The Everlasting Covenant Read online

  Her full bosom bounced and pressed against him, straining at the fabric of her gown, and she looped her arms around his neck. He was distant, still churlish. Did her welcome give him invitation to take her down the garden path to a secluded place where he could rend her kirtle in a single tear and devour her? Nay. Again he met with her sweet compliance.

  “You missed me?” he asked.

  She looked at him quizzically, caressed his chest gently, and gave a little laugh. “Kiss me,” she said. He obliged, covering her mouth in a searing, demanding kiss, thrusting his tongue between her teeth and embracing her with enough force to break her ribs. But her returned embrace was no tighter. He pulled back and looked into her eyes, and she smiled. “I know what you have on your mind, Brennan. Shall we go inside?”

  So accommodating, he thought, still insulted that she did not share his aching, burning hunger. When she was a child bride of six-and-ten he had not resented the fact that she merely accepted his lovemaking. But now she was a woman, a mother, and he no longer wished to spend all his time trying to woo response from her. Acquiescence was just a breath away from indifference in Brennan’s mind.

  “What are you working on there?” he asked, pointing toward her needlework. He ground his teeth. He struggled to cool his unreasonable anger.

  “I’m glad you asked me that,” she replied, “even though I know it is the last thing you care about. I know what you want, Brennan. Can I have been your wife this long and not recognize that familiar light in your eyes? Come,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him toward the tapestry stand. “We will meet your rutting ways in a moment, if you cannot await the setting sun.”

  “If you know my rutting ways so well, why--” He did not finish the question because of her soft laughter, a sound he loved.

  “Brennan, if you did not always return to me in this condition, I would wonder how much gold you were spending to keep your mistress happy.” She looked up at him, smiling, as though she not only understood him, but approved. He began to feel guilty. Many men had wives who abhorred their touch, and he complained because his own wife didn’t claw his flesh to ribbons in wanton desire.

  “It is only the beginning, understand, but it is going to be an enormous tapestry of many parts, and I intend to spend a fortune in making it.” A devilish gleam came into her lively eyes. “You may scold all you like, but I will finish it just the same. Once complete, it will be a jeweled theme of this garden of Ayliffe, and I intend it for my heir.”

  He touched the small completed portion of her project, already quite pretty. Obviously this portion was of the lake. He chuckled at the enormity of her idea. “Your heir? Do you think Sloan will be moved by this?”

  “No,” she agreed quickly. “I expect Sloan would much rather I get him a good horse and any sharp, dangerous-looking thing that will suffice for a weapon. I intend this for my daughter.”

  “Oh, do you? Perhaps we should get started on that immediately, in that case.”

  “So we have,” she said, looking up at him with that mysterious twinkle that belongs only to women a-breeding.

  “You are enceinte?”

  “I am a little disappointed in how long it has taken. It is certainly not due to your lack of interest, my lord. Just the same, I expected to have four children by now, especially since Sloan was obviously conceived with our first kiss.” She remembered, all too clearly, how she imagined she was holding her firstborn in her womb almost by sheer dint of will until almost Christmastide. And he had been a large baby.

  He touched her cheek tenderly. “You have longed for another child?”

  “I was quite embarrassed that I had not given you one every year. I wondered if people thought we contented ourselves with long hearthside conversations.” She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “You put younger men to shame, Brennan. Twas no fault of yours that I did not come with child sooner.”

  “My God,” he said, rebuffed. He embraced her carefully, tenderly. He couldn’t imagine what had happened to him along the road. Thirst? Hunger? Heat? He looked at her eyes again. It amazed him how alive her eyes became when she was with child. “Are you well?” he asked, that other look beginning to rise in his eyes again. Anne laughed at him.

  “I am in the best of health, my love. I will not be responsible for your surly moods for some time to come. Are you pleased?”

  He swept her suddenly into his arms, kissing her lips swiftly in spite of her squeal of surprise. He carried her into the hall, through the galleries to the stairs. I am a brute, he thought. An oaf, a churl. To decry that which is the most wondrous gift of my life, this woman who sings her devotion for me ... this woman whose eyes shine like black diamonds as she brings to life my seed. How did I dare? What would I have? Some hoyden of the streets? Some undignified slattern who hungered only for flesh?

