by Karen Ranney
He placed the figurine back on the shelf and stood in front of the desk.
“You’re going to surrender, aren’t you?”
He extended his hand to her. She slapped it away. The gesture seemed to surprise him.
She stood, the desk still between them, her eyes sparking.
“Is it your aim to make me angry so that our parting is easier?” she asked.
“Will it work?”
“No,” she said. “I’m already irritated at you; a bit more anger will do nothing but keep the flame bright.”
He smiled then, his look genuinely amused. “Then will charm accomplish my aim?”
“There is nothing humorous about this.”
“Perhaps not, nor as tragic as you perceive.”
“They will kill you, Stephen.”
He said nothing.
“Am I to congratulate you on your sacrifice, kiss your cheek, and send you on your way?”
Still there was no response from him.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“When?” She wanted the hour, the minute, the second it would happen. But he would not give it to her.
Instead, he suddenly gripped her hand and pulled her around the desk.
She went, resisting, into his arms. She didn’t put her arms around him and return the embrace. She was afraid if she did, that she would not be able to let him go.
A Sinclair is always brave. No, not always. She wanted, with a child’s desire to beg him to stay. To not do this thing. To not give himself up for her sake—for anyone’s sake. There was no one worth the sacrifice. But she said nothing.
“I will be safe,” he said. The words were soft, meant to be reassuring, she was certain. They failed in their mission. “They will not harm me. I’m worth too much to them as a figurehead. An object lesson, if you will.”
“Other men have thought the same,” she said. “But they have been hanged.”
He pulled back and smiled at her. “You must have faith in me, Anne. I would not willingly walk into danger with my eyes wide open.”
Yes, you would. In order to save someone else. You have a surfeit of honor, Stephen.
If she had no courage, at least she had pride. But even that she would have given up at this moment if it would have convinced him. She knew, with a sense of honesty at least as great as his, that he would still leave her.
Chapter 21
Stephen stood at one of the dormer windows on the third floor. From here he could see the array of men. Hundreds if not thousands of tents spread out for as far as he could see.
He had known for days that they weren’t going to be rescued. In addition to the message to Blagge, he’d sent the royal messenger back to Oxford with a request for troops. Whether or not he’d gotten to Oxford was unknown. If he had, the king might not have had the troops to send. Or perhaps he would not have sent them as punishment. A lesson for the Earl of Langlinais that it was not wise to disobey a royal command.
Stephen had faced General Penroth on the battlefield numerous times before; each knew the other’s strengths and weaknesses.
He glanced down at the letter in his hand. The paper was wrinkled, the penmanship perfect. The wording was a masterpiece of understatement, enumerating the terms under which he was to surrender. Left unsaid was what would happen if he did not. But then, he didn’t need Penroth’s words. His mind had furnished images only too easily.
You have five days in which to consider these terms of surrender. If I have not heard from you at the end of that time, I will have no choice but to view your silence as hostile.
For those whom you shelter, I offer safe passage to the nearest town.
For those men who have served under your command, pardons as long as they do not take up arms again.
For yourself, imprisonment in London, there to be tried for your crimes against Parliament.
Six thousand men against sixty were hardly favorable odds. All Penroth needed to do was roll up his cannon and bombard Harrington Court until there was nothing left but dust and splinters. Even easier was to simply starve them out. Parliament would thereby acquire a rich estate with little or no effort.
He’d returned to Harrington Court not prepared for a long stay. He’d remained in winter quarters with his regiment. Spring was the time for planting, but war had taken its toll of schedules, even those of the land. What foodstuffs had remained after the long winter were barely enough to feed the thirty-odd servants, let alone the men of his regiment of horse.
He was responsible for the safety of over a hundred people at Harrington Court and even more at Lange on Terne. Women and children and old men with nothing to do but to sit and pontificate on the state of the world and anticipate the next day.
If its inhabitants were guilty of any sin, it was pride of place. If there was something needed, it was to be found at Lange on Terne. No reason to journey all the way to London for it, especially in these troubled times. There were merchants and shops, wares and bakeries. All manner of produce might be found on market day, as well as the plumpest guinea hens and the fattest pigs. And Lange on Terne, the natives said, had naught of the stench of London about it. Here a goodwife could hang out her linens without fear of them turning yellow from the foul air.
He knew most of its inhabitants by name, had played with the children of the village when he was a boy. For hundreds of years Lange on Terne had depended upon the castle of Langlinais for its sustenance and protection. Today the responsibility was the same.
He returned to his suite. There was nothing more to be done. Nothing that could be done.
The words of Juliana’s chronicles were too pointed. The siege of Montvichet had ended in tragedy. If he did not do something, the same fate would befall those at Harrington Court.
Two mullioned windows flanked the fireplace at the north end of his suite of rooms. He walked to the left window, stood looking down at the expanse of countryside below him. Harrington Court was built facing away from Langlinais, as if shunning the medieval fortress. Why had he always felt an affinity for it? Because it was his heritage? Because men who lived there had been his ancestors? Perhaps. Or perhaps his imagination had been caught by the idea of codes of knighthood and honor.
