Yearning Heart (17 page)

“She left no word, my lord,” Malvina said. “I went to awaken her the morning, and she was gone. She took only two garments. And Tor.”

“Tor?” The great hall shook with the thunder of Stephen's rage. Had he not forbid her to ride the stallion lest she get hurt? “She took the stallion?”

“The steed has returned, Sire,” Jonan, the manservant spoke timidly. Mayhap the safe return of Tor would lessen the master's anger.

Stephen looked over the servants gathered to welcome him home, their faces expectant, albeit fearful. He was a good master, but all knew his temper, not often shown. Since the arrival of Lady Rebecca two years before, he had been given to less displays of rage. But Rebecca had left the great stone house, and they did not welcome the emptiness. Nor, it seemed, did their master.

With a final roar of displeasure, Stephen climbed the steps to his bedroom.

Rebecca gone? How dare she leave a good husband for no cause? When he returned her to his house, she would know not to soon disobey him.

He stood outside his bedroom but did not enter. Across the hallway was the room Rebecca kept for herself. Once he visited her with regularity but since her illness, he had stayed away. Slowly, he moved to the closed door, turned the knob, let it fall open and walked inside.

There was only the bed with its shucked mattress, a stool and small rocking chair Aubin had made for her. A chest for clothing.

Near the cold fireplace, he saw an object and bent to pick it up. A bone pin she used to hold the long braids of blonde hair. He stood in front of the closet with clothing he had purchased for her when she journeyed with him to London for the royal holiday festivities. The lovely gown of blue velvet to enhance Rebecca's eyes. How light she had been in his arms. How hot-blooded she had been that night as he made love to her. Vibrant, alive, something to behold.

She had become a woman.

He stumbled to the bed and sat down, moving his hand over the pillow, beneath the coverlet that held Rebecca's soft fragrance, of outdoors, of honeysuckle she loved. With a curse, he rose, shoved his hands beneath the mattress and threw it into the floor. With a wild bellow, he reached for the rushes piled beneath the bed for softness.

Papers flew through the air.

Paper. Vellum. Expensive vellum. Page after page had been spread beneath the mattress so as not to wrinkle. He sat on the floor and gathered the pages. They were faded from much use.

He read. Rebecca Grinwold, Suffolk School. Miss Emilie Goodfield. The year of our Lord, 1163. Rebecca would have been thirteen that year. He turned the page.

When he read the last page of the manuscript, Stephen laid them on the rushes as they had been, replaced the mattress atop them, and spread the dainty coverlet.

He, too, had read the romance of Homer. He, too, had nurtured romantic dreams and had found them in Mary. When she died, his romantic dreams died, too. Or so he'd thought.

Until now.

A hoarse moan was born deep in his chest.

Rebecca's search for love spilled into the much-read manuscript. She did not know that he, too, loved but had denied her that knowledge because it seemed another weakness among all weaknesses he suffered. He did not let her know he grieved for the lost child—that he worried over her. His selfish despair, his neglect, drove her away from him.

Where would she go? She had no money, no possessions save those he had given her. She knew no one in this desolate country outside Glastonbury.

Shaking with grief, anger and helpless rage, he strode from the room, bellowing for Aubin to make ready for a journey.

* * * *

Wide fields cultivated and cleaned for spring crops bordered the road to Gloucester. Stephen didn't see any of the preparation that would result in crops by which he might collect the king's taxes next year. He thought of the day he took Rebecca away from Grinwold, her small, scared face, big eyes stretched to hold back tears, hoping Lady Elizabeth would speak up in her behalf so that the big blond stranger did not take her away from all she knew and loved.

Where is she now? Is she hungry? Has some stranger done her harm? Rebecca had been sheltered all her life. Not loved, but sheltered.

Stephen shivered.

It was nearing dusk when Aubin drew the horses to a stop in front of Grinwold. Two years of wear showed on the untended shutters over the front windows. And on the gabled roof with its cracked tiles. The steps needed repair, the hinges rusted on the heavy door.

Stephen's fist shook dirt loose from the porch beams. His lips curled in disgust at seeing Grinwold rotting into waste because Sir Oliver gambled away money made on his vast land holdings.