  This was the mother of his children, pure, good, and above all else, a woman who accepted him as he was, without complaint when she could have brought kings to their knees. He knew his demands tired her, that she lacked the hunger he felt, and still she never suggested that it not be she, she alone, to meet his needs. She never turned away from him. She was perfection. That he even considered trying to improve upon her was ludicrous.

  It was unlike Brennan to be selfish, it was more like him to try to be the man she wanted. And he swore a silent oath that he would.

  He tumbled her onto their bed. “Tell me you love me, Anne.”

  “Of course I love you, Brennan,” she said. “You are a good man, and I love you very much.”

  Would you dare, he thought, ask that she tell you something more? What fool would trade this soft, yielding rose for a demanding thorn? What senseless moron would not try to be her perfect match? If this is not enough, he thought, there is not enough in all of heaven. He kissed her deeply and lovingly. And she took him in her arms, softly to her breast with tender acquiescence.

  Chapter Ten

  Twas not in Anne’s nature to indulge idleness, and the Countess of Ayliffe was not a pampered pet, but a dedicated and energetic noblewoman. After mass and a morning meal, she met with Mistress Kirsten to oversee the work in the hall and the meals in the cookery. She visited the town daily to appraise any needs there, saw her son all too briefly each morning while he was at play with his nurse, surveyed the nearby lands ripe with crops, and supervised a crowded evening meal in the hall. Her duties were many – her daily walking could easily equal twenty miles. There were looms in the town, sheep grazing in the fields, men-at-arms and squires practicing in the outer bailey, sometimes sick that needed tending, servants in need of training, and a multitude of other duties.

  Anne knew she could do as much or as little as she liked. Though Brennan was often away, she could depend on Sir Wayne to manage the men’s chores to her satisfaction and Mistress Kirsten to oversee the household duties and the needs of the women, but Anne chose otherwise. No doubt those two could function without her quite well, since they had before, but if the lady of the estate did not make her involvement felt, they might never learn to involve her. Because she was interested in every chore within the castle and town, the people grew to depend on her and respect her.

  The work was hard, but Anne loved Ayliffe. The people were good, loyal and strong, the castle and towns and fields were luxurious and beautiful. She meant to keep it all exactly as Brennan had first presented it to her, if not improved.

  Her personal court had increased in size. Jane was still her nearest servant, now her good friend after more than four years, but there were more women in her company now. The wives and daughters of knights and young serving girls being trained by Jane attended her. She stood as a witness for christenings, betrothals, and weddings. She sent well-trained tirewomen to other noble dames.

  Sometimes Anne felt she was never alone for a moment, but she reserved an hour or two each afternoon to either write to Trenton or work her tapestry. Trenton was the only member of her family to send her letters, which she treasured. Qu
entin, Lord Gifford of Raedelle, communicated with Brennan and wrote short letters of report to Marcella – he had always been a man of few words. Bart, who had been awarded a barony, thanks to Brennan’s help, sent frequent requests for improved posts or more available lands. And although she had written to Divina, had even convinced Brennan to increase the dowry for the convent so that Divina would be highly regarded there, Divina had never made contact with the members of her family. Anne suspected Divina blamed them all for her fate.

  But Trenton wrote Anne long, affectionate letters, which she guarded from her mother. Trenton had grown into a fine knight, asking nothing of her or the earl, honored to be a part of a company of knights that helped protect the north on behalf of Ayliffe and Edward.

  Today there was no letter to write or read, and Anne went to the gardens to work on her tapestry. Her desire for solitude was respected among the waiting women and tiring women, but not by her mother. Marcella was often in residence. She, too, loved Ayliffe. She had always liked luxury.

  “You do not see to your brothers as you should,” Marcella said.

