His Fair Lady (39 page)

Ana held to a small distance as Sir Royce
lifted the countess onto her palfrey and guided her foot to the
stirrup. Smiling out from her swath of furs, Lady Sibylla placed a
kiss to her gloved fingertips then touched his cheek.

“Until Guildford,” she said, her features
glowing with anticipation of that event. At her signal, Linford’s
select guard surrounded her. Then, with a parting glance to Sir
Royce, she allowed them to escort her from Penhurst, passing from
the inner ward and out the main gate.

Sir Royce watched the countess’s departure,
remaining motionless for several long moments after she disappeared
from sight. Turning at last, he met Ana’s eyes, his look
pensive.

She took a small swallow, unable to guess
the path of his thoughts, unsure she’d wish to even if she could.
By his countenance, something must have passed between him and the
countess last night. She dreaded to know. Would he announce their
engagement at the Christmas Court after all? Was there yet a breath
of hope he would not?

As Sir Royce came to stand before Ana, his
lips parted as if to speak. But, seeming to change his mind, he
glanced to the ground and toed at something there.

“There are matters — accounts — to which I
must attend this morn, Juliana.” He raised his eyes once more,
looking deeply into her own. “I trust you will apply yourself to
your studies until I join you again at dinner.”

‘Twas a statement, not a question. Ana made
no effort to reply, a heaviness settling into her heart. The
countess possessed Sir Royce’s thoughts, as soon she would his
person by benefit of marriage. In time to come, Ana knew she would
occupy naught but the shadows of the knight’s memories as she had
for so many years past.

Dispirited, Ana gazed after Sir Royce as he
took his leave of her and headed across the ward for the south
tower. Taking hold of herself, she glanced to the hall where Edmond
waited to begin her day’s studies.

Unable to bear giving herself to hours of
instructions, her emotions welling afresh, Ana turned on her heel
and headed away from the hall.

Grandfather, what shall I do?”

Ana sat on the floor of Penhurst’s chapel,
leaning against Lord Gilbert’s marble tomb, wholly miserable.
“Truly, Heaven must have been listening to my pleas for, at last,
I’ve gained my heart’s desire. I’ve found my squire, only I am
destined to lose him once more.”

She lifted her hand to the side of the tomb
and touched it lovingly, then released a long sigh. Her thoughts
strayed momentarily, following a different path.

“I hope you are smiling down on me,
Grandfather, and that you know I do accept who I am — Juliana
Mandeville, daughter of the Marcher lord, Sir Robert Mandeville,
and his wife, Alyce, and your only grandchild. I’ve known that
truth deep in my heart for a time, but resisted it.”

She swiped at the moisture rimming her eyes.
“I am so grateful for the time we shared together. If only it could
have been more, much more. If only I could have your guidance now.
I admit, there is still little I can recall of the years before
Vaux. At times, I catch glimpses — of my parents, I’m sure, and of
my nursemaid. In truth, I’m still afraid to open a door on the
past.”

She shifted where she sat and dropped her
hand back to her lap. “You knew much of my past, didn’t you? Even
of that horrid night, though not in its fullness as surely I must,
somewhere deep inside me. You also knew of Sir Royce, that he was
the one who found me, my valorous squire. How shamelessly I’ve
treated him. Surely, I’ve sinned against Mother Church and am in
sore need of confession.”

“Confession, my child?”

Ana bolted upright, nearly leaping from her
skin. Glancing in the direction of the voice, she discovered Friar
Tupper at the back of the chapel.

“Good Friar, you gave me such a scare! I
thought I was alone, among the dead.”

“Forgive me, my lady. ‘Twas not my intent.
But if you are in need of confession I should be happy to hear
it.”

Ana detected something in his tone, in his
eyes. Could he possibly know of her tryst with Sir Royce?

“‘
Tis best to unburden your soul of
any misdeeds you might carry and receive God’s grace,” he advised
in his gravelly voice.

“I — I would like that. Should we move to
the confessional?”

“Nay, child, the pews here will do. Come.”
He motioned her to the first of the benches, joining her there.
“You may begin when you are ready.”

“Y-Yes, of course,” she faltered,
self-conscious. “Bless me father, it has been . . . Well, I haven’t
been to confession since I left Chinon, and I’ve sinned quite
regularly since.”

