My True Love (12 page)

“‘I have been earnest in my attempts to transcribe these words and diligent in my efforts. May God bless me for my attempt and forgive my omissions and errors. I have made no judgment of these pages, only a faithful rendition of them. My task is to impart the truth of these matters to all who come after us, who would know of the true story of Langlinais Castle and the threat that stands between us and lasting peace. Would it be that this chronicle were never needed. That all that is Langlinais will remain fast and without peril.’”

Her gaze never left his face as he read Juliana’s words. His voice was low and resonant, enunciating the words slowly as he translated.

“‘Sebastian, Lord of Langlinais, and I married when we were children. I was sent at the age of five to live at the convent of the Sisters of Charity. It was almost within the shadow of Langlinais. It was there I was to be taught the skills of chatelaine of such a great castle. I dutifully learned those tasks I needed to know in order to fulfill my role as the Bride of Langlinais. I found my true joy within those convent walls, the skill of scribe that I use now to place these words upon parchment.

“‘I heard that Sebastian left Langlinais to go on crusade. I was content enough to remain at the convent and wait for him. But finally he returned, and I prepared myself to leave the convent. Such a summons never arrived. But years later I was sent for and arrived at Langlinais. It is at this moment that my chronicle begins.’”

Stephen was correct. There was a rhythm to Juliana’s words. As if she sat before them now and told her story. Not unlike Gordon at Dunniwerth, with his warm voice and his way of changing the tempo to make the tale more dramatic.

“Was that normal, for wives to be sent to convents?”

He looked up. “Only the better born, I think. Langlinais was considered a major demesne in England at the time. To be its chatelaine would require a great deal of skill and work.”

He returned to the translation.

“‘My first meeting with Sebastian frightened me. My lord husband wore a monk’s robe and remained in the shadows. Sebastian wished a marriage that would never be one in truth. There was such an air of mystery and sadness about him that my heart was touched even as my mind was set to questioning. I did not know why he was so careful never to come close. Not then.’”

Anne leaned her arm on the desk, propped her chin in her hand. Not only was Stephen’s voice alluring, but the story he read was fascinating. What must Juliana have felt? Why had her husband worn a monk’s robe?

Stephen glanced over at her, smiled as he read.

“‘My lord knew that I was lonely and agreed to meet me for conversation. We sat upon the floor of the east tower in the darkness, speaking of our lives. Mine, having been relegated to the convent, was measured by the hours. Sebastian’s had been marked by great deeds. I learned how he had become a knight, why he’d studied in Paris. We talked of my translations, of Ovid and Catullus and men whose words still sang with beauty over the years. But he would not speak of his time on crusade or those years when he did not summon me to his side.’”

“Who are Ovid and Catullus?” Anne asked.

Stephen leaned back in the chair, glanced away, then back at her. The look on his face, she suspected, was not unlike her own when she did not wish to answer a question directly. Or when the answer was something she was certain would not please. Her smile widened as she watched.

“My tutor would have said godless men, for all that they were learned in their time.”

That did not explain the hesitation of his answer. She remained patient, her gaze never leaving his face.

meae deliciae, mei lepores
,

iube ad te veniam meridiatum
.’”

“What does it mean?” she asked softly.

He looked straight at her as he answered. “My sweet Ipsithilla, my delight, my darling, let me come to you at noon today.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” he said softly. “Catullus goes on for several lines, describing what, exactly, he will do to sweet Ipsitilla when he arrives at her house.”

She felt the warmth rise to her face. She looked down at the desk. “Oh.”

“His work held a great fascination for me when I was younger,” he said wryly. “He was not forbidden, but his words led me to think of things not related to my studies.”

“And now?” A dangerous question. Especially when the room had grown so still. As if even the gentle breeze dared not brush against the window-panes.

He smiled and released her from suspense. “Now war takes precedence over individual wishes.”

He bent to his task again.