  Anne did not reply or look up from her tapestry. Marcella’s fingers also worked brightly hued threads, but on a project of her own. Marcella had offered to work a piece of Anne’s tapestry, but Anne declined. Marcella had intruded on enough of her life.

  “Bart should have an elevated position by now,” Marcella said.

  “I warned you to be more patient, madam. You should not have pushed for a barony when you did – Edward’s realm was still unsettled and there was little to give.”

  “There is plenty now. It is settled now.”

  “Aye, madam, I will speak to his lordship again. But I fear to make him angry with Bart’s many requests.”

  “Humph, his lordship had a richer barony for Sloan before he was a year old than he has for your brother, who fought in several wars for Ayliffe and Edward.”

  Anne looked at her mother and sighed. “Two, madam. Two battles for Edward. And Sloan is Brennan’s son.”

  Marcella smiled. “So you say,” she said. “Perhaps you should speak to the queen about it when you return to court. When do we go?”

  “We?” Anne asked. She looked up from her work.

  Marcella met her eyes. “Do you ask me to stay behind, Anne?”

  Anne did not like her mother’s presumptuousness. Marcella’s age was beginning to slow down her step, but not her ambition. Marcella had already acquired a pension from Lord Forbes, and Lord Forbes had used his influence to extend boundaries for Quentin’s Raedelle and secure a barony for Bart from the king. In addition, she had made many new friends at court because Lord Forbes allowed her to accompany them. But the dowager Marcella was hardly satisfied. She constantly nagged and wheedled on behalf of Bart and Trenton. Anne suspected that Marcella would like to travel among four castles as rich as Ayliffe, making herself one of the most powerful and wealthy widows in the realm. She frequently made reference to the queen’s mother and the king’s mother, both living in style because of their children.

  Marcella did not discuss their secret, never threatened, and never screamed. But she was not above subtle comments that reminded Anne she had not forgotten and could use her information at will. She was extremely tiresome in her series of requests to Anne and Brennan.

  “What of Raedelle, madam? Do you intend to spend any time there during the year?”

  “I will visit in the summer,” she replied. “In the following year.”

  “Visit? Madam, that is your home.”

  “Will you speak to the queen?”

  “In good time, my dear. Let us not exhaust the queen with requests. She is with child.”

  Marcella cackled. “She is always with child. When do we go?”

  Anne’s needle stabbed the tapestry impatiently. She would have liked to have had this time to herself if Marcella could find something to do besides conspire to improve her lot. “I am to travel to the city with Brennan after harvest, but I’m afraid we are obligated to join the court at Eltham for a time. I am not sure how long. You are welcome to our London house, I’m certain you have already heralded a visit to my brothers.” She doubted Trenton would travel to London, he did not seem to enjoy visits with his mother. Quentin would possibly go to court And Bart would certainly be there.

  “Wives, Anne,” Marcella said. “Perhaps we should concentrate on getting them rich wives. The land can be provided later.”

  Anne did not quite hear what Marcella said, but it was unimportant. It was always the same litany. She needed retirement funds, or elevated titles for sons, or marriages--none of the Gifford sons had married yet, and Quentin was thirty. And there were always memorials for Ferris.

  Anne did not hear Marcella, for in the distance she heard her son. Sloan, four years old, called excitedly to Brainard. Anne’s ears strained to hear. Brainard was seldom tolerant of Sloan, but Sloan craved attention from his older brother and chased after him often despite Anne’s advice to the contrary.

  “Anne,” Marcella said. “Bart should have a wife that will bring him his elevated station.”

  “Hush, madam,” Anne said. “A moment, please.” She plucked at the tapestry, her ear turned toward the sound of Sloan’s voice as he called out to Brainard. The voices came closer to the pleasaunce. The boys did not see her because she sat in the very center of the garden under a tent-like drape. The brush and flowers were high this late in summer and they were concealed.

  “Brainard, wait for me, please wait. Sir Brainard!”

