by Mary Wine
The back stairs were dark. A flight of narrow stone steps led to a tower used by archers in time of siege. For the moment, it was where the books of the estate rested because there was no way to enter it except through the mistress’s chamber. Hugging her arms around her body, Anne climbed as she felt the chill soak into her bones. It felt almost as though the chill was coming from inside her, and maybe it was.
Her heart ached. Never had she been away from her family. She slept in the maids’ chamber, the furthest she had ever been from her mother. It might be foolishness to lament leaving the castle, but it was the only home she knew.
She shivered as she reached the small chamber. She could press her fingers against one wall and stick her leg out behind her to touch the opposite side with her foot. Very little light entered because there were naught but arrow slits in the stone walls. The wind whistled through the narrow openings, sending more shivers down her spine.
Surely she must be dreaming. A nightmare that she would awaken from soon. Her fingers stroked the front of her skirt, finding the lines of trim carefully sewn down the center front. She had helped to make some of it with her own hands, sitting with the other maids after the fires had been banked for the night. With Mary’s love of fashion, every pair of hands helped with constructing her wardrobe.
The dress was fine but had not been made for her. The stays were a tiny bit too long in the waist, poking into her hips. She would have to alter it, but dared not do it now. Mary’s husband might arrive at any hour.
Actually, her husband.
Anne considered that. She wasn’t afraid of men but she was ignorant of them. Having been kept under a strict eye, she had told herself to not look at the boys who tried to gain her attention. It was an unnatural thing to not flirt, and now it seemed it was also unwise. What if the Scot didn’t like her? She didn’t know how to entice him into her bed.
A shiver shook her as she considered that duty. Maybe she should avoid it. If she produced the baby Philipa demanded, there would be no further need for her. Icy dread closed around her heart as she contemplated the deception Philipa was set on using her to achieve. The lady wasn’t above murder. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Anne ordered herself not to panic. She had to think. She needed to figure out a way to get the news to her father. She couldn’t tell the Scot about the deception; he would send her home and into Philipa’s keeping. The idea of her sweet sister Bonnie being wed made her stomach twist sickeningly. Her father was the only one who held the power to protect her and her family.
He would. She believed that. She had to, it was her only hope.
She would write him a letter. Turning around, she looked at the desk she’d spent many an hour at doing the estate books. Yes. There was parchment and ink.
Yet, how would she have it delivered? Court was an uncertain place with nobles crowding around the Queen. Only an experienced man could see any letter into her father’s powerful hand. His secretary often had letters for months before gaining the chance to present them to her noble sire.
Still, she refused to go meekly to her own slaughter. Philipa would kill her, she felt certain of it. If she lived there would always be the danger that the truth might be discovered.
Sitting down, she pulled the cork out of the small inkwell. Made of pottery, it held a generous portion of dark ink. Lifting a quill, Anne dipped it before laying the tip against a new sheet of paper. She wrote carefully, forming her letters with skill. She listened closely for steps, fearing to hear a tread upon them that would interrupt her task.
She sealed it with wax but not the seal of the house. Tucking it carefully into the estate books, she prayed that her father would be home for quartering day, when the household staff was paid. It was still four months away but the master was expected to pay each servant with his own hand. Her father had kept that tradition as long as she could remember, laying her own earned silver in her palm when she had grown old enough to deserve it. She couldn’t get the letter to him, but she might leave it where he could discover it. Without the seal, no one would know where the letter came from and hopefully it would be left for the master to open. For once Philipa’s laziness might just be a blessing.
Anne prayed as she had never prayed for it to be so.
In the meantime, she would have to employ every tactic she could imagine to keep the Scot from consummating his union. She needed time. A twinge of guilt assaulted her but she shrugged it away. The man was an innocent, but she could not treat him fairly. It was the first time she had planned to be unkind to a stranger but she had no choice. She would lead him on a merry chase, avoiding his touch as long as possible, and she prayed that God might grant her the ability to keep the man at arm’s length.
