The Crimson Lady (30 page)

Taking her hand and raising it to his lips, Braedan pressed a kiss there before saying in a husky voice that resounded through her soul, “I would consider myself the most fortunate of men if you would let me stay by your side, Fiona Byrne, to laugh with you, mourn with you, learn from you and cherish you for the rest of our lives together—no more the Crimson Lady, but instead the one, true lady of my heart. Ah, my love, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Fiona wasn’t sure that she could speak at first, so full was she with love for this man. But she wanted the world to hear what she was feeling as well, and so, laying her palm gently against his cheek, she looked up into his eyes, smiling through the tears in her own as she whispered, “Aye, Braedan de Cantor. I do accept your charge. I will marry you and spend the rest of my days finding ways to make you see the truth—that you are as much a gift to me, and that I do not want to spend another moment without you.”

The cheers rose up around them as, with a murmured, “God, I love you,” he pulled her to him, their lips meeting in a kiss of passion and promise that washed away all the remaining hurts of the past….

Cleansing them of all but the power of their love, as surely as if they stood together, embracing beneath the falling rain of a sweet summer shower.

Dandridge House
April 1293

B
raedan crossed the grounds to the main keep of his family home with long strides, hoping to find Fiona inside; the first of the violets they’d taken from the forest to plant in the old walled garden had come into bloom at last, their purple blossoms unfurled atop delicate stems. Smiling, he imagined how she would look when she saw how well they’d taken hold, clumped in patches within the fragrant herb garden they’d wrested from the barren bit of earth that they’d found when they’d come there a year earlier.

The entire estate had fallen into disrepair in the nearly two years that it had been empty before he’d regained it with the pardon granted him at Chepston Hall, and he’d felt discouraged at the extensive labor he knew it would
take to make it feel like a home again. But all through last autumn and winter they’d worked slowly at rebuilding the place, first with Richard, who’d lived with them before going off to squire for a year with Clinton Folville, then just he and Fiona, cleaning and repairing, bringing in new tenants to work the lands surrounding the estate, and filling the house with laughter and light.

It was coming to fruition, he thought, happiness swelling in him as he took the steps up to the main floor of the house three at a time. Dandridge had become a home again, thanks to Fiona and—

The sound of giggling burst through the open doors of the solar at the top of the staircase, and Braedan stopped just outside, wanting to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside before going in himself. He peered around the door, a flood of tenderness washing through him at the sight of Fiona, crouching on the floor, playing with Elizabeth’s plump and rosy-cheeked son, who was now just more than a year old.

It had been an unexpected boon, finding the babe as they did nearly three months after their release from Chepston—the result of a persistent search, aided by some of the new information that had been uncovered during the sheriff’s investigation into Draven’s corruption. Now neither they nor Richard could imagine what life would be like without the happiness brought by this child, who already showed signs of his mother’s gentle disposition and sunny smile.

Our lives are truly full of blessings, he thought, taking the last few steps into the room and going over to sit on the floor near Fiona and little Adam. She smiled up at him when he came in, and he told her about the violets; accepting with a kiss the tiny bunch he offered her, she
promised to go and look with him as soon as Adam went down for his nap. Then she took the tiny wooden cart she’d been pushing with the child and sent it scooting a bit away so that he would crawl after it.

“Look at that,” she said, smiling. “I don’t think it will be too long before he’ll be walking.”

“Aye, he’s growing bigger and stronger every day,” Braedan murmured, sliding behind her on the floor, letting her lean back against him as he cupped his hands around the lush, curving fullness of her belly. “As is this little one,” he added, another swell of fierce joy stabbing through him. Their child moved under his touch, the sweetness of that life yet another miracle that neither of them had expected after all of those years Fiona had believed herself barren.

A cozy fire crackled behind the grate, warming them as they watched Adam play, and Fiona sighed with contentment. “I love you, you know,” she murmured, sliding her palms over his hands.

“And I you, Fiona—with my whole heart and soul,” Braedan replied, after a moment moving to stroke his fingers up her back to her neck, kneading the tight area along her spine.

“You should rest more, love,” he murmured, kissing a trail up the delectable skin behind her ear and eliciting a happy groan for his efforts. “You seem tired. Have you been doing too much again?”

“Perhaps just a little,” she admitted, “although it is natural, I think, to feel tired this close to the babe’s arrival.” Closing her eyes, she nestled back into his embrace. “Sitting like this with you makes me feel much better, I confess.”

