My True Love (16 page)

She smelled of roses or some other flower that bloomed in spring. An errant beam of sunlight touched her hair and revealed the colors rampant in one lock. Red and chestnut and a shade almost blond. Strange that he’d never studied hair with such intensity before.

She was silent in sleep, her pose one of deep peace. Or like one enchanted. A small smile wreathed her lips, as if a dream gave her amusement. He wanted to touch her there with his fingertip. Measure the softness of a mouth that lured him to kiss it. Once he had done so, and she’d startled him by touching her tongue to him.

He sat with her, silent and charmed by the moment. The breeze blew more softly, as if it feared to wake her. Even the sound of the river was muted, cautioned by the wind.

A curious protectiveness invaded him. A feeling he’d never had for a woman. For his people and his land, yes. For a building, Langlinais. But never for one woman.

What would it be like to share his life with a woman? To shelter her and protect her? To take delight in doing so? To know that with her he might speak of things he feared with as much ease as he did those he enjoyed? He had felt that ease with few people in his life and never with a woman. Even his friendship with Sarah had been one of polite restraint. He had never stepped beyond the boundaries with her. Never wished to. She was a sweet and well-mannered girl who sparked his humor occasionally and his kindness always.

He had knelt with this woman in the midst of a dangerous storm and not known his peril. Instead, he’d been swept up into the passion of a kiss.

She’d been subjected not only to his lust, but to the absurdities of his thoughts. He’d wondered about her when he should have been making arrangements for Langlinais to be protected against the possibility of early summer floods. He’d thought about her when he’d been postponing his return to Oxford and to wherever the king would send him and his troops.

He could not stop thinking about that moment etched in elemental detail, when the bright blaze of lightning had illuminated her upturned face just at that moment he’d lowered his lips to hers.

How many nights had he lain awake, wondering what it might feel like to have her place this hand on him? To feel the strength of her fingers and the pads of her fingertips, the gentle line of nail on his skin? Too many nights to dismiss the memory of it lightly.

There, a confession that threatened the very essence of his honor.

He’d dreamed of her. Not only in his fever, but in his restless sleep. He’d pored through his books in Latin for phrases that she would wish to learn. Had found himself transfixed by the idea of reading to her from Catullus. The moment tempted him.

ille, si fas est, superare divos
,

qui sedens adversus identidem te spectat et audit

dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis

eripit sensus mihi
.’”

Words he whispered as softly as the breeze around them.

“What does it mean?” she asked softly.

She sat up, pushed her hair away from her forehead. Her ribbon had become dislodged, and she looked around but could not find it. He did not offer to pull it from his pocket and give it to her.

He should have noted that her breathing had changed. Instead, he’d been captivated by a hand, the curve of her cheek, his errant thoughts.

Still, there was nothing to do but to tell her. “He is close to a god, he who sits and watches her. And listens to the sound of her laughter as he is seated there. A rival to a god with such delight.”

“How beautiful.”

“The poet was very ardent about the woman he loved.”

He found himself oddly discomfited. Not because he’d been discovered quoting Latin. The poets at court had often waylaid a likely conquest to regale her with verses they’d toiled over. Poetry with more libidinous intent than his selection. His awkwardness came not from his words but his thoughts. For those alone he should probably have been slapped.

“
Ní hí an bhreáthacht a chuireann an crocán ag fiuchadh
,” she said with a smile.

“Gaelic again?”

She nodded. “Beauty will not make the pot boil.”

He began to smile, eased from the moment by her teasing look.

“We Scots rarely talk about love,” she said. “Most of our proverbs have to do with practical matters.
Fearr an mhaith atá ná an dá mhaith do bhí
.”

At his look, she smiled. “Better one good thing that is than two things that were.”

“Latin scholars were the same. Most of them spoke of the great questions of life, mortality, and immortality. The nature of man.”

“Are you certain?”

She tilted her head and looked at him. There was a mark on her cheek, a tiny scratch, and he pressed his thumb upon it. A gesture he did not know he was going to make until he did so.

He pulled his hand back, concentrated on her question, not on the fact that her cheeks now bloomed with color.

“Do you mean have I read all there is? No.”

“Did you never think that certain thoughts were not deemed important enough to save?”

“A censor who decreed that certain words be considered sacrosanct and others discarded?”

“Or a great many, century after century,” she said, sitting up completely. There was a peace still on her features, as if she’d not wakened fully yet. But she debated with him. Yawns and riddles and the ability to kiss him until his blood burned. A unique woman.

She frowned at him as if she knew his thoughts had drifted. “Juliana’s work might not have survived if it had been found two hundred years ago. Perhaps one of your ancestors would have decreed it a silly thing, a woman’s thoughts unworthy to save. Or a man of the Church might have seen it as heretic and tossed it into a fire.”

“If that were true, then Catullus and Ovid would not have survived.”

“Perhaps,” she said. The look on her face indicated her thoughts. A wall stopped her logic. He did not help her across it.

“You do not lose arguments easily, do you?”

She laughed. “What you see as stubbornness was only survival at Dunniwerth.”

He smiled at her, charmed again.

She yawned and placed her hand over her mouth. She’d not been embarrassed to have found herself leaning against him. In fact, she’d not been shy about the fact that he’d discovered her asleep.

A fascinating woman. Another time, perhaps, he would have celebrated the fact that fate had put her in his life. Now he could only wish that circumstances were different.

Chapter 14

T
he ale was hearty, the cheese sour but balanced by the surprisingly sweet bread. She would have eaten rocks, Anne thought, if it meant sitting beneath a tree with him and enjoying these moments.

He opened the codex, found his place.

“Are we nearly finished?”

“There are about ten pages,” he said. “But the writing is cramped.”

He sat there, lit by the sunlight that filtered through the leaves.

