by Karen Ranney
She nodded. “She would hate to realize that she is so transparent, however,” she said, looking about the room. She had been here before, but her attention had not been on her surroundings. Only Stephen.
The room was filled with objects that drew her eye. The walls were lined with leather imprinted with a detailed geometric pattern. The ceiling was as ornate as anything in the rest of the house, with huge swags touched with gold leaf.
But the objects that filled the room were of greater interest. There was a massive globe, which sat firmly on a three-legged stand, a graduated series of blue-patterned ceramic bowls arranged on a set of shelves. On the top of a tall chest was a bronze bust of an imperious-looking man, his head topped with short curls, deep lines framing an unsmiling mouth. He looked down on Stephen’s desk as if he were judge. A gilt and enameled silver disk that depicted a battle scene lay propped against a high shelf, and a basin crafted from brass and inlaid with gold and silver, stood alone atop a low chest.
She turned, her mind filled with questions. As she did so, her glance happened on the mantel. A piece of embroidery caught her eye. The last thing she’d done with needlework had been a sampler decorated with huffing caterpillars and lazy bees. This was a work of art embroidered with tiny col ored beads. She picked it up by its silvered frame, studied it in the sunlight.
It was only the size of her palm, but it depicted a beautiful girl with blond ringlets and a soft smile.
“This is lovely,” she said.
Stephen walked to her side, looked down at the portrait. “It’s Sarah,” he said. “Richard’s daughter. She is very talented. The miniature was a gift from her.”
She replaced the portrait carefully where she’d found it.
Such gifts were personal, meant to be shared by dear friends or those with closer ties. The thoughts that swirled in her mind had their roots in a greater emotion than envy.
Her father had a sense of great fairness, and he had instilled it in his daughter. Lessons that had not been all that easy to learn.
If she was given two gifts, she was to offer one to another child. Before she received a new dress, the poorest member of the clan was outfitted. If she was offered a treat, such as a sweet or a piece of honeyed bread, it was only after those around her had been served first. It was difficult, sometimes, to be Robert Sinclair’s daughter.
But she’d learned to share and learned, too, to be responsible for those who did not have as much as she.
This afternoon, however, those lessons dissipated into mist. All she felt was a possessiveness that nearly swamped her. An emotion that had been forbidden to her as a child was now so strong that it was almost savage.
Mine. All that she felt for Stephen could be dis tilled into one word. One word to account for all the prayers, all the dreams, all the wishes of a childhood. He was hers. Not for sharing, nor for granting to another. She had no wish to be unselfish and she was not capable of tolerance.
“She married last year,” he said, his words settling on her like feathers. Or cold water on the fire of her sudden and surprising rage.
She turned away, pretended a study of a ewer encrusted with lapis lazuli until she calmed.
Finally, she glanced up at him. He was unsmiling, his glance somber. He looked as if he would investigate her soul, peer inside her eyes until he came to the core of her. What would he find? A woman with too many sins, one of which she’d not known she possessed in such a degree. Pride, stubborness, and now envy. Or perhaps worse. Covetousness. This journey had illuminated all her faults.
She walked away from him, not trusting the sanctity of silence. She wanted to say too many things, and they were tamped down by only a thin layer of reserve. It was no more sturdy than a flaky pie crust bubbling up in places.
An odd structure in the corner of the room caught her eye. Her leather-soled shoes made a hollow sound as she walked across the wooden floor.
She’d seen it before. In a room devoid of all other furniture. Gently, she placed her hand on the nearly black wood, sensing that it was a very old object. Nearly as tall as she, it was a structure formed of three pieces, a center unit and two flanking areas of the same height. She went around to the back of it. One side was divided lengthwise, the other contained several pockets. The surface of the main unit was slanted and divided. Two holes were carved into the top, but only one was filled with a reservoir of greenish glass.
“It belonged to Juliana,” Stephen said. “It’s a scribe’s desk and the only piece of furniture to have survived the flood at Langlinais.”
Her fingers rested on the slanted top of the desk.
“I know nothing about the art of being a scribe.”
He smiled. “You are right to call it an art. She was very talented in her glyphs. Almost as much as you are in your drawings.”
She smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll confess to even more ignorance,” she said. “I don’t know what a glyph is either.”
“Come over here and I’ll show you.”
She sat where he indicated at the side of his desk. This chair was not unlike the one in which he sat. But whereas his was elaborately carved with lions, this one was adorned with bears. Dozens of bears in various poses. “It’s a very interesting chair, isn’t it?”
“My father thought so. He had a dozen or so commissioned.” He looked up. “Do you like it?”
She didn’t want to offend him, but the words stuck in her mouth. His grin relieved her. “Each one is uglier than the next,” he said, smiling. “The one with the snakes is particularly loathsome.”
He handed her a sheet of parchment. The wooden bindings had been removed from the codex and set aside. The text that began the page began with the initial W. It was decorated in startlingly vivid reds and blues and green inks.
“See that figure?” he asked, pointing to the girl resting at the point of the letter. “That’s a glyph.”