It was by far the strangest prayer she had ever sent to heaven.
Time passed slowly. Anne paced once the books were in order, unable to sit still. She wasn’t used to being idle. Her belly rumbled for hours before Mary appeared with a meal near sunset.
Her half-sister shrugged. “I’m not used to serving so I forgot to bring you something at midday.” Setting the tray down with a clank, she turned and looked at the small alcove. “Mother says you have to sleep here. I’m to fetch you some bedding. It’s so boring waiting for this husband to show himself. Mother says I cannot return to court until you have a baby. I wish he’d hurry up.”
Selfish brat.
Anne waited until Mary was on her way down the stone steps before muttering. To the pampered legitimate daughter of the house she was little more than a strip of fertile land to be planted and harvested.
Still, she’d be wise to hold her tongue. The alcove would be very cold at night with no fire. Anne just hoped that the witless creature remembered to bring her something to keep her warm.
There were no silver domes to keep the food warm. It was poor fare as well. A bowl of porridge, ’twas cold and congealed. The end of a loaf of bread was lying near the bowl, its center stale. Two tarts were sitting among the fare, their richness a stark contrast to the rest of the meal. A tear stung her eye as she recalled sharing one with Brenda just a few hours ago. Wiping her tear aside, she refused to indulge her pity. Life was hard and crying was for children who hadn’t learned that fact yet.
Her belly grumbled and she reached for the porridge. As hungry as she was, the taste was bearable. There was no serving ware with the food, so she dipped her fingers into it. A small pitcher of whey sat next to it. Anne frowned as she drank it. Whey was the weakest part of the morning milk, after the cream had been skimmed off for butter. But at least it helped wash the cold porridge down her throat. There was no ale or cider, nothing else to drink at all.
Steps on the stairway interrupted her meal. Mary huffed as she appeared at the top of the stairs.
“This will have to do. I can’t go hauling pallets from the servants’ quarters without raising suspicions.”
She dropped whatever was in her grasp on the floor and turned around, leaving quickly.
Rather a blessing that you don’t have the care of any of the horses… Anne frowned. And now you’re talking to yourself.
Washing her fingers in some of the whey, she wiped them on the hem of her skirt. She hated soiling the garment but couldn’t think of a better solution. Anne walked toward the heap of cloth on the floor, picked it up and shook it out. Made of thick boiled wool, it was a traveling cloak fashioned with a deep hood to shield the wearer from the weather. The wind blew in the arrow notches, making the alcove as cold as the yard below. Even with the cloak, she would shiver half the night.
At least you have a quilted petticoat…
Turning in a huff, Anne looked at the tarts and bread. Her mouth watered but she resisted the urge to eat them. Who knew when she would have more food. It was best to save some. A half filled belly was easier to endure than an empty one.
The sun set and with it the light faded. Candles were locked in a cupboard near the kitchen. They were handed out carefully, to conserve resources. Standing nea
r an arrow slit, she watched the yard below. Light twinkled in the stable as the last chores were done. The retainers walked the walls, guarding as they always did. She was tempted to sneak down the steps and set her letter into the captain’s hand but it was such a great risk. Philipa did hold the estate tight in her grip. She’d turned more than one person out without a care for their plight. The captain might take the letter to his lady instead of her sire. With the earl at court so often, many at Warwickshire coveted Philipa’s good will.
Despair wrapped around her as she picked up the cloak. Icy fear gripped her heart as she pulled the wool around her body. She was so close to everyone she held dear and yet separated from them. Loneliness sent tears into her eyes despite her efforts to remain strong. With nothing but darkness to keep her company, she didn’t have enough strength to fend off crying. Sinking down against the wall, she pulled her knees closer to her body as the night grew colder. Somehow she slipped off into sleep, her mind full of dreams of the fire burning in Philipa’s room. She tried to get closer to it, straining toward the warmth but couldn’t seem to move, her body shivering so much she was stuck next to the stone wall.
