Of course, none of it would have come about had the lady Gwennelyn not had such a long acquaintance with Anne’s sire. It had never become more than that, for there had been little love lost between them—despite Geoffrey’s boasts to the contrary.
There had been even less affection between Geoffrey and Rhys de Piaget, though Anne knew the two men counted each other as staunch allies. Anne had heard tales enough of their early encounters to know how things were between them, though neither the lord nor lady of Artane had disparaged her father. Her father, however, had certainly never been so polite in return. Fortunately, his relationship with Artane had continued to be amicable enough for Anne to have found herself deposited inside Artane’s then-unfinished walls, and for that she was grateful.
“Come on then,” Geoffrey said, taking her by the arm and starting toward the hall. “We may as well go inside.”
Anne felt her leg tighten with each step she took and she came close to begging her sire to stop. But that would have led to a recounting of her childhood follies, Rhys’s lack of attentiveness in allowing them to happen, and a host of other things she knew she could not bear to listen to. She looked up the steps and cursed silently at the number of people coming and going. Well, she had no choice but to make her way through the press if she wanted to find herself a chair. So she gritted her teeth and counted the steps that remained her until she could enter the great hall and sit in peace.
And then a form blocked her path. She looked up and flinched before she could stop herself.
“Why the haste, lady?” the knight asked. “Surely your journey here has been arduous.”
Anne suppressed a grimace. Of all the souls she could have encountered in this crowd, it had to be the lout before her.
“Well, here’s a man with a goodly bit of chivalry,” Geoffrey said, pushing Anne out of the way in his haste to clasp hands with the man. “I believe I should know you, shouldn’t I?”
The knight bowed politely. “Baldwin of Sedgwick, my lord. I am well acquainted with your daughter.”
Aye, there was truth in that. His acquaintance with her included naught but torment and she had no stomach for any more of it. Anne knew he wouldn’t dare insult her before her sire, but that hardly made being in his presence any less unappealing.
Her sire turned to look at her pointedly and she could just imagine what he wished to say. Look you here, you stubborn baggage. Yet another man who might be induced to wedding you for enough gold in his purse. Anne looked past her father to Baldwin. She was unsurprised to see him wearing his customary look of disdain. Perhaps he would be bold enough to mock her within earshot of her father.
But when her sire turned again to face Baldwin, there was naught but a polite smile there to greet him.
“Are you wed?” Geoffrey asked bluntly. “You are heir to Sedgwick, are you not?”
“Nay, my lord,” Baldwin said, shaking his head, “my brother is. And he has just recently been blessed with a son, William. So as you can see, I am well removed from any chance of inheriting.”
Geoffrey grunted. “Well, there’s much to be said for a little hunger for something better. My daughter’s not wed, you know. She has her flaws—”
“A weak leg,” Baldwin supplied.
“Aye, that,” Geoffrey agreed.
Anne could hardly believe they were discussing her so openly, and she had no desire to hear more. The saints only knew how blunt her father had been with all the other men he had invited to his keep for a viewing of her and her dowry. And as far as Baldwin went, she knew he would only become nastier in his discourse regarding her, for she knew with exactness what he thought of her. Hadn’t she heard the like for as long as she had known him?
She pushed past her father and walked away, though it cost her much to do so without limping overmuch.
The hall door opened before she reached it and Rhys himself stepped out into the crisp autumn air. Before Anne could say aught, Rhys had descended the handful of steps and pulled her into a sure embrace. The relief she felt was almost enough to make her knees give way beneath her. She was safely home. Perhaps beyond all hope she would manage to stay.
She heard her father’s complaining long before he came to stand behind her.
“It was foolish to come,” Geoffrey said, “but she insisted. She shouldn’t be traveling about with that leg of hers.”
Anne gritted her teeth. Rhys never would have continued to remind her of her frailty, nor would he have hourly warned her to have a care. Nay, he would have let her push herself to the limits of her pride, then merely picked her up and put her in a chair. Rhys was the only reason she had spent months learning to walk again after her accident; his approval was the reason she struggled each day past the limits of her endurance.
Or so she told herself. Her true reason for wanting to overcome her limp was something so painful she rarely allowed herself to think on it. The approval she sought was from someone who never looked at her twice when he could help it, who had earned his spurs early, then gone off to war. Nay, his was approval she would never have.
A pity his was what mattered the most to her.
Anne felt Rhys give her a gentle squeeze before he pulled away. Anne suspected that she’d never been gladder to see a soul than she was to see the one man who might possibly be able to save her from her sire’s ruthless marital schemes.
“A long journey, my girl,” Rhys said. “But the sacrifice means much. It grieves me, though, to give you the tidings I must.”
“See?” Geoffrey said pointedly. “I told her ’twould be for naught.” He snorted in disgust. “All this way for but a burying.”
Anne felt the noose begin to tighten about her neck.
“And not even for that,” Rhys said grimly. “We couldn’t wait any longer.”
“Then we surely won’t be staying long,” Geoffrey said. “I have plans for her at home, Rhys.”
