The Everlasting Covenant Read online

  The Everlasting Covenant

  Robyn Carr

  This novel is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents relating to non-historical figures are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of such non-historical incidents, places or figures to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1987 by Robyn Carr

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  PART 1

  April 12, 1460

  Chapter One

  There were real battles going on elsewhere in England and across the world while Anne watched the contest of arms from her parents’ pavilion. Lord Shay of Wymount Castle, a bountiful estate north by only a short distance from Pontefract Castle, the king’s residence, hosted this tournament. It was the first one Anne had ever seen, and it was the most exciting day of her life. The challenges had been many, the knights were magnificent, and the fighting was at fever pitch. If her family knew who had captured her heart, she would be stripped and flogged, and this caused her sly, secret smile.

  In fact, if it were known that Anne had cast her heart at all, secretly or otherwise, she would probably be punished. She would not even have been allowed to attend the tournament, but her father, Lord Gifford, had insisted. “Let her see a bit of the world before she goes into seclusion,” Ferris Gifford had insisted. It was assumed that Anne Gifford would go to the convent when an appropriate one could be found. Thankfully, such negotiations took time, and her family was busy.

  Anne jumped and cheered as two opponents crashed together and were immediately unhorsed. These two, mercenaries from Burgundy, came to fight and collect prizes, and they resumed the battle on foot with broadswords.

  “Madam, their horses are being readied.”

  Anne’s head turned as she heard her father alert her mother, Marcella. But she did not look in the direction of the Gifford knights who were preparing to ride in the melee. Rather, she cautiously stole a glance toward the deFrayne troop. And she saw him. Yet she had to quickly move her eyes away, looking toward the opposite end of the field where her father’s troop, led by her oldest brother, Sir Quentin, were mounting their steeds. Color marked her cheeks, for Dylan had looked at her! He was so bold and foolish. Although it made her heart sail, she was sometimes afraid of the risks he was willing to take.

  But Dylan had said, “They do not watch us or think of us, my love. You are the second-born daughter and I am the third son. We are the babies of these arguing lords and when we flee together, no one will even know we’re gone.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she observed Marcella. Her mother had not noticed the direction of Anne’s gaze, for Marcella was eyeing the deFrayne pavilion with cold contempt. Nothing would be said here, but words were hardly necessary. The deFraynes had slain Marcella’s father, a knight of the Gifford house, in a battle some years past, just as Giffords had slain deFrayne knights when there was an opportunity. There had been no killing for fifteen years, but the blood lay fresh in the minds of each family and Marcella seemed to hate them the most fiercely, especially Daphne, Lady deFrayne. Lady Daphne’s three sons were not only older than the Gifford sons, they were achieving more fame as knights. The jealousy Marcella felt was deep.

  Anne looked toward Divina, her older sister. She was standing, waving, and blowing kisses toward the Gifford troop. It was understood that Divina, though nineteen and past her prime, should do whatever necessary to attract a husband. A betrothal, Lady Gifford specifically advised, that would not cost the Gifford family too much in dowry but would substantially improve their influence at court. Anne nearly laughed when considering the instructions; such an order would be difficult for even a comely maid to fulfill, and Divina was not very pretty.

  She glanced at her father and her heart nearly stopped as she met his eyes. He focused on her face, his intense brown eyes were fluid and knowing. She was almost frightened, for a moment she wondered if her father could read her mind. But Ferris Gifford looked away and slowly exhaled.

  Somehow I must make him stop such madness, Anne thought. Their families had been enemies since her great-grandfather’s time, and whenever they met there was a fight. Tension had not eased over the years, and as their families grew in size the battles became larger. Marriages were arranged according to loyalties, to lend more soldiers and knights to the volatile feud. When a man pledged to the Gifford family, he swore his arms to aid them against the deFraynes. And this had begun many years ago, when Henry of Bolingbroke, son of John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, was engaged in usurping King Richard II. Therefore, it was the fault of the deFrayne family, since they supported the Lancaster usurpers, while the Gifford family had sworn fealty to King Richard.

