A Time for Love

  She opened her eyes to find her father staring at her. He pursed his lips and shook his head meaningfully. Anne had no trouble understanding the unspoken message.

  Do not accustom yourself to this, my girl.

  Anne felt Amanda’s hand on her arm. Her foster sister leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  “I vow we’ll see him thwarted before a fortnight is out.”

  Anne nodded, grateful for the distraction. She knew that not even Amanda could manage such a feat, but at least thinking on it allowed her to turn her thoughts away from Robin.

  But she hoped in whatever bed he found himself at present, he loitered with several handfuls of happy, persistent bedbugs who would cause him to cry out with anything but pleasure.

  2

  Robin of Artane was not a man to take the enjoyment of his pleasure lightly.

  So as he wallowed in the aftermath of a well-earned bit of the same, he savored it as fiercely as he had the first time he’d felt the like. He closed his eyes and relished the sweat pouring down his face, his limbs trembling, and his heart beating so hard in his chest, he thought it might burst free. The mighty sense of victory won, of challenge vanquished, of his considerable skill used to its fullest; truly, could there be anything more satisfying? Could he have but fallen asleep at that moment, he might have found a decent rest for a change.

  A pity he found himself but standing in the middle of the lists with three layers of mud and dung on his boots, and not abed with a handsome wench.

  Unfortunately, such a sorry state seemed to be the extent of his good fortune of late.

  But Robin wasn’t a man to shun what fortune came his way, so he kept his eyes closed and enjoyed the smell of sweat, leather, and dung. Things could have been much worse.

  The savoring, though, never lasted as long as he might have liked, for there was always another conquest to be made and his pride would not let him rest idle. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes to wipe away the sweat, then looked at the cluster of men standing near him. At least he had a clutch of them where they couldn’t scamper off across the fields. Such, he supposed, was the happy part of loitering at his brother’s keep in France. The less-than-pleasing ingredient in that stew was that since Nicholas found himself comfortably ensconced in one of his own halls, he was reluctant to leave it to seek out the pleasures of warring. Robin had given that his best efforts cajoling, bullying, and brandishing his sword—but to no avail. Nicholas had his feet up before the fire inside, several handsome wenches attending his every need and a soft chair beneath his backside. Robin suspected he might have more success prying an entire complement of nunnery inhabitants from their clothes than managing to separate his brother from his comforts.

  Damn him anyway.

  Robin knew he could have made his own way at any time, but Nicholas was, after all, his family and there was something to be said for having family about.

  Even if it came at the price of a good battle or two.

  He scowled. There was no sense in complaining, for it would serve him not at all. He turned his mind back to the matter at hand and hoped it might be enough to soothe his foul mood.

  “Another,” he said hoarsely. Perhaps he had spent too much of the afternoon shouting at the fools in his brother’s garrison. His own men had been exhausted much earlier in the day. As a result, there were few men left to stand against him. It did not bode well for a successful evening. “Sir Guy, come face me and let us see if you are as womanly as your fallen comrade.”

  Sir Guy drew his sword and came at Robin with a curse. His skill was great, but Robin kept him at bay easily. Years of fighting, either for his king or for himself, had honed his instincts until he likely could have fought with his eyes closed and his mind numb from drink. He countered each of Guy’s strokes without thinking, watching his opponent closely, waiting for the first show of weakness or hesitancy. He waited longer with Guy than he had with Guy’s predecessor, but the moment came eventually and Robin took full advantage of it, knocking Guy’s sword from his hand and putting the point of his own sword over Guy’s heart.

  “Peace,” Guy said heavily.

  Robin stepped back. “Another.”

  And so it went until there was no one left for Robin to fight. He looked about him and swore in frustration. It looked as if he might be finished for the day. But at least he had aught to hope for on the morrow. Despite his chafing at his confinement, he did enjoy the luxury of constant training more than the uncertain sport of war. Battles were never as consistent as he would have liked. There was too much time spent traveling from place to place, waiting for the sieges to flush the quarry out, listening to his men celebrate afterwards, and not having the stomach to celebrate with them.