Anne closed her eyes and prayed with all her strength. Would that some saint would take pity on her and provide her with some means of staying at Artane. Her fondest wish was to be watching her father ride back to Fenwyck from the security of Artane’s battlements. To be sure, she had packed an extra gown or two for just such a happening.
“Montgomery was very fond of Anne,” Rhys said. “I’ve no doubt it would have comforted him to see her again.”
“I don’t think—” Geoffrey began.
“Aye, well, ofttimes you don’t,” Rhys said shortly. “Go inside, Geoffrey. Gwen will want to see you.”
Anne watched her father hesitate, then consider. Apparently the lure of the lady Gwennelyn’s beauty was still a powerful one, for he grumbled something else under his breath, but went inside the hall without further argument. Anne took a deep breath, then looked up at her foster father.
“Are you well, my lord?” she asked.
Rhys smiled gravely. “Well enough. Montgomery was a good friend and he will be missed. He would have been pleased you came home, though.”
She was relieved to see he was bearing the loss well. Sir Montgomery was the last of Rhys’s original guardsmen to have succumbed to death’s grasp. He’d lost twins named Fitzgerald not two years earlier and that had been a grievous blow to him. To lose Montgomery as well had to have grieved him deeply.
“I am sorry to come so late,” she said.
“You couldn’t have known.” He tucked her hand under his arm and turned toward the stairs. “Now, what foolishness did your sire press upon you to keep you so long from your true home?”
“Suitors,” Anne said with a shudder.
“Poor girl. I can’t imagine he presented you with much of a selection.”
“He didn’t.”
“Leave him to me,” he said. “I know how to redirect his thoughts.”
Aye, to scores of bruises won during a wrestle, she thought, followed closely by Ah, that you could. But she said nothing aloud. She was but three steps from the warmth and comfort of the hall and that was task enough f
or her at present.
Once the last step was gained, the hall entered, and the door closed behind her, Anne could only stand and shake. She looked at the distance separating her from the hearth with its cluster of comfortable chairs and stools and thought she just might weep. Her pride was the only thing keeping her from falling to her knees. Rhys didn’t move from her side. She knew he would merely wait patiently by her side until she regained her will—and from that she drew strength.
But before she could muster up any more energy or courage, a whirl-wind of skirts and dark hair descended into the great hall and ran across the rushes. Anne braced herself for the embrace she knew would likely knock her rather indelicately onto her backside.
“By the saints, finally,” were the words that accompanied the clasp and kiss. “Anne, I vow I feared your sire would never let you from Fenwyck!”
Anne held on to her foster sister and sighed in relief. “To be sure, ’twas nothing short of a miracle that I am here,” she agreed.
Amanda of Artane pulled back and rolled her eyes passionately. “What dotards did he have lined up for you to select from?” she demanded. “None worthy of you, I would imagine.”
“And that sort of imagination,” Geoffrey said from where he appeared suddenly behind Amanda, “was, and no doubt continues to be, your mother’s undoing. You might be well to curb the impulse in yourself.”
As Amanda turned to face him, Anne suppressed the urge to duck behind her, lest the inevitable argument come to include her. Amanda was painfully frank and had no sense of her own peril. Anne was torn between telling her to be silent, and urging her on. Perhaps Amanda could convince Geoffrey that Anne was of no mind to wed as yet—especially to any man of his choosing.
“My lord Fenwyck,” Amanda said, inclining her head, “’tis a pleasure to see you, as always.”
“You’ve your mother’s beauty,” Geoffrey grumbled. “Unfortunately, you’ve her loose tongue as well.”
“Gifts, the both of them,” Amanda conceded. “Now, about these suitors . . .”
“I have chosen several fine men—”
“Likely twice her age—”
“You know nothing of it,” Geoffrey returned sharply. “And you, mistress, are well past the age when any sensible man would have taken you and tamed you.”
“As if any could—”
Anne waited for blows to ensue, but she was spared the sight by Rhys stepping between his daughter and Anne’s father.
“Enough,” he said sternly. “Amanda, see Anne to the fire. Fenwyck, come with me. You’ve had a long journey and I’ve warm drink in my solar. You can take your ease there.”
“He could better take his ease at Fenwyck,” Amanda muttered.
Anne bit her lip to stifle her smile as she watched Rhys lead her father off, but she couldn’t stop her a small laugh when Amanda turned and scowled at her.
“Oh, Amanda,” she said with a gasp, “one day you will truly say too much and find yourself in deep waters indeed.”
Amanda flicked away her words as she would have an annoying fly. “Did you but know all the things I think but do not say, you would find me to be restrained indeed. Now, come and sit by the fire. You’ll tell me all your sorry tales and I’ll weep with you. Then Mother will come, we’ll tell them to her again, and she’ll speak to your sire. You know she can convince him he’s a fool.”
Anne suspected that such a thing was even beyond the lady Gwennelyn’s powers, but a maid could still hope. At the moment, though, she sorely needed warmth and to sit, so she leaned on her companion, hobbled over to the fire, and sat with deep gratitude on something that didn’t move.
As Amanda had ordered, Anne’s tale was first told for her ears alone, then others joined to hear the horrors she had endured. The murmurs of displeasure, the cries of outrage, and the threats directed at her father were sweet to her ears and she found herself smiling for the first time in weeks.
