by Lynn Kurland
She sighed, past fathoming why he did anything. One moment the night before he’d been looking at her as if she’d been a particularly appealing leg of mutton, then the next as if she’d been directly responsible for handfuls of dung set carefully inside his boots. What she had done to deserve either was anyone’s guess. She’d simply been looking at him.
But simple things had long been beyond Robin’s capabilities of enjoyment. Nay, all had become either life or death with him. He could never go to the lists for the sheer sport of it; with him it was either humiliate or perish in the attempt. Even chess was something he now turned into a full-scale battle. It hadn’t always been so. They had played often during his illness and he had actually laughed the first time she had bested him. Gone was that mischievous boy who had spent so much time with her.
One day he had been laughing and the next cursing bitterly. She had never been quite clear on what had happened to change him so and he absolutely refused to talk about it. From that time on, he had shunned her. It had pained her greatly at the time. She liked to believe she had now moved past the hurt, but even thinking on it grieved her afresh. By the saints, what had happened to change him so?
He had not always been so troubled. She could remember much of the mischief he had combined when they had all been together while Artane was being finished. One night she had retired to the tent she had shared with Amanda to find a snake in her blankets—a dead one fortunately. She had retaliated by putting a dead rat under his pillow. It had taken her and Amanda all day to find one and then Amanda had been the one to kill it, as Anne had not had the courage. How Robin had howled when he had found it. The memory still made her smile.
But even with his boyish antics, he had possessed a sweetness she had come to treasure. He’d been just as likely to present her with a fistful of sweet-smelling flowers as he had some creature of dubious origins. She had adored him.
Then the fever had come. It had left half the village near Artane dead in its wake. Robin had been the only one of the family taken sick and for a time she had wondered if he would die too. He had been ten-and-four at the time and already very strong, else he might have lost his life. She had her own convalescence to endure, but she had spent as much time with him as allowed. They had played chess for hours when he felt strong enough. When he had become weary, she had read to him haltingly, and made up stories to amuse him.
It had taken him almost a year to regain his strength. And sometime during that year, he had changed. She had been up and hobbling about, amusing him as she could. Then one day her attempts to tend him had been harshly rejected. She would enter his room to entertain him only to find herself summarily ejected. Even if he spoke to her, he would not look at her, and his words were always clipped and curt.
He had thrown himself into his training. When others were inside the hall taking their ease, Robin had been out in the lists working. He became so ferocious in his sparring that the only ones who would tolerate his aggressiveness were his father and Nicholas, and Nicholas usually found himself vanquished in a matter of minutes.
Soon there had been no one to stand against him save Rhys. Robin had earned his spurs just before his nineteenth birthday and earned them he had. The lord he had gone to squire with was forever complaining to Rhys about how Robin ground his men to powder.
And then Robin had gone off to war. She had thought at the time that it was so that he might need not look at her anymore. Then she had come to suspect that it might have been to prove himself. There was no way of knowing, for ’twas a certainty he would not tell her of his own accord and she certainly wouldn’t be asking him.
She sat up slowly, wincing at the protest her leg set up. There would be no vigils in the chapel today. Perhaps it was well that Robin was home. Her body needed a rest.
She rose stiffly and hobbled over to the window. She opened the shutters and leaned on the stone surrounding the opening. The sky was gray outside, which came as little surprise. Though she was passing fond of the rain, her father had done nothing but complain about the drizzle from the moment they had arrived. Anne breathed deeply, relishing both the smell of rainy sea air and no complaints to listen to. And with that lightness of heart and mind came feelings she couldn’t deny.
Kind feelings.
Toward that very complicated soul she couldn’t seem to put from her mind.
How could she harden her heart against that sweet dimple that appeared in his left cheek on those rare occasions when he grinned, or the wicked gleam in his eye when he was about some devilry? He was just as handsome as Rhys was, and that was something to marvel over for Robin’s true sire was Alain of Ayre. Indeed, though Anne had never known Lord Ayre, she couldn’t help but think that Robin looked a great deal like Rhys.
And she wondered just how such a thing could have come about.
Anne looked down from the rain-laden sky and turned her attentions to the courtyard. Perhaps she would see aught there that would distract her from her contemplation of things she would never know. With any luck what she wouldn’t see would be her sire waiting for her to rise so he could tell her that he’d changed his mind and they were returning to Fenwyck forthwith.
But it wasn’t her sire who stared up at her.
It was Robin.
She was just as surprised by the sight of him as she had been in the chapel. She jumped away from the window and banged the shutters closed. It was well past time that she was up and doing. There wouldn’t be anything left of breakfast if she didn’t hurry downstairs.
She dressed quickly and ran a comb through her long hair. She contemplated donning a head covering, then discarded the idea. No one ever looked at her anyway. She would offend no soul she could think of. Perhaps she might break her fast then retreat to the sanctuary of Gwen’s solar before her father managed to lay hands upon her person.
She soon found that the great hall, however, was not as empty as she had hoped it would be. One table was still set up near the hearth and men flanked it. Rhys sat at the head of the table with Nicholas to his left. Robin was just sitting down on his right. Members of Rhys’s personal guard were there, as well as men Anne assumed belonged to Robin and Nicholas, for she recognized none of them. They looked to be deep in talk.
