Framed in the portal by the predawn grayness of the sky was not only her son, but Lord Coudray. Standing behind them was a troop of horsemen, their mounts stamping and snorting. Over the rattling of harnesses, men coughed and swore softly against the cold morn air.
Elyssa stared at Jocelyn. Beneath his cloak her son wore a heavy brown tunic with fur cross-gartered to his legs. Gloves covered his hands. Traveling attire. A terrible notion occurred to her. She bit her lip and looked at the sheriff.
If Geoffrey FitzHenry's head was bare even against this icy morn, he wore his mail with a thick cloak over his shoulders. His gaze leapt from her face to her loosened hair and downward, then he blinked.
"Close your cloak, my lady," he breathed.
With a soft cry, Elyssa stepped back into the darkened room, clutching her mantle tightly shut. Lord Coudray followed her, his mail jangling quietly with each step. Jocelyn came, too, for his cloak was trapped in the nobleman's hand.
"Feed the flre so you can see," her warden commanded her as he closed the door, "but know you we haven't long."
Elyssa knelt by the hearth, her fear growing greater with each passing instant. Setting the cover to one side, she offered the glowing coals twists of straw and sticks until flames appeared. When she could delay no longer, she rose and faced her visitors.
"Why have you come here so early?" Although her voice was flat, her words broke against what trembled within her.
The tall knight released his hold on Jocelyn's cloak. "Bid your lady mother adieu," he told her son.
Jocelyn launched himself at her, his arms clutching frantically around her waist. "Maman, he is taking me away from you." There was more outrage than fear in his cry.
"Lyssa, what is it?" Clare asked sleepily, rising on her elbows to see.
"The lord sheriff and Jocelyn,” Elyssa replied, her voice strained as she fought for calm. "Stay where you are," she warned her cousin while she freed a hand from her mantle to pull Jocelyn more tightly to her. Her gaze returned to Lord Coudray. "Where do you take my son?"
"To his new foster father, Lord Ashby." The gentleness in his voice only made the hurt he did her worse.
She stared at him in bleak understanding. Her need to retain some control over her child had driven the sheriff to this decision. "This is my fault. My lord, if I vow to remain at a distance, will you reconsider?"
Lord Coudray shook his head, lifting a gloved hand at the same time to rub at his brow. "Lady Elyssa, in all truth it’s that our temperaments, your son's and mine, do not suit. He’ll be better served if Lord Ashby takes him. Now, kiss his cheek and bid him to be brave and thrive."
Although his words made it clear the path was set and would not be altered, his voice conveyed compassion for what this leave-taking cost her. Would that he scolded or shouted, then she might rage at him for once more stealing her child. Instead, she did as he commanded and dropped to her knees before Jocelyn. When she'd pressed her lips to her son's smooth cheek, she sighed, "Go with God, my precious child."
"Maman, do not let this happen!" Jocelyn's voice was sharp with disbelief at being forced where he didn't wish to go. "You must save me."
"Boy, did I not warn you to keep a civil tongue?" Lord Coudray caught his hand in Jocelyn's cloak and pulled her son from her arms. Turning, he opened the door. "Osbert, come take the lad and see him mounted on his pony."
As Jocelyn departed, Elyssa sagged, her arms aching to hold him still. Her son would die, and she would die when this new babe came. Never again would she hold her own child in her arms. Tears flowed as she sat back on her heels, her sobs soundless.
Lord Coudray turned back toward her. "Have you any items you'd like to send with your son?"
She swallowed. "There's naught—" Her voice caught, her throat closing over what she’d thought to say only to spring wide and let words she hadn’t considered spew from her. "My lord, is this Lord Ashby who takes my son a good man?"
The sheriff drew a harsh breath at her question, then freed a short, sharp laugh and shook his head. He came to squat before her. Elyssa stared helplessly at him, her hand caught to her mouth to still its trembling.
With the first hint of a new day lighting the room, she could see the golden gleam of his hair and the bitter amusement that marked his handsome face. He watched her for a brief instant then the scarred corner of his mouth lifted. This bit of a smile awoke the warmth in his blue gaze. "Elyssa of Freyne, it’s a miracle you've survived two husbands with that tongue of yours yet intact." His voice was low, as if he meant to keep his words private from Clare.
