Stephen leaning against the stairs, watching her. His eyes, for just a moment, strayed into the great hall where she had placed the baby in its mother's arms, and then he looked back at Rebecca. She could not read anything in his face.

  He looked tired, his hair still held flakes of snow, and he removed rough gloves from reddened hands. Rumors were that Stephen worked with the rock masons in the cellar where a well was being dug to provide more water for all the rooms of New Sarum when it was completed. She had seen the trap door for entering such, but no one save those who worked there was allowed inside.

  Rebecca was not of a mind to go below ground, so it did not bother her to be forbidden to do so.

  “Good evening, my lord,” she said and walked past him up the steps.

  “Rebecca?”

  Stephens’ voice was weary and, she thought, a bit uncertain. It was not like Stephen to be unsure of himself, and she wondered at the reason. Mayhap trouble in the royal palace. Or discontent among the king's subjects who objected to higher and higher taxes. Or the queen complained of too many lovers in her husband's life.

  Poor Stephen. Such a cross to bear.

  “Rebecca?”

  Midway of the steps, she turned to look down at her husband.

  “My lord?”

  “Malvina tells me you have helped with Christmas baskets for the peasants, and that you have worked with the servants so that no one would be cold or hungry this season. You are most kind.”

  He slapped the gloves across his hands and watched her for some response. She made none.

  Stephen spoke again. “Christmas is two days’ hence. I would invite you to the revelry for the household on the morrow. The celebration begins early.”

  And what are we celebrating? The birth of a holy child or that we have survived one more year? That you have brought home your erring wife? That you have nearly completed this monstrosity of a house so as to remain close to your beloved king?

  She trembled with sorrow for what she did not have and with regret that what she wanted was not to be.

  “Aye, Stephen,” she said. “I thank you for asking me.” She curtsied and continued on to the orchid room.

  * * * *

  Rebecca sat on Stephen's right. Across from her was Father Umbreth, the same young minister who had performed the marriage ceremony when she and Stephen wed. His habit of thrusting long, thin fingers through the straight hair resulted in removing a part of it. She could see his pale scalp when he bent over his plate. More than four years since she had seen him. It didn't seem possible th
at she had been Stephen's wife that long but had only lived with him two of those turbulent years. And had never been loved.

  She watched Father Umbreth, deciding that he, like she, had aged a good bit in those years. He seems hungry, Rebecca thought. He is thin, he eats quickly, and a servant had refilled his plate on three occasions. Mayhap his ministry did not pay well.

  She turned to look at Stephen, surprising his eyes midway down the front of her gown.

  Had she dropped sauce on herself?

  Rebecca looked down but saw nothing to draw his attention. She blushed when she realized the gown emphasized the small outthrust of her breasts, the obvious curves of her body in the tightly buttoned, gold satin bodice. She picked up her glass and held it in both hands so that her arms hid the curves Stephen eyed so boldly.

  Stephen chuckled, but when she looked up again, he was leaning to hear Father Umbreth's words. Both men stood and Stephen waited for Rebecca to rise before turning towards the stairs.

  Rebecca had not been up the second set of stairs where Stephen's rooms were. Now, as he guided her with a hand on her right arm, speaking to Father Umbreth who walked ahead of them, she took in the comfort and luxury afforded here.

  A vaulted ceiling covered the width of the rooms, a circular gallery with buttresses contained padded stools and velvet chairs in shades of red. Scattered on the wooden boards of the floor were bright rugs, some round, some square. Matching hangings graced the walls where there were no windows.

  She had not seen so many windows in a room, and she wondered what a spring day with flowers blooming outside, birds singing, and a warm sun would do to the open space. Wall sconces, wreathed in fragrant rushes and filled with glowing candles, gave the room the semblance of day. Against one wall stood a harp, its strings glimmering in the light.

  Rebecca stopped when she saw the harp, and Stephen was forced to stop with her since she was holding his arm. Father Umbreth continued on to stand by the fireplace, holding his hands out for warmth.

  “How is it that you are not at the royal court tonight, Stephen?” Father Umbreth asked.