Then throaty laughter erupted and Anne doubted very much the talk was all that serious. At least her father was nowhere to be seen. But Anne wasn’t about to invite herself to sit in council with the warriors before her. Yet before she could make her escape, Rhys had turned and beckoned to her. Though it was tempting to flee, she would have looked more foolish had she done that than if she continued on her course.
All the men at the table rose as she approached and she found herself for the second time in as many days blushing furiously. Nicholas gaped at her with his mouth open. Anne looked at the other men and they stared at her in much the same manner.
Robin, however, seemed to be clenching his jaw.
She was unsurprised.
But the collective interest she was faced with caused her serious anxiety. And then a horrible thought occurred to her and she looked down hastily, fully expecting to see her clothes falling off in some embarrassing manner.
She frowned. She was laced in all the right places. She looked up again and was amazed to find that several of the men were giving her roguish grins. It flustered her so badly that she almost stumbled. Immediately one of the men jumped up and hastened to her side, offering her his arm.
“Sir Richard of Moncrief at your service,” he said with a low bow.
She looked at him, knowing her mouth was hanging open most unattractively, but unable to help herself. Why was this fool being so polite? And why by the saints was he wearing that ridiculous smile? She knew very well who he was for he was one of Rhys’s men. Why was he presenting himself to her as if she’d been a great lady?
“I need no aid,” she managed, with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Then perhaps you would at least allow me to escort
you to the table?”
A flurry of activity ensued as several men made a dash for one of the chairs put up next to the wall. The seat was brought and set down next to Rhys. Anne had the overwhelming urge to crawl into the rushes and disappear. She used every ounce of pride at her disposal to walk across the floor without displaying her limp overmuch, then sat as gracefully as she could.
And still she was the focus of attention.
“Anne,” Nicholas said, reaching over his father and taking her hand, “you are a beauty. Don’t you agree, lads?”
A chorus of male voices assented with vigorous ayes. Anne pulled her hand away and looked at Rhys.
“My lord,” she began and her voice cracked.
Rhys put his arm around her. “What is it, daughter?”
She leaned over toward him. “They’re all staring at me,” she whispered frantically.
“Ah, but the lads only find you lovely,” Rhys whispered in return. “Perhaps ’tis that their manners need improving.”
“I’ll see to it,” Robin growled from where he sat next to her.
“Ah, a bit of bloodshed,” Nicholas said, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. “How I love it when Robin pursues a righteous cause.”
“Nay,” Rhys said, thrusting out his hand and stopping what Anne was certain would have been Robin’s leap over the table. “None of that, if you please, Anne, I would have a cup of wine if you felt so inclined.”
Anne was grateful for the excuse to leave, and she recognized the request as such. “At once, my lord.”
Half the table rose to their feet. There were equally as many offers to help with any such endeavor. Anne would have turned and fled if she’d been able.
“She can get the bloody wine herself,” Robin snarled. “Sit down, the lot of you.”
The men resumed their seats slowly, all save Nicholas.
“Nick, don’t even think it.”
Anne left before she had to watch Robin and Nicholas go at each other again. And she tried not to put more behind word or action than had been there to start. Perhaps Robin merely had a need to speak with the men and didn’t want them going off on a foolish errand. Perhaps Nicholas only sought to annoy his brother and had found a way to do so completely.
Perhaps she would be better served by retreating to bed.
She shook her head and made her way to the kitchen. She procured a bottle of wine and a wooden plate piled high with sweetmeats, knowing Rhys’s fondness for them. She returned to the hall, praying she would gain the table and then escape without anyone noticing her.
And then before she truly realized what was happening, she felt her foot slip from beneath her. She tried desperately to keep bottle, plate, and her person upright, but it was hopeless. The bottle slipped from her hands, plate and sweetmeats went flying, and she closed her eyes, prepared to meet the rushes with an ungraceful thump.
But she never touched the ground.
She found herself cradled in strong arms and lifted up. She looked into Robin’s face, which was only a hand’s breadth from hers. She wanted to throw her arms around him, bury her face in his shoulder, and hide. Making a complete fool out of herself had not been in her plans that morning.
But instead, all she could do was stare into his gray eyes and hope he could see that she was grateful for the rescue.
He didn’t move. Considering the fact that he could have dropped her where he stood, lack of movement was, to her mind, not an ill omen.
“Thank you,” she managed.
That seemed to spark some sense of time and place in him. He set her on her feet with surprising gentleness, then stepped back. “The bottle can be replaced,” he said gruffly, walking away.
Anne stood there in the middle of the great hall, shards of pottery, spilt wine, and soggy sweetmeats at her feet and found she could do nothing else but stand and shake. She toyed with the idea of bursting into tears, but that wasn’t very appealing. What she wished was that she had time to consider what had just happened.
Robin had rescued her. And to have done so, he had to have been watching her come across the hall. The bottle could be replaced? Did he mean, then, that she couldn’t?
