by Колин Глисон
Moments later, the robed figure of an old woman, stooped and slow, approached the gate. “Yes?”
“I bring word to Anne de Belgrume that her husband is dead.”
There was a pause, then the gate swung open silently, belying its age and the rust-colored bars. “You may wait here.”
He took a seat on the bench in the center of a rose garden, after tying his mount to an oak tree.
When Anne de Belgrume stepped into his line of vision moments later, his heart stopped. She was as beautiful as he remembered—moreso, for the years had been gentle with her. He still could not believe that she was alive…having heard the story of her death when Madelyne went to court.
“Anne.” He rose and reached his hands out toward her.
“Seton?” Gladness overwhelmed her voice and she rushed toward him.
Nothing had ever felt so good as when he folded her into his arms, heedless of the chain mail that that pressed into her. “Anne…oh, my beautiful one…I did not know if I’d ever hold you thus again.”
She pulled back to look up at him. “Is Fantin truly dead? Am I free?”
He nodded. “Aye, struck down by the husband of your daughter. Our daughter.” He looked closely at her. “You did not tell her.”
“Nay. I did not wish to burden her with that knowledge. Mayhap ’twas wrong, but I believed if Fantin should have learned it, he would have killed her. At the least, if he believed she was his daughter, he wouldn’t harm her.” She reached to touch his face, and the warmth of her hand stopped his heart.
“Aye. Our child…wed with a good man, safe now from your husband…and you are set free from this…sanctuary…should you wish to leave.” His words were a question that he’d waited a lifetime to have answered.
“Leave? With you?” Anne breathed. “Aye, Seton. Always. Forever.”
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Document ID: 9ebe6c3a-18b6-4344-93de-020d22920911
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