"What did I say that was amiss?" Her question was barely more than a breath.
"You imply that I would send your son to one who abuses children." He lifted his brows in a gentle chide.
Elyssa bowed her head. "My pardon," she managed, although that had been the exact intention of her question. There was cold comfort in his response. Although Lord Coudray didn't believe Jocelyn's new keeper would abuse him, there were so many ways her son could be hurt, and she'd not be there to see that he survived it.
Metal rings rasped, one against another, as her warden brought his arm forward to crook his finger beneath her chin and lift her face. "You must take heart," he said quietly. "It can do that babe within you no good for you to be so despondent."
"I cannot help myself." Her voice was but a broken sigh. "He is my son, and I love him."
He nodded slightly in understanding. A tear reached her chin, and he brushed it away with his thumb. "If you are willing to bear the cost of a clerk, you are free to send missives to Ashby. Give your messages to Sir Martin, and he will see they reach the boy."
It was a sop, nonetheless Elyssa snatched for it. "Many thanks, my lord."
"You are welcome." Again, his mouth quirked upward. He released her chin and rose.
She listened to the door shut behind him. Outside the cottage, men called and horses lifted their hooves into a trot. In another moment, there was nothing but the crowing of cocks, what with the forges silent at this hour.
"I have lost my son," Elyssa keened. "How can he survive without me to keep him safe? He will die, Clare."
"He is stronger than you believe," Clare said from their pallet. "Lyssa, you must also be strong for the babe's sake."
"I am tired of being strong," Elyssa complained. "Despite how I have worked and fought for him, Jocelyn is still torn from my arms. I need my child, else I live but half a life."
"You have a child, waiting to be born," Clare replied.
"This babe?" Elyssa pressed hopeless hands against her still flat womb. "Why should I care for him when his coming will most likely mean my death?"
The urge to plead with God for her child’s life was followed by the memory of how yesterday she’d chided the Heavenly Mother for deserting her, only to have Jocelyn appear in the next moment. Ignoring logic's scream against such fancy, Elyssa came to her feet, tossed aside her mantle and snatched her gowns from the clothes pole.
"Lyssa, what are you about?" her cousin asked warily.
"The chapel," she said, her head trapped within the folds of her undergown.
"Ah, to offer your prayers for Jocelyn's well-being," Clare replied in approval.
Elyssa yanked on her overgown, then shoved bare feet into her shoes. Leaving her laces undone, she cinched her belt at her waist and tied a thong around the mass of her uncombed hair. Once her mantle was pinned on, she stuffed her hair into her hood to hide her uncovered femininity. As she turned for the door she saw Clare rising as if to join her.
"Nay," Elyssa whispered. She needed time to rant to the Virgin on her own.
Throwing open the door, she raced for the inner gate. It was open and the guard set on it watched her come toward him. With dawn's light creeping into the sky, no doubt it seemed senseless to close the gate after the master's departure when in only a quarter hour’s time it would be open again to admit the flood of day workers.
"Wait," Clare called after her, leaning
from the doorway in her undergown.
Elyssa ignored her as she crossed the short courtyard and took the stairs to the keep’s door at a run. Newborn light streamed across the inner walls, bringing a warm golden glow to cold bricks. The keep would quickly come to life, the chapel filling with those who came to take mass. She pounded on the keep's closed door. "Open, damn you," she shouted.
The porter opened his peephole. "There's yet a quarter hour before I need do so." He yawned, freeing the scent of yesterday's roasted garlic to waft into the air.
"It’s Lady Freyne. You'll open or I'll see word of this reaches Sir Martin. I have need of the priest," she lied. At her threat he grumbled beneath his breath, but the bar moved and the door creaked open just wide enough to allow her to enter.
The hall was smoky and dim, the air within fetid with the scent of so many bodies in so close an area. She picked her way over sleepers then entered the chapel. Kneeling, Elyssa pulled open her purse and sought her beads. There was nothing in the leather pouch save her four pence.