She was with those dearest to her and, for the moment, she was free from undesirable suitors. The morrow would see to itself. After all, she had been released from her father’s hall and that was something she had been certain would only happen should she find herself leaving it thanks to an unwanted husband. Yet there she was, sitting comfortably by the fire in the company of those souls dearest to her heart.
It was as sweet as she’d known it would be.
The evening passed most uneventfully, with the family having moved to gather about the fire in Rhys’s solar as was oft their custom. Anne went with them and counted that a privilege indeed. Though others fostered at Artane, Anne found herself the only one of those so drawn into Artane’s intimate family circle. That was just another of the reasons Baldwin of Sedgwick loathed her, of that she was certain. He was Rhys’s kin, yet he remained without the solar door. Baldwin was, however, not the soul that took it the hardest. His sister, Edith, also had come to live at Artane and Anne suspected that such denial into the lord’s confidences and pleasures ate at her the most deeply.
But for now Anne need worry neither about Baldwin nor his sister, nor anyone else for that matter. She was home, for the moment, and that was enough. She sat in a chair next to Amanda and looked about her in pleasure.
Her foster parents sat close together, hands clasped, seemingly as content as they had been the first time Anne had seen them together. Their happiness was plain to the eye, as was their pride in their children. And why not? Between those they had laid claim to through adoption and those of their own flesh, they had a brood to be envied.
Anne looked at their eldest girl-child, Amanda, and felt her customary flash of envy. But by now, it was a gentle sort of yearning that somehow she herself might have been born with the beauty Amanda possessed. And it wasn’t only Amanda’s beauty that Anne couldn’t help but wish for herself; Amanda had a fire and spirit that Anne knew few women could hope to call their own. But long years of watching her foster sister had shown Anne that such spirit did not come without a price—namely Amanda’s rather vigorous disagreements with Rhys about how her life should progress. It was not an easy path Amanda trod, but Anne loved her just the same and was grateful for her friendship.
Miles was next to Amanda not only in terms of age, but where he sat. He looked very much like his sire, which meant he was powerfully handsome indeed. Where they differed, though, was that where Rhys was generally cheery in his outlook, Miles was brooding. Anne, however, found Miles very much to her liking for though his moods might have been gloomy, his wit was fine. She was happy he was home now that he’d won his spurs. She suspected he wouldn’t remain long, but she would enjoy him while she could.
Miles’s younger sister, Isabelle, was Amanda’s likeness in visage, but not in temperament. She was very sweet and as tractable as could be expected from having passed all her time in Amanda’s company.
The youngest children were twins, male-children. Fortunately for the rest of Rhys and Gwen’s children they had come last, else Anne suspected none of the other children would have been conceived. Their mischief was nothing short of breathtaking and she suspected that they had given Rhys most of the gray in his hair.
But even with the children there, the scene before her was incomplete. Missing were Artane’s two eldest sons, but that was nothing unusual. Robin and Nicholas had squired at another keep, then come home briefly after earning their spurs at the tender age of ten-and-nine. Then had come the decision to join the crusade. Nicholas had never truly wished to, but Robin had convinced him ’twas their duty. The time spent had been fruitless as they had arrived just in time to find the defeated knights returning home. Robin’s exact reasons for having wished to go were still a mystery. All Anne knew was that she hadn’t seen Artane’s heir in over five years.
Though that could change at any time. Anne knew Rhys had sent for his son three months earlier. The saints only knew what was keeping him away. Anne had heard the servants speculating that afternoon about the like; the reasons bandied about were everything from h
im being prisoner in some angry father’s dungeon—for having despoiled his daughter, no less—to his having traveled to the Holy Land to collect himself a harem. Anne cared for none of the speculation, so she had quickly retreated from the kitchens.
All she knew was she probably wouldn’t have one last sight of Robin before her father sold her to some man likely twice her age who cared nothing for her.
Anne shifted as her leg began to pain her. At least here no one gaped at her as she did the like. At Fenwyck, sharp eyes marked her slight limp, men stared at her, as if they couldn’t believe her ugliness was so apparent, her father’s wife and her daughter treated her as if she were helpless, far too helpless to do anything but sit in the solar and sew. Coming to Artane was a relief, even though it meant coming back to the site of former disgraces and back to stones that whispered childish taunts as she passed. She could ignore those well enough, especially if she managed to avoid Baldwin of Sedgwick. What was more difficult was not being able to go anywhere inside the walls without knowing that Robin had been there before her. His ghost haunted her, awake or dreaming.
She wanted it to stop.
Or did she?
At present, she wasn’t sure what would be worse. But what she did know was that even if she were forced to spend the rest of her days with memories of Robin tormenting her, it would be a more tolerable fate than to find herself packed off with her trunks to some unknown lord.
But that would come later. For now it was enough to be home and to listen to the familiar sounds of the family with whom she had grown to womanhood. Far better to think on what was happening around her than to speculate on what might be happening in France. The saints only knew what mischief Robin was combining at present. It likely entailed some woman or another and the sounds that would result from that were ones Anne had no desire to hear.