  Robin resheathed his sword and turned his thoughts toward supper. Perhaps a quick meal would give at least one or two garrison knights time to recover. He might have a bit more sport yet before he sought his bed—alone, as seemed to be his lot.

  It was truly a pathetic state of affairs.

  He strode back to his brother’s hall. He realized he’d flattened his squire only when he stepped on him by mistake.

  “Mindless babe,” Robin said, hauling the lad of ten-and-six to his feet. “Watch where you’re going.”

  “Aye, my lord.” His young cousin, Jason of Ayre, backed up a pace and bowed hastily. “Forgive me, my lord. Lord Nicholas waits within with a message from Artane. I believe ’tis from your mother and the tidings are evil—”

  “Evil?” Robin echoed. He pushed Jason out of the way, unwilling to wait for his squire to divulge more. He ran to the hall, leaving Jason to follow or not, as he would. His heart tightened within his chest painfully. The saints only knew what sort of disaster had befallen his family. He never should have stayed away so long. There was no good reason for him to have remained in France.

  Actually, there were two good reasons for the like, but those were things he never thought on if he could avoid it.

  Robin slammed the hall door behind him and looked for his brother. Nicholas stood near the fire with a piece of parchment in his hands. Robin strode over to his fair-haired sibling and took the letter away.

  “I wasn’t finished,” Nicholas protested.

  “You are now,” Robin muttered.

  He read the epistle only far enough to learn that Montgomery was grievously ill before Nicholas snatched it back from his hands. Robin didn’t fight his brother. Whatever else was to be read there was likely concerning the family and those were tidings Robin had no stomach for at present.

  It was guilt, he knew, that pricked at him so fiercely so as to keep him from reading about home. After all, it would have behooved him to have made the occasional appearance at Artane so that the villagers might recognize him if something were to happen to his sire. Even worse was that his father had been sending for him repeatedly over the past few months. He should have gone back before now.

  But return he hadn’t and that left him with little heart for tales of home. He preferred to let Nicholas pass on what news he deemed important.

  He had heard, through Nicholas’s reading of their mother’s previous letters, that Montgomery had been wounded. Robin had assumed the men would recover, but apparently he’d been mistaken. Though his parents would likely survive the loss well enough on their own, perhaps it was time he returned home for a small visit. He would pass a bit of time with his father and see how his family’s keep had withstood the wear of the past few years. He could also see to his own holdings. Aye, there were several things he could do whilst he tarried for a few days in England. Perhaps the sooner he went, the sooner he could leave.

  “We should go,” Robin said with a sigh. “And likely within the fortnight.”

  Nicholas didn’t look up from his reading.

  “Oh, make haste with the bloody thing, would you?” Robin demanded.

  Nicholas ignored him.

  Robin clasped his hands behind his back and stood with his backside to the fir
e. At least he might be warm for a moment or two whilst he contemplated the many mysteries of life and how he seemed to be caught up in a goodly portion of them.

  There was, for instance, the mystery of his brother. Robin looked at his sibling and scowled. How sweet it must be to have so little weighing upon one’s mind. Robin watched as his brother stretched his legs out and sprawled in his chair, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world. And just what cares could he possibly have? He wasn’t the eldest son.

  Nor did Nicholas’s parentage seem to trouble him. If he fretted over the fact that his father was heaven-knew-who and his mother a servant girl, he never showed it. And why should he? He was the beloved adopted second son of one of the most powerful lords in England. He had his own keep in France and other holdings in England that had made him a very rich man indeed. Women panted after him by the score and Nicholas somehow managed to avoid leaving any bastards behind him. Robin couldn’t understand it and couldn’t help but be irritated by it.