She gave a weak cry and pulled her purse free of her belt, emptying it onto her palm. The silver coins rattled as they fell into her hand. Her beads were missing. She caught her breath. She’d left them here yesterday, forgetting them after Jocelyn joined her. She glanced frantically toward the wall where she'd thrown them. Nothing.
Coming to her feet, she peered around the altar. Nothing there either. Tears filled her throat. How would she pray without them? It wouldn’t be the same, but she had to try.
She knelt before the altar and demanded that God's Mother return her son to her. Moments ticked slowly by. Jocelyn did not appear.
Elyssa sank back to sit on the floor. It had been a stupid thought from the first. Of course both God and his lady wife had closed their ears to her pleas. Why wouldn't they abandon her the way every other soul from whom she'd sought protection had done?
Dawn's light, gone rosy, shot through the slitted windows to touch the altar. Stripped of its rich covering for the night, the marble table glowed as if bloodstained. Elyssa raised her face into the pink light.
"Know you, Mother of God, when your Lord Husband set Freyne upon Jocelyn's shoulders, He killed me. My son will die without his maman to keep him safe. Now, what reason have you and He left me for living?"
There was a soft touch on her shoulder. Elyssa gasped in surprise and turned, only to have her surprise deepen. It was Jocelyn's wee shadow. The girl blinked then reached out a finger to touch the tears on Elyssa's cheek. Her wispy brows rose in question.
"I am sad because Joceyln is gone," Elyssa told her, her voice trembling.
The lass's mouth formed an “O” of understanding. Reaching up, she pushed Elyssa's hood back and eyed the thick mass of russet hair that tumbled free. Extending her hand, the child combed her fingers through a loose strand.
There was great comfort in this babe's caress. Elyssa wanted nothing more than to gather the lass into her arms. Even holding someone else's child would ease her pain. She started to extend her arms only to catch back her motion, remembering the girl's fear.
"My heart breaks for my son," she whispered to the child. "Might I hold you, ma petite?"
The girl's eyes flew wide at the endearment. Confusion and hope woke in her face as her mouth again moved. Maman? she asked, but there was no sound to it. Her unnatural silence only added to Elyssa's sadness.
"I am no one's maman now," she told the child.
Hope grew stronger in the child's expression then died into what Elyssa read as disbelief. Her beautiful eyes narrowed, and the lass raised her gaze toward the door. With nothing more than a jerk of her chin, she asked in perfect silence after Jocelyn.
"He's gone." Tears choked Elyssa, and she bowed her head against her pain.
A instant later and the lass wound her arms around Elyssa’s neck. Elyssa’s gasped in surprise but didn’t move. The lass held herself still for a long moment, as if testing for her own reaction to this bold move. Finally, Elyssa raised her head.
Fear and longing filled the child's face.
"Oh, but you need me," Elyssa breathed in hope.
The poor babe's teeth worried her lower lip as a frown creased her smooth brow. Maman? she asked again in her silent voice. It was a terrible, lonely plea.
"Aye, come to me, poppet," Elyssa said in a whisper. "Ease what tears me in twain. Let me be your maman."
The lass breathed a long sigh of relief and leaned her head against Elyssa's brow. Her mouth moved, Maman.
Elyssa carefully closed her arms around the child. There was no resistance as she pulled the silent babe into her lap. Instead, the girl tucked her head into Elyssa's shoulder and closed her eyes. Rocking against her own loneliness, Elyssa bowed her head into the lass's shoulder and wept.
***
Reginald looked at the leather-wrapped package the merchant had just handed to him and glanced again at the commoner who’d delivered it. "From Crosswell? You are a messenger for the sheriff?" If he was, then Reginald would have to feed him dinner and let him sleep the night in Freyne's hall.
Heavyset with ruddy hair and skin, the Englishman looked all the bigger wearing so many layers of cloth-ing against these harsh mid-December days. He grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. "Who, me? Nay, I am but a traveler who passes through Crosswell on my journeys, my lord."
Reginald fought a pleased grin at being addressed as Freyne's lord. During the past two months of owning Freyne, he'd slept in the lord's bedchamber and taken his meals in the lord's chair at the high table's center. Each passing day had fed his desire to make Freyne his alone.