“‘One day I happened upon Sebastian at his prayers. A faint light from a candle threw my thoughts into disarray. He was not wounded nor was he deformed by battle. My husband was blessed with a manly beauty that awed me. I did not understand why my lord had hid his appearance, but he would not discuss it. Nor why our marriage must remain one of such distance, and why he was so careful never to touch me—’”

A knock on the open door startled her. Stephen, however, merely looked up, his expression one of calm acceptance. But then, his thoughts were probably not as forbidden as hers.

It was William, and with him another of Stephen’s regiment attired in the blue uniform that marked them as Langlinais men.

“What news, James?”

“We found Penroth, my lord. He is encamped two days away. But his force is not large. No more than fifty men.”

“Outriders?” Steven asked.

James nodded. “But there are rumors of a large force to the north. At least twenty miles away.”

Stephen glanced at Anne, then nodded to James. An effective dismissal, she thought. Done with the ease of a man accustomed to command. But he did not dismiss his men. Only her.

“Perhaps we should continue this another time,” he said, rising.

She smiled, a cool, polite smile. One of understanding. Acceptance. It did not, she hoped, show one tinge of regret or one bit of fear. But she felt both at this moment.

In a move that would have pleased her mother and amused Hannah, she left the room silently. The questions she ached to ask were held tight behind smiling lips.

Ian stood in the shadows watching. He had protected Anne for so long that it was second nature to do so. Fool, he chided himself. That was not why he waited here. He wanted to know if his suspicions were correct.

She left the chamber, finally. Her dress was not askew, nor was her hair mussed. The Englishman had not dishonored her then. But there was a look on her face that displeased him.

It was obvious that she felt something for this Earl of Langlinais. Ian wished he’d never seen this place, or agreed to bring her here. Did she realize why he’d done so? Not because she was his laird’s daughter. Not because she had asked him to, wording her request in such a way that it was near to a command. But because she was Anne.

His Anne.

From the beginning, he’d known something was wrong. There was more to this quest than she’d told him. The moment she’d seen the Earl, everything had begun to change. She’d had a look on her face he’d never before seen. As if this Englishman made her smile inside.

Ian’s mouth twisted in a grimace. She’d been so enchanted with the man that she’d not noticed that the search for Douglas still continued and that Ian was gone most days from this English place. He’d not found his clansman. Only one reason to curse this journey.

The other soured in his stomach. She treated him as if he were her brother. Or worse. A servant hired for the day. She sent longing glances toward the Earl’s chamber, and sought information as to his injuries, but not once asked how he fared.

He turned and walked away. He was determined to leave this place called Langlinais the moment Hannah was able to travel. Perhaps once she was home again, Anne would see what had been in front of her eyes all along. A man who loved her. A worthy man. A Scot.

Chapter 9

“I
knew I would find you here,” Richard said, looking around him.

The castle of Langlinais was only a shell of what it had been once. “Don’t you have something less strenuous to occupy you?”

“You’re more solicitous than Betty,” Stephen said, bending to retrieve another brick.

“And you more stubborn than your father,” he said, frowning. “I used to wonder that you didn’t sleep in this miserable place. “Why do you keep picking it up, Stephen? It will just keep falling down.”

Stephen smiled at his friend.

“Because it does keep falling down, Richard.” He bent and picked up a piece of stone and iron that had become dislodged from the upper wall, moved it to the side. Working with one arm kept the job small and the results infinitesimal.

He didn’t bother trying to sort through the debris caused by the destruction of the north tower. It had only been a matter of time until it had fallen. Although Langlinais had been nearly submerged when the Terne flooded two hundred years ago, the north tower looked to have had extensive renovations performed on it long before then. The intervening years had only made the damage worse. His efforts now were directed at the ruins of the great hall.

He looked around him, studying the further destruction that had occurred in the past two years since he’d been home. It was not just the lightning that had done damage. The back wall of the chapel had crumbled, and the last of the retaining wall had fallen into the river.