  Robin’s worries were so many, he couldn’t bring them all to mind in a single sitting. Even though he had been adopted by Rhys de Piaget just as Nicholas had been, he was heir to Artane and all that came with it. It was no secret that his sire was actually the late baron of Ayre. After Ayre’s death, Robin’s mother had married the captain of her guard, Rhys of Artane. For Robin there had been no question whether or not he would accept Rhys as his sire. From the time he could remember, he had wanted to belong to Rhys de Piaget in truth. Even so, with that claiming had come heavy responsibilities, responsibilities Robin hadn’t shunned.

  He was constantly being watched by his men, other nobles, whatever royalty happened to be about—all waiting for his first misstep, his first sign of weakness, his first failure in the lists. It had always been that way and would likely continue to be that way far into the future. Not only did his own honor rest upon his performance, his father’s honor rested there too.

  It was a burden Nicholas felt not at all. If Nicholas didn’t show well in a tournament, which rarely happened, he shrugged it off and contented himself with a handsome wench. Robin could never be so casual about it. Every confrontation, every encounter meant the difference between success and shame. He couldn’t fail. He wouldn’t fail. He would die before he was laughed at again.

  “Now,” Nicholas drawled, “this is interesting.”

  “What?” Robin asked, wondering just what his empty-headed sibling might find to be noteworthy.

  “Mother sent word to Fenwyck.”

  Robin frowned. “Fenwyck? Why? It isn’t as if Fenwyck had any love for Montgomery.”

  “I doubt it was Fenwyck himself she was giving the tidings to.”

  “Who else there could possibly care?” In truth, Robin as well couldn’t have possibly cared, but Nicholas seemed determined to pursue this course to its end.

  “Why,” Nicholas said, looking up at Robin and blinking, “Anne, of course.”

  “Anne? What about Anne?”

  Nicholas continued to blink owlishly, as if he just couldn’t muster up the wits to speak with any intelligence at all. “I’m sure Mother sent word to Anne at Fenwyck.”

  Robin felt his belly begin to clench of its own accord. Hunger, obviously. He should have eaten something before he began to listen to his brother’s foolishness.

  Anne at Fenwyck? She must have returned for her yearly fortnight. Odd, though, that she would have left if Montgomery had been failing. She was fond of the old man.

  “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Didn’t you tell me what?” Robin asked. Odder still that his mother would have had to send word that Montgomery was failing. Anne would have been returning shortly just the same.

  “Anne’s been at Fenwyck since before spring.”

  Robin looked at Nicholas. It was all he could do to manage to smother his look of surprise. “Spring?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?”

  It was an enormous effort to keep breathing as if the tidings were fair to putting him to sleep.

  “Spring?” he repeated, cursing himself weakly for being able to say nothing else.

  Nicholas nodded, then turned back to his letter. “Her father is seeking a husband for her. He’s likely been showing her about like a mare at market, knowing him. Mother says that even if Anne is released to bid Montgomery a final adieu, she likely won’t be allowed to stay long. Fenwyck fair forced her from Artane with a sword at her back before—”

  Spring? Then Anne had been captive at Fenwyck for nigh onto half a year. ’Twas nothing short of a miracle that she hadn’t been wed already.

  And then another thought came at him with the force of a broadside.

  Anne had been at Fenwyck for half a year and Nicholas had said nothing.

  Robin tore the parchment from his brother’s hands, flung it aside, then hauled the dolt up and shook him.

  “When did you plan to tell me?” he shouted.

  “Tell you what?” Nicholas asked calmly.

  “I thought she was at home, you fool!”

  “I suppose,” Nicholas said slowly, “that I didn’t think it mattered to you.”

  Robin suppressed the urge to slap himself. By the saints, what was he doing? The last thing he needed was to provide his lackwit brother with fodder for his romantic notions! He forced himself to unclench the fistfuls of his brother’s tunic he’d grasped, then took great care to smooth the fabric back into something resembling the flat business it had been before it had been assaulted. Robin stepped back and took a deep breath.