"Upon my last visit to that strong keep did I meet with a noblewoman who resides there under the sheriff's protection. She heard I came by this road and asked that I bring you the packet. Aye, a sweet lady she was," the merchant continued, "and most concerned with your well-being. The Lady Clare fears your days of Christmas will be lonely ones." There was just the slightest bit of a leer in his tone.
Reginald straightened as joy poured through him, then his brows drew down at the insult the merchant inferred on his sweet love. "Have a care with your tongue, man," he said, his voice low and menacing.
Startled, the merchant stepped back, his mouth gaping in surprise as he saw a night's comfort and a warm meal slipping out of his grasp. "My lord, I meant no insult," he said in hasty apology. "A thousand pardons if I have done harm. Look you upon this packet and see that I have meant only good in bringing it to you."
Reginald relaxed. True enough. "Aye, and for that am I grateful," he replied. "Will you bide the night with us, partaking of our hospitality?"
"Why, my lord, your offer is kind, indeed. I would be honored." The big merchant bowed his head in acceptance.
Formalities addressed, Reginald snapped his fingers at the pantler. "Alexander, see that this man and his servants are fed and have a place by the fire this night. I am retiring." He turned, trying not to run toward the wall and bedchamber beyond it.
With his brother's chamber door shut on the outside world, Reginald knelt beside the hearth and peeled back the leather. White cloth. He tugged on the fabric and smiled at the shirt, his fingers rubbing appreciatively against the fine linen. She had made this for him as a wife might clothe her husband.
Setting the garment upon the cot he used, he tore off his tunic and shirt and donned Clare's shirt. His smile grew. She had done well in estimating his proportions.
Dressed only in her shirt, his chausses and boots, he returned to her packet. A fold of parchment remained within its confines. He opened it. The words filling the sheet were fine with just a hint of flourish to their form. Had it been she or a clerk who'd penned this missive?
To my dearest love, Sir Reginald of Freyne,
I pray this finds you in abundant health and strength of heart, yet missing me as I ache for you. There has been much ado at Crosswell whilst the justiciars held their court. What with the keep and bailey so crowded with foreigners and uncouth commone
rs, Lady Freyne and I were trapped in our cottage. In our need to add variety beyond embroidery to pass this heavy time, we turned to sewing. Thus, do I pray you will indulge me in this gift, given in the spirit of the upcoming Holy days. It’s my fondest wish that you might find some little pleasure in what my fingers have wrought.
Your last missive brought such disheartening news. It seems impossible that the bishop would object less to our degree of kinship, than to the fact that you marry a barren woman. Know that I will love you still if you find yourself unwilling to flaunt convention.
Reginald sighed and stared at her generous offer to free him from his promise to wed her through the more casual joining of a handfast. Such a thing would have been acceptable if he was to remain Freyne's steward, but he now meant to become Freyne's lord. In that case, lack of a priest's blessing made Clare his concubine and him a laughingstock for taking a woman who could provide him neither property nor heirs. A touch of anger woke in him. Let them laugh. What right had any man to tell him he couldn't own the woman he wanted? He turned his eyes back to the parchment.
I would thank you again for your concern over Lady Freyne and her child. Although my lady cousin was incapable of swallowing the tonic, she strengthened on her own. The babe seems finally to have settled within her, no longer plaguing her with sickness. However, she waits daily for news of Jocelyn's death now that he's been squired away from Crosswell. Her depression over this issue concerns me. Although her health is good, my lady cousin now believes her child's delivery will take her own life. Thus, would I once more beg your aid.
When I related to Lady Freyne in what regard you hold Freyne's midwife, she remembered the woman and found comfort in what was familiar. It’s now our desire, hers and mine, that the woman might attend my lady cousin when she begins her laying in. Although I know the village would be loath to relinquish her to us for a month's time we hope she might have an apprentice to take her place while she serves her lord's widow by delivering yet another heir.
With enduring love and care for you in my heart I end this missive. Signed this the sixteenth day of December, year of our Lord 1194. Clare, daughter of William de Romeneye.
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