  Or was it the fault of the Giffords, who had not truly supported a king in just over sixty years, since the Lancaster rule began? Anne shook her head. She was never quite sure. But one of the great-grandfathers had killed the other, and so she must not love Dylan. In fact, she must love no man. She must satisfy the needs of the church, as one member of every noble family should. She suspected that this plan would save the family time and money, for the convent’s dowry requirements were modest and there would be one less Gifford maiden to have wed. Her mother had said as much. And Anne did not think that Marcella would sacrifice a son to the church even if she had borne only boys. She had plans for her sons that included earning wealth and prestige.

  The clarions sounded as the field was cleared and the deFraynes prepared to go against the Giffords. The spectators were hushed in expectation, for this never failed to be an exciting match. The horses churned up the dirt as they charged and the field became a confusing press of horses and men, a dozen on each side, some still astride, some felled, and all who were watching began to cheer. Anne rose that she might see, but it was difficult to place Dylan. The green of Gifford paired off with the blue of deFrayne, but with helms in place and horses being hurriedly removed from the field by pages and squires, there was only the mesh of blue and green, like an angry sea, amidst the crashing of metal and the clashing of broadswords.

  Soon the combatants gave themselves room as they broke off into individual contests. Everywhere there was a couple, blue and green, green and blue. To the delight of the crowd the center of the field was taken by the eldest Gifford, Quentin, and the eldest deFrayne, Wayland. Anne looked hard for a peacock feather, difficult to find at such a distance, but finally she spied Dylan. He was engaged against one of the Gifford men-at-arms, but thank God, not one of her brothers. Ah, he fought beautifully. His movements were graceful and swift, his arm mighty. The Gifford man fell to one knee quickly, and Anne knew none of her father’s knights was weak. It was a proud moment for Dylan.

  There was a gasp from her mother, and Anne turned toward Quentin and Wayland. A knight in green livery struck Wayland’s back. Sir Wayland swirled abruptly, not crushed by the blow but angered indeed, and began a battle with the second Gifford son, Bart. Sir Quentin paused, lowering his broadsword either to keep the contest fair or in stunned surprise. But even Quentin’s pause could not rescind Bart’s unchivalrous attack.

  “The deFrayne bastard tricked them,” Marcella snarled. Anne stared at her mother in startled wonder. Had she not seen? It was Bart who dishonored himself, Bart, who was not as large and strong as either Quentin or any of the deFrayne sons. Marcella should be mortified by her son’s public disgrace, how could she defend him? How could she possibly fault a deFrayne? But the judge did not share Marcella’s prejudice and was riding onto the field to call the point against Bart and keep the contest fair. “They will not inter
fere! My lord, rise and protest the interference,” Marcella demanded of her husband.

  But there was no need to protest, for Dylan had beaten his man and ran full speed to the mismatch of contestants and quickly took on Quentin, the larger and stronger of the two. Broadswords, sheathed so that there would be no death at this match, clattered and sang as the warriors fought. The deFrayne men were gaining, beating down the Giffords, and Anne felt her heart in her throat. She rose again, unconscious of her movements, her hands clutching the sheer veil that covered her long, unbound hair. Tears gathered in her eyes against her will. She had never before been so frightened. She chewed her lip, and a tear slid down her cheek. But Quentin fell. He fell and could not rise.

  Anne suddenly realized she was standing and nervously twisting the cloth of her veil. She sat down abruptly and looked around guiltily. Again she met Ferris’s eyes. But what was that glowing there? Pain and sympathy? Anger? She flinched as he reached across Marcella’s skirts to squeeze his youngest daughter’s hand. “You need not fear for your brothers, petite. They will not be hurt.” His voice was gentle and soft.

  “I am not afraid, Papa,” she said. “But for a moment I forgot it is only a contest.”