She awoke more tired than when she’d fallen asleep. Her eyes burned as her hands ached from holding the front edges of the cloak tight against her chest. Her body was stiff from sleeping against the hard floor. Her toes felt like ice in her boots. Moving hurt. But remaining still did too.
The first rays of dawn were hitting the arrow slits, filtering in to where she lay. Standing up, she raised her face into those rays to feel the heat lick across her chilled cheeks.
“Riders ho!”
Her eyes opened wide as the call filtered up from below. With a rush toward the arrow slit, Anne searched the courtyard but the gates were still closed. Beyond the outer wall, a blue and gold banner was waving in the distance. It was tiny and dancing because the rider was moving quickly. The captain hurried up the ladder to the top of the walls in his shirt, clearly fresh from his bed. He used a looking glass to study the banner for long moments.
“Alcaon retainers. Sound the muster.”
The sergeant rang a large bell attached to the stone outer wall. Men began rolling out of their barracks, buttoning doublets and sheathing swords as they appeared in the courtyard. The banner was still some distance away because the castle was built on high ground.
So the moment was here…
May the Lord forgive her enough to allow her to live.
“Hurry up.”
Mary was out of breath and didn’t even climb to the top step. She gestured with a frantic hand for Anne to follow her down to Philipa’s chamber. Her stomach knotted as she descended, sure that her soul was going lower into damnation with each step.
“There you are. I hope the night has improved your attitude.” Philipa was already dressed and looking nervous for a change. “Yes. Good. We are agreed. Mary, fetch her that French hood with the veil.”
Mary pulled a brown French hood from a chair. The brim would wrap over her head and down low enough to cover her ears completely. There was a long veil hanging from the back that would reach her waist. It was made of lightest weight wool to keep her neck warm. A second piece of fabric was sewn to the front of the hood. This was light cotton from India. She would be able to see through it but not well. Ladies often wore face veils like it when the snow was flying to protect their makeup. Face powder smeared when the snowflakes melted against the skin.
Mary pushed it down onto Anne’s hair, uncaring how the edges cut into her cheeks. She flipped the veil into place, shutting out most of the early morning light.
“Perfect. That shall keep the staff from discovering us.” Mary smiled in triumph as Anne allowed her lips to press into a hard line. Out of habit she started to lower herself but froze before completing the respectable movement. Mary frowned, displeasure tightening her face.
A hard thump landed on the door.
“Hide yourself, Mary. Quickly, my lamb.”
Mary turned and ran toward the stairs that led to the alcove. Philipa smiled at her back, rare happiness glittering in her eyes. It vanished the moment she looked at Anne.
“Best you recall what I have instructed you to do. As soon as you are with child, tell the Scot you must return to your mother. Even an uncivilized Scot will not deny you that comfort.”
The door thumped again. “Enter.”
The captain of the guard appeared, lowering himself before Philipa.
“The Earl of Alcaon awaits you in the courtyard, my lady.”
“We are ready.” Philipa gripped Anne’s arm, her fingers digging into the flesh. “Indeed we are.”
Indeed she was not nor would she ever be.
“God’s breath.”
Anne froze as she got her first look at the men awaiting her. They were huge. She might not have risked Philipa’s wrath to indulge her whims with a lover but she did know what men looked like, more or less anyhow.
They were much larger than any man she might name, aside from one or two of the villagers. Their bodies were cut with muscle as well. Her eyes lingered on their rolled up sleeves and the amount of bare skin on display. The morning chill didn’t seem to bother them; in fact they looked as though they were in prime health. Several wore kilts, pants being the oddity. Instead of shirts, they wore some type of undergarment that had wide sleeves without cuffs. Their doublets were made of leather and most of them fastened only a few times across their bellies. Boots laced up their calves to the knees, with antler horn buttons to twist the strips of leather around. Instead of fashionable livery, every bit of clothing appeared to be constructed for utility. The exception were the kilts, made from long lengths of fabric, woven with several color hues to form plaids. These were blue, yellow and orange plaid. The only uniformity in dress among them was the corner of those plaids resting over each man’s shoulder. The fabric was held in place by large metal brooches with pins tucked through them. There didn’t appear to be an unfit man among them, and thick swords were strapped to each and every back.