  “It doesn’t,” he said. “It doesn’t matter at all.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Nicholas asked.

  “It doesn’t matter to me where she is,” Robin continued. “It merely angers me that you haven’t told me all that Mother put in her letters.”

  There, that sounded more reasonable.

  “Well,” Nicholas said with a slight smile, “I suppose there is aught else I have neglected to tell you.”

  Robin braced himself for the worst. “Aye?”

  “I haven’t been as detailed as Mother has been in her demands to have us come home.”

  “No doubt,” Robin muttered.

  “She’s threatened to come to France herself and prod you from the lists with her blade.”

  Robin shuddered at the thought. His mother could heft a blade, ’twas true, and at times she managed to get it pointing in the right direction, but inevitably she came close to dismembering anyone she so hoisted a blade against. But Robin knew his mother very well, and knew her threats were not idle. Perhaps ’twas time he returned home, lest he force her hand.

  Indeed, there was no sense in not making every effort to return to England as quickly as possible and see how things progressed at Artane. Aye, no sense in not doing that as quickly as possible. Who knew what sorts of adventures he might stop his mother from having? His sire would surely thank him for it. ’Twas yet another reason to leave with all haste.

  Nicholas started to sit back down, but Robin snagged him by the tunic before he managed it.

  “Pack your gear. We’ll leave immediately.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Mother will have need of us.”

  The corner of Nicholas’s mouth began to twitch. “Thinking to rescue Anne from her unsavoury suitors, brother?”

  “Father will likely have need of us as well,” Robin continued, ignoring his brother’s grin. “And I don’t like to dawdle whilst I travel.”

  “We’ll likely return home too late to see her, you know,” Nicholas said. “Unless we make great haste. And look you what great haste you seem determined to make.”

  Robin would have thrown his brother to the rushes and stomped that bloody smirk from his face, but that would have only added fuel to Nicholas’s pitiful blaze. “Hurry,” Robin commanded, then he strode across the great hall, ignoring what he was certain was naught but more witless babbling.

  Robin took hold of his squire on his way through the doorway.
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  “Bid the men ready themselves. We leave within the hour.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Jason said, nodding with wide eyes. “As you will.”

  Robin went back to the lists. Jason would see to their gear and Robin suspected he might be better served to stay out of the way. He began to run. He liked the way his body burned as he loped along the outer bailey wall. The blood thundering in his ears pleased him as well, as it almost succeeded in drowning out all his troubling thoughts. The saints only knew he would have little luck finding any wench to aid him in the task; his temper seemed to drive them all into Nicholas’s arms.

  He ran until he couldn’t catch his breath. Then he stopped and stood hunched over with his hands on his thighs, and sucked in great gulps of air. He didn’t want to go home, but he knew he had to. His mother would have need of him, his father too. Montgomery had been dear to them both. He hadn’t managed to get himself home to see anyone else buried in the past five years; perhaps it was time he made the effort now.

  Besides, the sooner he arrived, the sooner he would be of service to them both. A ship could be convinced to deposit him and his brother as far north as possible. That would save them the time of trying to ride north from Dover. Aye, that was sensible enough. If he decided to stay longer in England, his gear could be sent for.

  But he suspected he would only stay a fortnight or two, long enough to assure himself all was well, then hie himself off to court. Perhaps he would be exceptionally fortunate and avoid having to clap eyes on Baldwin of Sedgwick, who was no doubt still strutting about Artane with the same arrogance that had irritated Robin when Robin had been but a lad of ten-and-four. Aye, Baldwin would likely be wearing the same smile Robin had seen him wear when he’d reached out and broken two of Nicholas’s fingers. Robin could remember the smile surprisingly well, given the fact that he’d seen it through the mud dripping down his face and into his eyes.

  He consciously unclenched his fists, trying to ignore the fact that he’d tightened them in the first place. He could hardly help himself. He didn’t think on that afternoon when he could help it, but at times it caught him unawares.