  “Aye, little one. Only a contest.”

  “Papa ... Bart--”

  “Bart only went to his brother’s defense, which is as it should be,” Lady Gifford snapped, her icy blue eyes full of hate.

  Lord Gifford sat in stony silence, staring at his wife. Then he turned his eyes back to the field, where the contest was being awarded to the deFrayne family. Sir Dylan, one of the youngest combatants on the field, stretched out a hand toward Sir Quentin to help him rise, but the gesture was refused. Without looking at Marcella, Ferris spoke. “Perhaps you should speak to your son about his honorable defense of his brother ... since he does not often listen to me.”

  Lady Gifford neither replied nor looked at her husband, but her jaw worked and her eyes were narrowed toward the deFrayne pavilion, where Dylan’s mother stood, smiling and waving at her victorious sons. Lady deFrayne was a slim beauty, still vivacious. Anne suddenly wondered if her mother was mostly jealous over Lady deFrayne’s good looks.

  All the Giffords were silent through the remainder of the jousts. It was as if they acknowledged, though they could not admit, that at least one in their troop had fought without honor. A late challenge pitted Sir Quentin against Sir Wayland, and in this joust Quentin won fairly, restoring some of the prestige to the Giffords and lessening the weight of the losses that would have to be paid to the deFraynes. But Anne felt no relief, for she saw how strong was her mother’s hatred for that family. And her mother, more than her father, seemed to rule the house.

  A huge feast followed, the victors seated above the salt and the defeated taking their lesser stations at tables far back in the grand hall. Torches were lit, acrobats and jugglers roved through the keep, minstrels crooned, dancing ensued, and food enough to feed all of London was spread about the trestle tables in the hall and yard. Friend and foe raised wine-filled hanaps in celebration, merrymaking ensued, and the tension of the day was eased. Still, it was not the gaiety that caused Anne’s enlivened spirits. It was the sparkle in Dylan’s eyes from across the crowded room that filled her with happiness. Neither fight nor feast could divert her attention from her chosen knight.

  Anne Gifford was a new face among the crowd, and her fresh young beauty drew stares. There were whispers among young knights and older lords. She wore her best gown, a rose-colored velvet with silver trim, and a transparent veil of the same hue drew attention to her lustrous dark hair. Her cheeks glowed with excitement, and her eyes, dark and luminous, were filled with mystery and allure. Since no one in her family had ever made much of her looks, she did not realize that she was comely. To some who looked at her and wondered about her name, she was also very desirable.

  As darkness surrounded the festivities and the men fell into their cups, Anne was aware of a scuffle. She backed around a stone stairwell in the common room just out of the way of two angry knights.

  “The insult will be well met on the field,” she heard Bart cry.

  Peeking around the corner, she saw that her brother had pushed Cameron deFrayne, who was larger and stronger, against the wall.

  “Insult?” Cameron returned, and by the sound of the reply, the men had indulged in equal amounts of wine and ale. “Truth, Gifford, you are a coward!”

  “We shall see who is a coward when we test the matter with blades,” Bart challenged.

  The argument was quickly noticed by other men, who backed away from the two combatants. To judge by the eyes of the spectators, they hoped for a fight. Gifford against deFrayne always made an interesting fray, whether in a legitimate tournament or like this.

  “Hah, as if you could lift a blade,” Cameron flung back.

  Bart lifted his arm as if to deliver a punch, but Sir Quentin pushed his way through the crowd and grasped Bart’s raised arm at the wrist, pulling his brother away.

  “Wine makes men brave,” Quentin blustered. “Drink makes for clumsy contests. Let us meet at dawn, refreshed, and consider whether we need to prove ourselves further. Our host deserves better than a mined hall.”

  Bart, temporarily subdued, glared at Cameron. “In the morning then,” Cameron said.

  Quentin, firmly holding his younger brother’s arm, pulled him aside and through the gathered revelers. Anne pulled back into the stairwell. Quentin pushed Bart up against the wall within earshot and gave him a tongue-lashing.