  She knew then where they were going, and what was happening. Brainard kept his favored stallion and all his prized battle accouterments in a small private stable beyond the gardens and near the far outer wall. Sloan loved to see these things, these implements of war. He adored the stallion, for he was young and was only allowed a rare, closely supervised ride on a pony. Brainard almost never let Sloan near his possessions and was livid with rage on those occasions when he learned that Sloan had sneaked in to steal a look or a coveted touch. Brainard, at sixteen, fancied himself an awesome, gilded knight--though he was not yet dubbed.

  Instinctively, Anne pushed the tapestry away from her, ready to stand. For once Marcella was quiet. Where was Brennan? Sir Clifton? Brennan would be ciphering or writing. Sir Clifton, if he was faithful to his duties, would either be with Brainard or in the privy stable.

  “Brainard, let me look, let me look just once, and I won’t touch anything, I promise I--”

  “Get thee gone, little cur, I have no time for you. You lap up my dust like a stupid little mongrel.”

  Anne began walking toward the path she knew they took. She merged with their route just as Brainard was approaching his stable.

  “Brainard, please, I promise I--”

  Anne lifted her skirts and took long, quick steps to catch up to her son.

  Brainard whirled, red-faced, and with a gauntleted hand, struck the lad so hard that Sloan went flying backward, landing with a hard thump on the dirt.

  “Sloan!” She screamed his name and ran. Brainard looked in her direction with surprise. Sir Clifton came from the stable, throwing open the doors to see the cause of the countess’s scream.

  Anne bent to the ground and cradled her son’s head in her lap. She murmured his name several times, gently patting his unbruised cheek. He was completely stunned, his eyes teary, glassy, confused. His nose began to bleed instantly, his eyelid was cut and began to swell so that only one eye, void of understanding and filled with hurt, looked up at her. She drew up the hem of her light cream-colored gown to dab the blood away.

  “Mother?” he questioned in a quivering voice, looking up at her.

  Anne kissed his forehead gently. “There, sweeting, can you sit up?” Half his face was red from the slap, the other half a sickening white from shock. Sloan struggled to sit, but his nose was pouring blood. Trying to be brave, he pushed his mother’s bloodied gown away from his face, wiped at the muck impatiently with his hand, then pinched h
is nose as he had seen the older squires and knights do.

  Anne looked at Brainard with a rage she had never before felt. Sir Clifton was beside Brainard by now, and in his eyes there was also fury. Anne slowly stood, her gown smeared with her son’s blood. Her insides trembled and her eyes burned like a pyre.

  “Maybe he’ll leave me alone now,” Brainard said with no hint of remorse.

  Anne took two steps toward him, her hand flying with a will of its own. She slapped his face with all her strength, catching him completely by surprise. Her palm stung in pain. “Don’t you ever lay a hand to my child,” she nearly screamed.

  Instinctively, Brainard raised his own hand to return the slap, but Sir Clifton was quicker and grabbed both of Brainard’s arms, holding them behind his back. “No, lad, you do not strike my lady. Not ever.”

  Brainard was uninterested in Clifton’s cautioning words and his restraining hold, though he did not struggle against the larger, stronger man. Instead, he vented his anger at Anne. “Why don’t you just keep the little bastard away from me then? What do you expect, that I’m a nurse to play lackey to the little donkey?”

  “Your cruelty knows no bounds, Brainard. He is your brother,” she shouted back.

  Brainard, still being held, spat at the ground. “I disclaim him. He is only the nameless cur you gave my father. Do not ever think that I will yield one portion of what is mine to that--”

  Anne slapped him again, using the same hand. This time she brought a trickle of blood from his lip. Suddenly, Brainard smiled in irony. “Do you hold me for her assault, Cliff? Is that where your loyalty lies? Get her the whip that she might beat me properly. Does the slut own even you?”

  Clifton made no reply, but gave his arms a jerk to show that he would, indeed, hold him fast against any further assault on his lady or the child. Clifton ground his teeth, the muscles in his arms aching to take Brainard to the ground and beat him senseless. This was not the first time he had had such an urge. He had always given Brainard his best, yet his young ward treated Clifton like a beast of burden, a slave. Brainard had always laughed at Clifton’s demands for respect.