She shook her head, hoping that her foolish thoughts would spill from her ear and join the refuse on the floor.
Nicholas appeared before her, looking at her with concern. He was followed closely by several other of Rhys’s personal guardsmen. One of the younger ones knelt before her.
“My lady, forgive me. I tossed one of the dogs a bone at supper last night and saw him carry it over here. ’Tis my fault you slipped.”
“I’ll see him repaid,” Nicholas said briskly, “if you like, Anne.”
“Could we please return to the business of the day?” Robin exclaimed from his place at the table. “We’ve manly matters to discuss!”
Nicholas pursed his lips, dismissed the guardsman with a flick of his wrist, then smiled at Anne. “Manly matters be damned. What say you to a walk in the garden?”
“’Tis chilly outside, Nicky,” Anne said, wanting nothing more than to escape upstairs.
“I know.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You know?”
“A perfect excuse to use all my efforts to keep you warm.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. It was the most ridiculous thing she’d heard all morning. “Perhaps I would be better served to fetch a cloak.”
“Now you insult my chivalry,” Nicholas said, with a frown approaching one of Robin’s milder ones. “My honor is besmirched and I demand satisfaction.”
“Shall we do so with blades?” she asked, finding a smile came readily when induced by such charm. “Or should we settle for something less messy?”
“I’ll think on it,” he said. “Wait for me and I’ll fetch my cloak for you.”
Anne watched him make her a low bow, kiss her hand, then trot off to fetch something appropriate for her to wear. She snuck a glance at the table to find the men all dutifully discussing matters of war and training. Robin most pointedly gave her his back. But it was what she was accustomed to, so she didn’t begrudge him the like.
Besides, Nicholas of Artane planned to take her for a walk in the garden. What need had she of anything more spectacular to pass the morn?
It was much later in the day that Anne found herself in her accustomed place in Gwen’s solar. The fire was warm, the company fine, and Anne had something especially lovely under her needle. She set down her stitchery and let the pleasure of being home wash over her. She closed her eyes and imagined how it would be should such contentment be hers for the rest of her life.
It was with a start that she woke to find that conversation had waned and it was nigh onto time for supper. She sincerely hoped no one had noticed her napping, but no one seemed to be paying her any heed. Anne looked carefully about her at the women who were finished with their day’s work.
Three of the women were wives of Rhys’s personal guardsmen. Anne’s stepmother never would have associated with women below her station and Anne had always admired Gwen’s disregard of convention. The women were pleasant and witty and Anne enjoyed their company very much.
Amanda and Isabelle were there, of course, though Anne knew Amanda would have rather been out in the lists wreaking havoc with a bow or something equally as perilous—though Anne sometimes wondered if she shouldn’t have learned a bit of that kind of thing herself. It would have served her well if she’d found herself attacked.
The remaining occupant of the chamber, save Gwen herself, was Edith of Sedgwick. Anne looked at her from under her eyelashes and wondered about her. She’d come to Artane when she’d been a girl of ten summers. Anne had been eight at the time, but she remembered vividly her first sight of the girl. She’d looked as if she’d been wearing the same clothes for years, for her skirts were well above her ankles and the cloth had been riddled with holes and rents. She’d smelled passing foul and her eyes had been full of a wild light.
&
nbsp; Gwen and Rhys had taken her in, more because she was in need of aid than that she was Rhys’s kin. Rhys’s mother had been of Sedgwick and Rhys should have been lord of that keep, though Anne knew he had no desire for it. Rhys’s cousin was lord there, at Rhys’s behest, and Anne suspected that being Rhys’s vassal didn’t sit well with the man.
Baldwin was Lord Sedgwick’s nephew and likely very much underfoot there, which was no doubt why he’d found himself packed off to Artane at the first possible moment. Rhys had taken the boy willingly enough, though only so he might always know what Baldwin was combining. Anne knew his reasoning well, though she couldn’t say she’d been overfond of the logic. She had complained bitterly to Rhys about the torment through which Baldwin put not only her, but anyone weaker than he. Rhys had always remained firm. Baldwin would stay, but he would be watched closely. Apparently such scrutiny didn’t bother Baldwin, for he had never seemed overly anxious to leave the comfort of Artane’s supper tables.
Edith was much different from her brother, though, for she never complained and never wrought any mischief.
Anne looked at her dark head bent over her stitchery, then smiled faintly in acknowledgment when Edith lifted her head and caught her staring. The woman was fair enough, Anne thought, and passing pleasant when compared to her brother. Gwen was fond enough of her.
But Anne was, as she had been the first time she’d laid eyes on the girl, torn between compassion and fear, for despite her pretty manners, to Anne’s mind the wildness had never quite faded from Edith’s eyes.
“Ladies, let us be off,” Gwen said, rising. “Anne, love, are you coming?”
“In a moment, Mother,” Anne said, wanting nothing more than a moment or two of peace in which to think on events much more interesting than stitchery and women’s gossip.
The women left and Anne remained in her chair, staring into the flames. It had been a most remarkable day. She was loth to let anything—supper, her father, or other souls in the keep—disturb her contemplation of it.