  “Fool,” she heard her eldest brother say in a fierce whisper. “Is it not enough to act like an idiot on the field in front of hundreds of people? Must you goad them the more?”

  “They were awarded their points at my misjudgment,” Bart argued. “Why then need they insult me further? Is not payment for our losses enough?”

  “When the cups are full a wise knight turns his back on nonsense. I’m sure you said your share.”

  “How can you take their side?”

  “There is no side. But I tell you this, little brother, if you dishonor this family in such a way again, you will meet me on the field. Go find some woman to appreciate your loose tongue. I’ve had enough of battles for one day.”

  Anne leaned against the stone wall. Like Quentin, she had had enough for one day. If it had had any advantage, the argument had taken attention from her. She found her parents in discussion with Quentin and Bart and curtsied before them, asking to be retired with her nurse, Minerva.

  Old Minerva was relieved when she was excused, and Anne, being Minerva’s favorite, brought a large chalice of heavily spiced wine to their closet for the servant. Despite the noise that echoed through the keep, it was only moments before Minerva’s snores rivaled the shouts from below. And Anne quietly rose, fixing her quilts in a comfortable mound on her pallet. She pulled her dress over her shift, put her heavy chopines on her feet, and ran her fingers through her raven black hair.

  Lifting her skirts, she fled through the upper halls, down the backstairs, winding down, down, and down. This was a route discovered in daylight, but she held her breath the whole way, for these stairs were dangerously steep and dark and there was but one torch lit at the bottom. She went through the buttery where kegs of ale and casks of wine were stored, the sour aroma penetrating the room and causing her to wrinkle her nose. The rear door, used only for bringing in supplies and food, was locked from within, but it opened easily and the squeaking could not be heard above the din in the common room and courtyard. The moon was high and full and her way was well lit. The stable was dark and foul and the door to the back room creaked as she opened it, causing her to tremble anew.

  His arm came around her from behind and the moment she turned, his lips took hers. Her surprise lasted only a moment, and to her benefit, for her gasp left her lips parted and Dylan savored in the wine-sweet taste of her mouth. She pressed herself against him, holding him fiercely, holding him forever. Finally he released her mout
h, but only to gather greedy fistfuls of her hair and roam the softness of her neck and shoulder with his lips.

  “Anne, my love, my beautiful angel ...”

  “Dylan, this is such madness. We will both be killed for it.” But her protest was breathless, and she had come as he requested as she always did. “How did this begin, Dylan? Where does it end?”

  He held her back a bit and smiled down at her. He touched her nose with his lips. “It began when you snubbed me at the Lincoln fair, minx. And the next year, when the rain separated you from old Minerva, you were at my mercy in the gardener’s pavilion.”

  Anne’s eyes were moist with frustration and sadness. “A year has come and gone, Dylan, and a dozen times I have crept away from my family on some excuse to be with you. What is to become of us? I have never been so afraid as I was today.”

  “Afraid that I would win? Afraid that I would lose?”

  She began to cry as emotion spilled down her cheeks, although she wished to be strong and brave. When their moment finally arrived and her lips could touch his, the fear that she might never be in his arms again came instantly.

  Dylan held her gently, stroking her back, letting the tears come. He knew this was too much for her, but he could not abstain. Each time he saw her the longing became more intense within him; each time he touched her, he wanted more of her. And the poor little demoiselle, so in love with him, could not refuse these dangerous encounters. He wanted better for her, better for himself. But for now, this was all they had.

  “Please, Dylan, have pity on me. Take me away now ... tonight.”

  He chuckled ruefully and touched the graceful curve of her cheek. “Now? Carry you away from the tournament grounds? Do you think there are quite enough knights to come after us? Ah, my love, Lord Gifford would sound the alarm and every knight would mount up at the first call. A maiden, stolen from the lists ...”