The castle seemed to glow in the moonlight like a place alight with ghosts. Perhaps it was haunted by all the men he’d admired, whose shades rose up to chastise and question and condemn.
Even the soil gave witness to their walk upon the world. The path down the hill, across the bridge, and through the baileys had all been worn into the earth over time, hollowed out for him by those who had gone long before. Perhaps his dreams were nothing more than echoes of their lives.
Did spirits stand vigil on him at each tower of Langlinais? In each room of Harrington Court? Did they line the roads and watch in silence as he passed? Were they bitter because he breathed and they did not? Or were they kind in their pity, knowing that the ending that had come to them would come to him soon enough?
He was the seventeenth Earl of Langlinais, and throughout his life the responsibility of being so had always been there. First as a goal. He must measure up to the previous earls, be as wise, as intelligent. He must study as hard, learn as well as all the men who’d come before him. He had been concerned that he might not be able to continue the dynasty that stretched so far behind him. Or that he would be unable to protect the village and the people who’d always depended upon the earls of Langlinais.
He stood at the window and watched the moonlit landscape. From time to time a campfire blazed or was extinguished. Tiny pinpricks of light not unlike stars.
Angels winking at him. A saying he’d been told in childhood. One given to ease his fears. He’d been awed by the majesty of the sky above him, and by the great gulf that existed between the earth upon which he stood and the heavens. He’d felt small and insignificant and terrified.
He was the Earl of Langlinais, he’d been told, and could never be less than that. Until his
life and experience had expanded to include more than this place and this heritage, he had believed it. True, he was ennobled by a title, but in the greater scheme of things, it truly didn’t matter.
The boy who had been afraid of a night sky made himself known again. That same child had sat and promised God that he would be good if He did not take his mother from him. Loss, then, that was part of what he felt. As a boy, he’d pounded his pillow in the darkness and refused to speak his mother’s name for one whole month. He’d even dared God to take him, too. Anger. Grief.
He mourned for what was his and could never be again. Not simply a house or a home. But an era, a time. A legacy that would be no more.
He’d fought with his mind, his heart, and his body to protect what was his. To credit all the men who’d gone before him and would come after. The blood of warriors flowed through his veins in addition to men of words and stately deeds.
He asked forgiveness of the ghosts of his heritage. They seemed to answer him. The earl who’d been rumored to have been in love with the queen, who had been Elizabeth’s advisor on affairs with Spain, would have counseled a parlay with Penroth. But then, it had been said of him that he would bargain with the devil. The man who’d started it all, who’d fought at William’s side six hundred years ago and been awarded Langlinais as a prize for both his loyalty and his fierceness in battle, might have wished to fight. Never mind the cost for those he held dear. And the earl who had built Harrington Court after that terrible year when the Terne had flooded the old castle so badly it was no longer habitable, what would he have said? He would have been the most practical of the group, advising that Stephen look upon the situation with logic and sense, devoid of emotion.
It was nearly impossible to do so.
Had Penroth waited until now before he’d offered terms? He possessed a devilish instinct for coincidence or perhaps he simply knew the desperation of their circumstances as well as Stephen did.
He stared out at his world. “Surrender.” He spoke the word aloud, but it made the decision no easier. It clawed at him.
He was suffused with a curious kind of resignation. As if all that he had done from the beginning of his life until this point in time was for this one deed.
He, like most of his men, had been untrained in war. But he’d learned the brutality of it soon enough. He had not wanted to kill, but neither had he wished to die. He had become a soldier because his country had split apart in thought and ideal and he’d been forced to choose. His courage had been tested as he lived through each day.
Around him slept more than a hundred people. Or remained awake as slumber was chased away by fear. Their fate was his. Their futures placed lovingly and with great faith into his hands. They trusted him to do what was necessary, just as they believed in him to save them.
It was oddly fitting that he should recall one of the Psalms the Parliamentarians were fond of quoting as they marched into battle.
O lord how are my foes increased,
Against me many rise
There was only one thing he could do. He’d known it for days. However much his mind circled around it, it always came back to surrender.
He glanced down at the coffer on the table beside him. Another regret. Perhaps he would give the coffer to Anne, have her take the codex somewhere safe. Protect it, that it might be read a hundred or more years from now.
He wanted to tell her what he’d discovered. Words that had startled him and confused him and then amazed him. He would go to her chamber and tell her. Only that.
His smile was a silent rebuke, an effortless ridicule of his intent. If he went to her chamber, it would not be to tell her of the Langlinais miracle but to leach some comfort in her arms.
Would she know how much he needed her tonight? He would not say the words, but perhaps she would know and extend her arms around him. Lover and friend.
He left the room before he could convince himself that it was not wise. That honor decreed he treat her with discretion, with gentleness. But she answered his soft knock within moments, as if she’d waited for him. One sign, then. A few more, and he would stay.