She reached out one hand to forestall him before he began to read. “How do you say ‘warrior’ in Latin?”

“
Proeliator
.”

“Not a pretty word.”

“Not a pretty occupation,” he conceded.

“What will you do after the war?”

He smiled. “A question that is forbidden on the battlefield. Did you know?”

She shook her head.

“A superstition. Never question another soldier as to his future plans. That way, fate is not challenged.”

“Otherwise he may not survive?”

“So it is said. But we are not on the battlefield now, and I’ll answer you,” he said. He sat against the trunk of a tree, looked up at the canopy of branches above them. “I want to rebuild Langlinais,” he said. “One day I’ll replace the windows, erect walls where there are now only piles of bricks. I’ve plans to have the gates at both ends of the baileys restored.”

“A monumental undertaking,” she said.

“Perhaps a foolish one,” he conceded. “As it is, Langlinais can barely withstand another disaster. But it seems a shame to let crumble into dust something that has stood for so long.”

“It is your heritage.”

He smiled. “My father used to say that nobility is my heritage.”

“He sounds like a very wise man,” she said.

He raised up one knee, placed his right arm upon it. He looked off into the distance. “I used to think him uncommonly so until I realized that he took credit for the thoughts of other men. He was fond of quoting historians and philosophers. Except, of course, he claimed their words as his own. It is easy for a rich man to give away a loaf of bread. But for a poor man to do the same is an act of true generosity. Give any man a country, and he can be a king. Narrow his kingdom to a hovel, and you’ll discover the nature of the man. All repeated wisdom, borrowed words. I remember the first time I read something he was purported to have said. It was a great shock.”

“How sad,” she said, “that he did not trust his own thoughts.”

He glanced over at her, the expression on his face one of surprise.

“There is a woman at Dunniwerth who does the same. If she hears a tale that sounds intriguing, then she retells the story as if it is her own. As if her life is not worthy enough without adventure and she must collect the experiences of others in order to enhance it. Perhaps she simply wishes for people to like her. Or admire her.”

“I doubt my father cared about the opinions of others. Except for the king, perhaps. But he never understood that the king had little use for him. As long as Charles received Langlinais loans from time to time, he was content to have a fawning earl in attendance.”

“Why do you fight for him when you so obviously dislike him?”

“My opinions do not matter,” he said, smiling. “If all men refused to fight unless they admired their leader, there would be nothing but anarchy.”

“Or peace, Stephen.”

“I suspect this same argument has been made between men and women since before Juliana’s time.”

He opened the codex, effectively changing the subject.

“‘There were those who would judge Sebastian, although he was a force of goodness and kindness. Judgment is in itself a form of evil, that one would condemn without kindness, seek to destroy without understanding. But his horrible secret became the basis for the miracle of Langlinais. It is a sad thing that no one will ever know it transpired or that Sebastian of Langlinais was touched by God.’”

“A miracle?”

His frown echoed her confusion. “I’ve never heard of a Langlinais miracle,” he admitted.

“‘I have come to wonder and to marvel at the workings of Almighty God, that He might have granted me this joy. Too many years separated us, but they were years of preparation, each for the other. I would have loved him regardless of his secret and blessed the fact of it.’”

“Do you think Sebastian loved her as much as she loved him?” she asked softly.

“I’m certain he did,” Stephen said. He glanced over at her. “You’ve never seen it, have you?”

“Seen what?”

“Come, and I’ll show you how much Sebastian loved her.”

He stood and held out his hand for her.

A few minutes later they were at Langlinais. He led her through a doorway and to a place she’d never before seen, not even in her visions.

The timbers that had once supported the roof of this chamber had long since crumbled to dust. The back wall had caved in upon the hall, and bricks lay in an orderly pile, a monument to destruction. There was rubble in the middle of the chamber, bits of stone and wood that looked to have fallen from the second floor.

But there were clues as to what purpose this chamber had once served. A few shards of ruby-colored glass hinted at a once magnificent stained glass window. The placement of an altar rail was still marked in the stone floor.

Anne followed Stephen through the chapel to where a large statue dominated one corner. A woman and a man stood together, their figures life-sized and carved in white stone. She was lovely, the first blush of youth having left her face, but the hint of it was there still. Her smile appeared to hide a secret, the twinkle in her eyes hinted at mischief or a deeper humor. The man who stood beside her was dressed as a knight. His face reminded her of Stephen’s, his smile gentle and restrained, but the expression in his eyes matched that of his companion. His fingers held the woman’s in greatest gentleness, the gesture, even carved in stone, one of deep reverence.

“This is Juliana,” Stephen softly said. “Their graves were moved, but this effigy must have been too heavy to transport. It’s remained here ever since their deaths.”

“She was very beautiful,” Anne said, awed.

“I wonder if she was truly so or if Sebastian only saw her that way. He had the effigy carved after her death. It is said that he described each feature in such loving detail that the sculptor fashioned her likeness exactly. Then, when it was done, Sebastian went to their chamber and lay down to die.”

Anne touched the statue’s arm, almost surprised to feel the cold stone beneath her fingers. Juliana’s smile was so real, the look in her eyes one of such transcendent joy that she looked almost alive.

“Sebastian showed his love by this statue, while Juliana did so with her chronicle. Deeds versus words,” she said softly.

“Perhaps it is the way of men and women,” he said, turning to her.

“Except for poets,” she said, “who would give the lie to that theory.”

“Who is Alexander Scott?”

She glanced at him, surprised.

“You mentioned him that day and said it was not appropriate poetry for the moment.”

She could feel her face warm.

“It was something I heard,” she said.

“When you were silent and listening?” he teased.

She nodded.

“Tell me.” His smile dared her, and she was not above a challenge.

My body sal fulfil
,

Whatever her disease
,