Unlike the old abbeys and monasteries that dotted the countryside, the stones and bricks of Langlinais were not taken to use as building materials for new construction. The villagers of Lange on Terne acceded to his wishes. Even if they had not, the castle was rumored to be haunted. A notion that made Stephen smile.

“At least your father didn’t have a chance to destroy it,” Richard said, looking around him.

“He would have, if he’d known it mattered to me,” Stephen said.

He had long since tired of trying to understand his father’s antipathy. It had existed for itself, in its own right, separate and apart from anything Stephen might say or do. Perhaps it was based on something tangible, or perhaps his father had simply been one of those people who are miserable and wish the world to share their misery. Or perhaps he’d wished for more sons to follow him and been discontented with the one he’d had. A thought that had often led Stephen to wonder why his father had not remarried.

Stephen had chosen to ignore Randall Harrington with the same alacrity with which his father had ignored him. It was not difficult after all; ten months of the year his father lived in London.

His father would, on his rare visits, discharge one of the servants because of some personal idiosyncrasy that annoyed him. He’d once dismissed a footman because he hadn’t liked the man’s eyebrows. He’d decree that certain rooms were to be redecorated or closed off and others used instead. He would terrorize the servants with his shouts, demand full meals for his many guests at any hour of day or night, and be generally abusive to anyone who questioned his many dictates.

Yet, for all his petty tyrannies, Randall Harrington had built a church for the town of Lange on Terne and sponsored several boys as apprentices in trade. He’d given dowries to more than twenty girls whose families could not afford them, and endowed at least that many boys with funds to begin their own careers in the army. It was a lesson in life that Stephen never forgot. Even a man filled with vices has some virtues.

On the day he was informed of his father’s death, Stephen was fourteen years old. He’d brought his father home to be buried in Lange on Terne. His spirit had rebelled at placing him beside his mother, but he’d done so for her sake. She had, after all, loved the man.

He had become, when he was fourteen, the heir to a notable fortune, immense property, enormous responsibility, and a heritage that stretched behind him for six hundred years. He’d rehired those people his father had discharged in the past year, fired his steward, paid off his mistress, and proceeded to behave in a manner not given to fourteen-year-old boys.

His childhood had left him on that day, and in its place a more somber man had been born. But there were times when a hint of his childish voice could still be heard from some place deep inside where memories dwelled.

“I wonder what he would think, Stephen, to know that you’ve prospered despite him,” Richard said.

“He would, no doubt, claim it his influence, Richard.”

The two men shared a look of unrepentant humor.

“I did not like the man, Stephen, but then, you knew that well.”

“Everyone in the county knew you disliked him, Richard. I think he believed you and my mother were childhood sweethearts and that she’d never been reconciled to their marriage.”

“What romantic tripe,” Richard said, smiling. “Mary Lynn and I were friends, nothing more. She adored your father, was delighted to be a countess. If anything changed her mind about their marriage, it was him, Stephen, not me.”

Stephen grinned, his mood lightened by Richard’s blunt honesty. There was little hypocrisy to Richard. The more unpalatable truths he often delivered cloaked in humor. With his friends, however, he simply dispensed with the humor and said what he thought.

Richard moved from his position against the wall, idly brushing dust from his sleeve. “You love this place, don’t you?”

Stephen looked around him as if viewing Langlinais for the first time.

His father had wanted to tear the castle down brick by brick, sell the stone. Had he never noticed the carved embrasures or the fact that the bridge resembled a Roman aqueduct?

Langlinais seemed more than brick and stone and crumbling mortar to him. There was something magical about this place, something that gripped his imagination and always had.

Over the years he’d examined the ruins of the chapel, studied the foundation, unearthed the stones and brick until he had begun to understand how Langlinais had been constructed six hundred years earlier. One day, he wanted to put the whole of it back together, to experiment with different types of clay and ash in order to duplicate the type of mortar originally used. A secret dream, precious now that there was little time to do so.