“He will come for you…”
Bonnie’s words echoed through her mind as one man broke away from the others. His hair was as dark as midnight and his eyes dark blue. His shirt sleeves were tied up at the shoulder, displaying how powerful his arms were. He looked like a Roman statue, all muscle.
“I am Brodick McJames.”
Philipa lowered herself, tugging on Anne’s wrist to ensure that she followed suit.
“Welcome to Warwickshire, my lord. Please accept our hospitality.” Philipa curtsied lower and more meekly than Anne had ever witnessed. But the Scot wasn’t interested in her show of deference, his gaze looked past the mistress of the manor to settle on Anne’s silent form.
He studied her lowered head, trying to see past the veil. She secretly prayed that the man would take Philipa’s offer and linger a few nights. That might undo Philipa’s foul scheme before it got a start.
“I regret that I dinnae have time to enjoy your kind invitation. I must return to my land.”
“I understand.” Philipa spoke almost too quickly but she covered up her glee with a loud sniffle. “Truly I do.”
He looked surprised but shook off the emotion quickly. “Good.”
His voice was rich and deep, his tone showing he was no stranger to commanding. “I give you my word that your daughter will have safe escort.” He climbed the front steps, growing larger with each one. When he stood even with them, his shoulders were above her nose.
“Thank you, sir.”
In all her life Anne had never heard Philipa sound so meek. She turned her head to stare at the woman, stunned to see such deception being played out. Philipa’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Now, Mary, mind your duty and greet your lord respectfully.” A flicker of temper appeared in her eyes. Anne knew that look well.
“My lord.”
Keeping her voice low, Anne lowered her head, remaining there for a long moment.
“My lady.”
He held out his hand, the palm facing up. A quiver went through her as she stared at it.
Eve must have felt the same quiver when she faced the serpent.
Philipa gave her a pinch and she placed her hand into his. With controlled strength, his fingers engulfed her hand. His large hand completely capturing her smaller one, he pulled her toward him, his eyes trying to peer through her veil. The fact that he could not seemed not to be a reason to linger. He turned, leading her down the steps. One of his men stood with a mare, holding it firmly as the earl walked her to it. Grabbing her skirts in order to lift her foot to the stirrup, Anne gasped when his hands unexpectedly grasped her waist. Her feet quickly left the ground as he tossed her up onto the back of the mare. His men sent out a cheer, their voices chuckling in the morning air. The earl flashed her a grin that transformed his face into that of a boy for a moment before it faded back to the confidence of a man. He watched her grip the front of the saddle and adjust her hips so that she was balanced on the horse side fashion.
“Mount.”
He bellowed the command as he swung up on his own mount. The horse was coal black, its eyes flashing.
“I saw him on a black steed…”
Anne lifted her eyes to the man on the horse. He wrapped the reins around one powerful hand, commanding the horse expertly. His eyes were focused on her, trying to penetrate her veil as his kilt rose up to show his legs. They were just as sculpted as his arms as he clasped the horse between his thighs. Wheeling about, she stared at the sword strapped to his back. Bonnie’s words sent a shaft of apprehension through her.
“You’ll have a baby before next harvest moon.”
She mustn’t.
There had to be a way to avoid it. The man holding her reins kept them, mounting his own horse and pulling hers along. She shivered as the household waved good-bye to her, calling out good wishes. She stared at the wide backs of the men in front of her, each one powerful. Their leader radiated strength as he rode back through the gates. Her mare followed, gaining speed as they cleared the outer wall.