He raised his fist once more when the door opened and a woman stared at him. A gray wimple hid her hair, but her face was old, it's aging not from years but from work or worry or both. Gray lips pursed with distrust.

“My lord?” The voice whined the question at Stephen.

“I am Sir Stephen Lambert. I would see Sir Oliver.”

The flabby chin quivered. “Sir Stephen? Aye, ‘tis Lady Rebecca's husband.” The whine became almost a voice. The bundled figure retreated, holding the door open, and curtsied. “I will fetch Lady Elizabeth.”

So. Rebecca is here, he thought with satisfaction. The pain inside him retreated, and anger began to build. He would teach her to run away and cause him worry. Impatiently, he strode across the room, and then whirled as footsteps sounded behind him.

Lady Elizabeth came towards him, hands extended, a smile lighting her pale face. Blue eyes, faded where Rebecca's were dark, looked behind him as though for someone else.

“Sir Stephen,” she said.

He bowed over her hand as he took it in both of his.

“Lady Elizabeth.” He straightened and frowned down at her. “I would see Rebecca.”

“Rebecca? But Rebecca is your ... Rebecca ... is not here.” Her voice faltered. I thought mayhap you had brought her to visit ere we left for Genoa. We travel within the fortnight.”

He was not listening. “Rebecca is not with you?”

“I have not seen Rebecca since her visit a year hence. Since before she ... the baby.” Her hands twisted together. “Why didst think she was here?”

He did not like telling Lady Elizabeth, but he could not avoid it.

“Rebecca left Glastonbury while I was in London. She did not leave word as to her journey.”

Lady Elizabeth sank down on the velvet chair.

“Why? She seemed happy with you. Mayhap someone took her.”

The two years since he had last seen Lady Elizabeth had not been kind to her. The powder for enhancing her features had settled into the lines of her face and resembled crevices of powdered stone on Moon Cliffs, Stephen thought unflatteringly.

“Rebecca was not happy since she lost the child. I asked if she would have you visit her, and she told of the Genoa journey you were taking with Sir Oliver. She would not trouble you.” His anger disappeared, and he was only weary. “Is Sir Oliver about?”

“He is over to see Richard to instruct him what is to be done while he is away. He will return ere darkness. You must stay the night.”

He did not want to remain overnight, but it would be an insult to Sir Oliver to leave so quickly. He owed the man nothing, but he was his father-in-law. Gentlemanly manners demanded bending a bit. Too, he was tired. He had driven himself long and hard to get to Grinwold thinking he would find Rebecca.

“My driver will require lodging and food also, my lady,” he said.

“Nora will see to him,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Come. I will show you to a room.”

* * * *

Sir Oliver came as the sun struck low clouds over the ragged roof of the outbuildings. The man was rounder than when Stephen last saw him, and he moved with a graceless limp. His waistcoat hung open and a huge belly sagged over dusty black pants. From a distance, Stephen could hear his grunts and heavy breathing, mark of a man not accustomed to working.

“Sir Oliver.”

Sir Oliver stopped, a thick hand propped on his knee, as he made ready to aid his slow progress up the low hill from the stables. Dark eyes, sunk into folds of pink flesh, darted over the straight figure in front of him. He recognized Stephen, smiled, pink lips stretching tightly over his teeth.

“Sir Stephen. ‘Tis surprised I am.” He looked beyond his son-in-law. “Things are well, I trust?”

“If you mean Rebecca, I fear not, my lord,” Stephen said.

“Aye. ‘Tis trouble the girl has been since birth.” He shook his head. “I thought perchance marriage would do her well.”

“Where is Rebecca, my lord?” a quiet voice said, and Stephen looked behind Sir Oliver to a younger man. He stepped closer. “I am Richard, Rebecca's brother.”

Ah, yes, her favorite. The gentle farmer, blond hair long on his shoulders, deep blue eyes so like Rebecca's.

“Where is she?” Richard repeated his question.

“I know not. I thought mayhap she would be here. She left Glastonbury while I was in London on business.”

“Let us go into the house,” Sir Oliver said. “I am tired and thirsty.” He stepped past Stephen. “Come.”

Stephen's eyes met Richard's, and the younger man grinned, lifting his hand to point to the path his father followed. Oliver led them into the room where Stephen had first met Rebecca. The furniture was shabbier, the rug not too clean.