He held her close, letting the sweet vanilla scent of her
that had so captivated him from the very beginning fill his senses; Adam chortled again, knocking the wooden cart toward them, and Braedan grinned and rolled it back, enjoying the boy’s squeal of delight before looking down at Fiona to watch the light flicker over her beautiful features. After a moment she smiled, too, her mouth curving in that way that never failed to make him want to kiss the corners of it before plundering the sweetness of its depths. In a voice gone husky she said, “Now that I’m thinking of it, however, there is one other thing you could do that would make me feel even better than I do right now.”

“What is that?”

“Tell me again how much you love me.”

Smiling, Braedan shifted her in his arms so that he could kiss her, before brushing his palms over the swell of their child again. “More than the heavens could encompass and with everything that I am,” he murmured, relishing the rightness of that feeling in his heart, as well as the sound of her soft, answering sigh. “And I’ll tell you again and again, Fiona, as often as you like…because from now until forever, my darling, I love you.”

P
rostitution in the Middle Ages was a fact of life, legalized in many places, and accepted if not always condoned by the Church. According to the practical mentality of the time, male carnal urges could not be denied: Without release, it was believed that many unmarried men would resort to forcing themselves on the wives, sisters, and daughters of their communities. A different outlet needed to be found for them, hence the sanctioning of the
stewes
.

Most cities had their own ordinances and laws governing the practice of prostitution, and London was no exception. Whenever possible, I tried to remain true to what my research revealed about the
stewes
of Southwark, with the exception of the law forbidding common women from going about in public without striped hoods; that law did exist in certain of England’s coastal cities, but not in London itself. The London street names
used are, however, authentic, as is the mention of the Tabard Inn, which was an actual place in medieval Southwark; some of you may recall that inn as the spot from which the travelers set out in Chaucer’s
Canterbury Tales
.

In addition to using factual place names, I attempted to replicate as closely as possible thirteenth-century attitudes toward criminal activities and prostitution, incorporating details from actual court cases. For example, the element concerning the outlaws’ choice of either paying an exorbitant fine or signing themselves over to the crown as mercenary warriors is based in truth; the granting of pardons in exchange for military service seems to have been a fairly common practice throughout the Middle Ages, with some career criminals committing heinous acts and receiving full pardons for subsequent service several times over.

In fact, the actual man upon whom I loosely based several of my outlaw characters—one Eustace Folville—was, with several of his brothers, the leader of a notorious and violent gang that committed many horrible crimes, including kidnapping and murder. He received death sentences and then was later pardoned based on service to the crown some six different times over the course of his life. The Coterels were also an actual outlaw gang from the Midlands, and reading about them and the Folvilles served as part of the inspiration for the imaginary bandits I created in my story.

For those interested in reading about the real outlaws, as well as about the laws of the Middle Ages regarding criminal activity and prostitution, I can recommend three texts:
Common Women: Prostitution and Sexuality in Medieval England,
by Ruth Mazo Karas,
The Me
dieval Underworld
, by Andrew McCall, and
Pleasures & Pastimes in Medieval England
by Compton Reeves. All provided a good overview of their topics and were quite accessible in terms of style and format.

Finally, I’d like to offer a few words about the strange concoction of herbs that Fiona mentions in connection with the elaborate ruse Draven dreamed up for use by the Crimson Lady and her customers. That mixture, too, is based upon research indicating that in centuries past, certain combinations of ingredients were discovered and used by those dabbling in the black arts. It was applied topically as a paste or swallowed in a liquid, with hallucinations resulting soon after. It was in this way, apparently, that some of those accused of and tried for witchcraft confessed to flying over barns and visiting other members of their community in their bedchambers late at night: The drugs made them believe that that was exactly what had happened. At some point within the last couple of decades, a professor and his assistant at a university in Massachusetts apparently stumbled upon one of those old recipes; they were able to re-create the mixture and document its effects—results which support the hypothesis stated above.

However, while all of the research was admittedly fascinating, the writing of Fiona and Braedan’s story engrossed me far more. If any two characters deserved a happy ending, they did, and I truly enjoyed every moment of time I spent as I followed them to that well-earned conclusion. I hope that you did too. As always, thanks for coming along on the journey.

—MRM

My sincere gratitude to:

Gayle Callen, for sitting in a hotel room with me in New Orleans and brainstorming until we found the perfect moniker for my heroine…

David and Marion Reed, for their page-by-page critiquing and for coming up with just the right suggestions when I needed them…

Annelise Robey and Meg Ruley, for unfailing professional support and for sharing their immense talents with me…

And Lyssa Keusch, for, as always, working her special kind of magic on the raw material I give her and doing it with a smile, no matter how busy she is…

Thank you all.