On the middle of the W was a delicate drawing of a young girl, her legs swinging over the edge of the letter. On her face was a smile, so real that Anne could feel her own lips curve in response. Everything was perfect about the sketch, from the tumbling golden hair to the diaphanous garment the girl wore.
“She was far more talented than I,” she said, in genuine appreciation. She smiled up at Stephen. “Did she do them throughout the codex?”
He nodded. “She interspersed her text with drawings. One resembles Sebastian, her husband. She also drew another knight,” he said, turning to a separate page.
Anne studied it with the same fascination as the first drawing. Juliana had depicted a man dressed in padded cap and armor of intricately drawn links of mail. His white tunic was emblazoned with a cross consisting of four arrows joined together at the points. The symbol was duplicated on the short triangular shield at his side. The look on his face was one of cunning. In his hands he held a cup, which he held aloft. Juliana had drawn small points emanating from the chalice as if light streamed through it.
Anne tilted her head and studied the drawing, wondering what it was about the picture of the knight that prompted such a sense of recognition. It was as if she knew him.
“She left several recipes for her inks,” Stephen said, carefully turning the brittle pages. “I’m grateful that it’s easier to simply purchase ink today.”
“Would you like to have lived in Juliana’s time?”
“Been a knight?” He smiled. “It’s nice to consider such things, isn’t it? The romance of an era filters through the years, but we do not realize what it might be like to live then. The inconveniences, the lack of amenities.”
“Do you think they considered it? Or did they just do as we all do? Live our lives in the way they’ve been fashioned? Perhaps a woman of four hundred years ago would be amused that we think her life is considered fascinating.”
“And perhaps one day people will think the same of us.”
It was an odd thought, that someone might think of her in the distant future and wonder
what she’d thought and felt and dreamed. “But for them to do so, I must leave something behind. Something to prove that I’ve been here, to mark my place.”
“Perhaps people do, in the form of their children.”
“Juliana did, didn’t she? Else you would not be sitting here.”
He looked surprised by the thought, then glanced down at the codex once more.
“I’ve translated her words. I haven’t used my Latin for years, but I’ve become accustomed to the cadence of her writing.”
“Cadence?”
He nodded, then smiled over at her. “She writes almost like poetry. It has a rhythm. Here, let me show you.
“‘I have been earnest in my attempts to transcribe these words and diligent in my efforts. May God bless me for my attempt and forgive my omissions and errors. I have made no judgment of these pages, only a faithful rendition of them. My task is to impart the truth of these matters to all who come after us, who would know of the true story of Langlinais Castle and the threat that stands between us and lasting peace. Would it be that this chronicle were never needed. That all that is Langlinais will remain fast and without peril.’”
Her gaze never left his face as he read Juliana’s words. His voice was low and resonant, enunciating the words slowly as he translated.
“‘Sebastian, Lord of Langlinais, and I married when we were children. I was sent at the age of five to live at the convent of the Sisters of Charity. It was almost within the shadow of Langlinais. It was there I was to be taught the skills of chatelaine of such a great castle. I dutifully learned those tasks I needed to know in order to fulfill my role as the Bride of Langlinais. I found my true joy within those convent walls, the skill of scribe that I use now to place these words upon parchment.
“‘I heard that Sebastian left Langlinais to go on crusade. I was content enough to remain at the convent and wait for him. But finally he returned, and I prepared myself to leave the convent. Such a summons never arrived. But years later I was sent for and arrived at Langlinais. It is at this moment that my chronicle begins.’”
Stephen was correct. There was a rhythm to Juliana’s words. As if she sat before them now and told her story. Not unlike Gordon at Dunniwerth, with his warm voice and his way of changing the tempo to make the tale more dramatic.
“Was that normal, for wives to be sent to convents?”
He looked up. “Only the better born, I think. Langlinais was considered a major demesne in England at the time. To be its chatelaine would require a great deal of skill and work.”
He returned to the translation.
“‘My first meeting with Sebastian frightened me. My lord husband wore a monk’s robe and remained in the shadows. Sebastian wished a marriage that would never be one in truth. There was such an air of mystery and sadness about him that my heart was touched even as my mind was set to questioning. I did not know why he was so careful never to come close. Not then.’”
Anne leaned her arm on the desk, propped her chin in her hand. Not only was Stephen’s voice alluring, but the story he read was fascinating. What must Juliana have felt? Why had her husband worn a monk’s robe?
Stephen glanced over at her, smiled as he read.
“‘My lord knew that I was lonely and agreed to meet me for conversation. We sat upon the floor of the east tower in the darkness, speaking of our lives. Mine, having been relegated to the convent, was measured by the hours. Sebastian’s had been marked by great deeds. I learned how he had become a knight, why he’d studied in Paris. We talked of my translations, of Ovid and Catullus and men whose words still sang with beauty over the years. But he would not speak of his time on crusade or those years when he did not summon me to his side.’”
“Who are Ovid and Catullus?” Anne asked.