“A drink, Richard. See to Stephen's wishes.”

Richard poured whiskey into heavy glasses and placed one in front of Sir Oliver and handed the other to Stephen. He took nothing for himself but looked from one man to the other.

“What say that Rebecca is not with you?” Richard said.

Stephen retold the story. He did not wish to hear complaints from Rebecca's family. Indeed, he blamed himself enough without adding more.

“Rebecca was happy when here,” Richard said. “Why would she leave without notice?”

“Loss of the baby affected her much, and she has been unhappy since.”

Richard eyed his brother-in-law.

“She loved you, Sir Stephen. Mayhap you did not return the love and thus she left. Let her go if you cannot love her. Rebecca needs, aye deserves, love she never got at home.”

Oliver growled in protest, but Richard heeded him not.

“Leave her to whatever life she has chosen.”

Stephen slammed the glass on the table. “I need no such advice from you, Richard. You know not what I've done for Rebecca ....”

“Nor what you've done to her.”

“I did not mistreat her. You are mistaken in thinking thus.”

“There are ways of mistreating other than beatings as Papa often did. Love not returned, to a romantic such as Rebecca, is punishment enough. She rightfully expects love from you. She needs a gentle love, not one of convenience.”

Richard's words burned into his soul. He had thought to be gentle, mostly, but he had not told Rebecca of his love for her. Richard was the only name his wife ever used when she talked of happier times. She was right about her brother: He returned her love without demands on her.

He wondered what Rebecca felt for him, her husband. No matter what Richard said, she did not love him was plain although there had been times he thought she might harbor warm feelings for him. He had not asked, he had not said he loved her. She had left him, which was his answer.

Stephen departed Grinwold as angry and uneasy as when he had reached Rebecca's home place.

* * * *

Bells rang in every church. In each fireplace a log fire burned, sending warmth and light through the halls thronging with revelers. Laughter and jokes and light-hearted jostling cheered the revelers.

Rebecca stood in back of Hugo and Margaret as they waited to be presented to the queen. She wore the gold-threaded jongleur suit with a hood covering her hair, her eyes hidden behind a gold-sequined mask. She was to perform as a dwarf as Margaret suggested.

Queen Eleanor would not recognize Lady Rebecca Lambert from a year ago.

Gerald stood beside Rebecca dressed in the red satin suit of a troubadour. He, too, wore a gold mask.

Rebecca's eyes swept the crowded hall, seeking the blond head of her husband above the others. She wanted to see him yet dreaded it. Suppose he was with the queen? Could she curtsy and bow and murmur greetings with his questioning eyes on her?

Several fortnights had passed since she had left Glastonbury. The road the minstrels traveled did not take them to cities where they would hear gossip about the wife of Sir Stephen Lambert. Mayhap he did not even see fit to report it. Mayhap he did not care enough.

Rebecca blinked and brought her eyes back to the activity in front of her. Her life was here—here in the company of troubadours and minstrels who entertained royalty. It was Christmas, and they were in the royal household to perform for Queen Eleanor and King Henry.

“Rebecca,” Margaret whispered. “Come.”

With scarcely a show of trembling, Rebecca followed Margaret and Hugo down the wide aisle towards Queen Eleanor and King Henry.

“Your royal highness, Queen Eleanor, and his majesty, King Henry, presented to the Royal Troubadours of Troyes.”

Her turn came and Rebecca curtsied low in front of Eleanor, murmured the required holiday greeting, and moved behind Hugo and Margaret. Her heart beat rapidly in her throat, and her breath came in short gasps.

The queen's deep-set gray eyes had looked straight into Rebecca's for a long moment. Was it her own fright that caused her to think Eleanor stared a bit more than ordinary? Or was her disappointment at not seeing Stephen making her more aware of the queen's attention?

King Henry glowered as though blaming Rebecca for his forced stay on the throne near his queen. Perchance he would prefer even now to be in Woodstock with his lover. Rebecca could not remember the name of the woman gossip said lived in the halls, which had once been the queen's favorite.

She turned away from King Henry's probing gaze.

She was disappointed. But suppose Stephen had been there? She might have grown so agitated as to stumble or not be able to utter a single word. She glanced quickly down at her small body encased in the flowing suit. No one could determine if she were man or woman.