She’d lit not one candle but a branch of them which stood outlined in the flickering light. Shadows graced her face and accentuated the reddish hue of her hair. Her hand stretched out and greeted him, lured him closer. Just that, an outstretched hand. Nothing else. Not a sign, then. It was a night of farewells and poignant partings, not omens.
Once before they’d stood together like this. A night of loving to last a lifetime. Memories to be pulled from their resting place when the world turned black with powder or death rode too close in battle. But that night would also be recalled in more peaceful times. Perhaps for the rest of his life. A night of passion he’d not dreamed of before, of both conquest and longing. Of desire sated and rewarded.
Tonight he came to her. The moment repeated again. The need for forgetfulness and a wish to add to that store of memories.
Even as he stood in silence, he vowed that he would love her once not in parting but in joy. This he silently promised her, even as he accepted that it might not be possible. He made another promise, one he could ensure was kept. If she allowed him to stay. Tonight would not be swathed in sorrow. Not in the shadows of grief.
He would enchant her, as she had him.
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice kept low. Out of respect for her? Or because he did not want to have the world hear him beg?
There were secrets to her mind and person, mysteries in her eyes. In the slight smile she wore when looking at him sometimes. In the passion she so artlessly gave and shared. She opened her arms. Welcome and forgiveness in a gesture.
A sign, then, of how close to madness he must surely be, that he pressed her face gently to his chest and sighed into her hair.
“I need you,” he heard himself say in horrified fascination. “I need you.” Again, as if the initial capitulation had not been enough. Again and again and again, this surrender. Practice, then, for what he must do in the morning.
Help me. Ease me. Make me forget for a while.
She’d guessed so easily what he’d planned to do before the thought had become solidified in his mind. It seemed as if she intuited the exact moment of his surrender now. Or did she see the knowledge in his eyes?
She wound her arms around his waist. She held him tight to her as if the words he did not speak would sever them otherwise.
He’d held her so when nature itself had split the air around them. Held her when the thunder roared and lightning flashed. The passion that sparked between them was as strong. But she’d not been afraid then. Even in her innocence, she’d matched his need and gifted him with a wonder he’d never before felt.
When she pulled away, he was humbled and awed. On her face were tears. They glazed her cheeks and reddened her lips. He’d sought a sign, an omen, a signal. As he stared down into her face, he found that he didn’t need one after all.
She did not cry easily or often. How did he know such a thing? The same way he knew that her tears were for him and the morning to come, and a hundred such when time separated them and wars and politics and religious unrest. All stupid reasons. All silly notions measured against this woman.
Anne. How simple her named sounded. How plain for such a glorious creature. Anne. He wanted to call her something different, something unique and rare and unusual, that was never uttered by any other voice. A name that would indicate to her how he felt, how he wanted to thank her and praise her and show her, in some tiny fashion, that he would hold the memory of her smile in that sweet spot in his heart where all such memories rested.
He had thought himself adrift in near madness to think of her so often, to dream of her so deeply. But in her look was the same possession of thought. To be so open in her vulnerability was an act of the greatest courage.
The candlelight was too bright, the moment too ripe with feeling.
Some women were lovely even in their tears. Anne was not, a d
iscovery that sent a surge of tenderness shooting through him. Her nose was pink, the whites of her eyes nearly red.
He’d shared passion with her, and it had been wondrous, something that made tawdry and minor other joinings in his lifetime. But now she offered him something more. Not mere passion, not solely exquisite physical pleasure, but part of herself.
Do not. He wanted to tell her to shield her eyes or cover her heart, but not to show him her soul so easily. He might bruise her accidentally or wound her with his actions. But she stood silent, as she had a habit of doing, and dared him to look inside her. To take or to reject what she so effortlessly offered him. The gift of herself.
She offered and he would take. He knew that even as he reached out and bared her shoulder. Her dressing gown was borrowed or made for her. Cast off from one of the servants or crafted from the bolts of cloth kept in the sewing room. He didn’t know, nor did he care. His only interest was in stripping it from her.
He felt hollow. A man without a soul or heart or even thoughts at this moment. They trembled in the air between them, all the separate pieces of himself, to be gathered up by either of them.
My soul. I shall need it if I pass through to heaven. And am challenged at the gate for all my misdeeds. Shall I number you among them, Anne?
It did not surprise him when she answered, her soft voice proof that he was indeed adrift in confusion. Enough to speak the words he had not wished to say aloud.
“No, Stephen, my dearest. Do not regret me.”
“A command again. You have a habit of doing so.” His smile curved even as he kissed her bare shoulder.
She tilted her neck, an invitation to feast on her throat. He could not deny himself. He kissed her there, where the pulse of her was hot and rapid. Life beneath his lips. A life all the more precious for being hers.
“My thoughts,” he said, content to continue this madness with her. “You are in them always, as if you have invaded my mind. You are not content to simply be in my dreams.”