Stephen leaned back in the chair, glanced away, then back at her. The look on his face, she suspected, was not unlike her own when she did not wish to answer a question directly. Or when the answer was something she was certain would not please. Her smile widened as she watched.
“My tutor would have said godless men, for all that they were learned in their time.”
That did not explain the hesitation of his answer. She remained patient, her gaze never leaving his face.
“‘Amabo, mea dulcis Ipsithilla,
meae deliciae, mei lepores,
iube ad te veniam meridiatum.’”
“What does it mean?” she asked softly.
He looked straight at her as he answered. “My sweet Ipsithilla, my delight, my darling, let me come to you at noon today.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” he said softly. “Catullus goes on for several lines, describing what, exactly, he will do to sweet Ipsitilla when he arrives at her house.”
She felt the warmth rise to her face. She looked down at the desk. “Oh.”
“His work held a great fascination for me when I was younger,” he said wryly. “He was not forbidden, but his words led me to think of things not related to my studies.”
“And now?” A dangerous question. Especially when the room had grown so still. As if even the gentle breeze dared not brush against the window-panes.
He smiled and released her from suspense. “Now war takes precedence over individual wishes.”
He bent to his task again.
“‘One day I happened upon Sebastian at his prayers. A faint light from a candle threw my thoughts into disarray. He was not wounded nor was he deformed by battle. My husband was blessed with a manly beauty that awed me. I did not understand why my lord had hid his appearance, but he would not discuss it. Nor why our marriage must remain one of such distance, and why he was so careful never to touch me—’”
A knock on the open door startled her. Stephen, however, merely looked up, his expression one of calm acceptance. But then, his thoughts were probably not as forbidden as hers.
It was William, and with him another of Stephen’s regiment attired in the blue uniform that marked them as Langlinais men.
“What news, James?”
“We found Penroth, my lord. He is encamped two days away. But his force is not large. No more than fifty men.”
“Outriders?” Steven asked.
James nodded. “But there are rumors of a large force to the north. At least twenty miles away.”
Stephen glanced at Anne, then nodded to James. An effective dismissal, she thought. Done with the ease of a man accustomed to command. But he did not dismiss his men. Only her.
“Perhaps we should continue this another time,” he said, rising.
She smiled, a cool, polite smile. One of understanding. Acceptance. It did not, she hoped, show one tinge of regret or one bit of fear. But she felt both at this moment.
In a move that would have pleased her mother and amused Hannah, she left the room silently. The questions she ached to ask were held tight behind smiling lips.
Ian stood in the shadows watching. He had protected Anne for so long that it was second nature to do so. Fool, he chided himself. That was not why he waited here. He wanted to know if his suspicions were correct.
She left the chamber, finally. Her dress was not askew, nor was her hair mussed. The Englishman had not dishonored her then. But there was a look on her face that displeased him.
It was obvious that she felt something for this Earl of Langlinais. Ian wished he’d never seen this place, or agreed to bring her here. Did she realize why he’d done so? Not because she was his laird’s daughter. Not because she had asked him to, wording her request in such a way that it was near to a command. But because she was Anne.
His Anne.
From the beginning, he’d known something was wrong. There was more to this quest than she’d told him. The moment she’d seen the Earl, everything had begun to change. She’d had a look on her face he’d never before seen. As if this Englishman made her smile inside.
Ian’s mouth twisted in a grimace. She’d been so enchanted with the man that she’d not noticed th
at the search for Douglas still continued and that Ian was gone most days from this English place. He’d not found his clansman. Only one reason to curse this journey.
The other soured in his stomach. She treated him as if he were her brother. Or worse. A servant hired for the day. She sent longing glances toward the Earl’s chamber, and sought information as to his injuries, but not once asked how he fared.
He turned and walked away. He was determined to leave this place called Langlinais the moment Hannah was able to travel. Perhaps once she was home again, Anne would see what had been in front of her eyes all along. A man who loved her. A worthy man. A Scot.
Chapter 9
“I knew I would find you here,” Richard said, looking around him.
The castle of Langlinais was only a shell of what it had been once. “Don’t you have something less strenuous to occupy you?”
“You’re more solicitous than Betty,” Stephen said, bending to retrieve another brick.
“And you more stubborn than your father,” he said, frowning. “I used to wonder that you didn’t sleep in this miserable place. “Why do you keep picking it up, Stephen? It will just keep falling down.”
Stephen smiled at his friend.
“Because it does keep falling down, Richard.” He bent and picked up a piece of stone and iron that had become dislodged from the upper wall, moved it to the side. Working with one arm kept the job small and the results infinitesimal.
He didn’t bother trying to sort through the debris caused by the destruction of the north tower. It had only been a matter of time until it had fallen. Although Langlinais had been nearly submerged when the Terne flooded two hundred years ago, the north tower looked to have had extensive renovations performed on it long before then. The intervening years had only made the damage worse. His efforts now were directed at the ruins of the great hall.
He looked around him, studying the further destruction that had occurred in the past two years since he’d been home. It was not just the lightning that had done damage. The back wall of the chapel had crumbled, and the last of the retaining wall had fallen into the river.