The friar’s wiry brows rose several inches.
“Go on my child, what is your — are your — sins?”

Ana launched into a hurried account of how
she’d defied Sir Royce from the day he carried her from the steps
of St. Maurice and how her actions had placed him in mortal danger
from the wild boar, then led to a host of injuries during her
subsequent attempts to escape.

“I’ve continued to disobey Sir Royce at
every turn,” she admitted. “Several weeks past, I took some of the
Penhurst jewels and tried to bribe the stable groom to help me
escape back to Chinon. When Sir Royce discovered me, I lied and
took out my anger on him and, and . . . oh dear . . .”

Hot tears blurred Ana’s vision. “I didn’t
know it was him.” Her voice came out in a squeak.

“You didn’t know he was Sir Royce?”

“Nay, that Sir Royce was my squire — the one
who’d found me and protected me that horrible night in Vaux.”

Friar Tupper scratched at his fringe of
hair. “And you are telling me you wouldn’t have lied, or stolen, or
done any of these other things had you known he was your
squire?”

“But of course I wouldn’t have!” Ana
blurted, aghast that he would even think it of her.

The friar gave her a fuddled look. “And why
would that be?”

“Because I didn’t know the knight was the
squire, or the squire the knight and, and . . . because I care for
him so very deeply! In truth, I love him.”

“Which ‘him’ would that be?”

“Both! I love them both. Only, they are one
and the same.”

“Are they? ‘Twas the squire for whom you
waited. You held no warmth for the knight, certainly no love. And
need I remind you, the lad of ten years past is not the man of
today?”

Ana looked through her tears at the
churchman. “But they are, good friar,” she said full of conviction.
“Sir Royce may have done and seen much in the years between, but
his heart has not changed. He has proven himself, again and again,
to be the most estimable and chivalrous of men. Only yesterday, he
restored to me my foster parents, seeking to ease my sorrow. But
I’ve . . . I’ve made him so very miserable.”

Fresh tears escaped her eyes. “He will marry
Lady Sibylla and think no more of me. I will lose him forever,
which is what I deserve, though he was never truly mine. The
countess offers him great station and power, I know. But her
husbands have a way of dying. Luvena told me so. Perhaps I’ve
condemned him to a terrible fate and ‘tis all my fault.”

“Your fault? I cannot see that ‘tis y —
“

“If he’d not been obliged to take me to
Wallingford, perhaps he’d never have met her — or leastwise, met
her after she’d married another. Or if I’d treated him with love
and kindness as he deserves, perhaps he would not have been so
quick to consider wedding the countess.”

Ridden with guilt, Ana
grasped the monk by both sleeves.
“Please, Friar
Tupper, grant me penance, hours of penance, as I most certainly
deserve.”

“I think you’ve been living your penance,
child,” he muttered, half to himself. “But perhaps some is in
order. Make amends by doing what Sir Royce has asked of you. See to
your lessons and learn all you can about the estate and its
running. Your little maid can help you with personal refinements —
how to walk, hold genteel conversations, all that.”

Ana squinched her brows together. “I don’t
understand.”

The friar patted her hand. “In matters of
the heart, I cannot advise you, but of this I am certain. ‘Tis time
to take your place as the Lady of Penhurst.”

“You mean, I should smooth out my rough
edges, learn to oversee the servants?”

“Much more than that. If you will indulge me
a little scripture, St. Paul writes: ‘When I was a child, I spoke
as a child, I felt as a child, I thought as a child. Now that I
have become a man, I have put away the things of a child.’ As I
entered the chapel just now, you were speaking to your grandfather,
saying you accepted who you are.”

“I do.” She palmed away her tears.

“Yet, I suspect, you still think of yourself
as Ana, the brewer’s daughter. ‘Tis time to put away the things of
that past, and of the child Ana. ‘Tis time to embrace yourself as
Juliana, and to become all you can possibly be — a noble lady of
whom your forebearers could be proud. One that will gladden Sir
Royce’s heart and earn his respect”

“Gladden his heart? And make them all proud?
Yes, I would like that.” She felt something warm and akin to a
smile spreading through her. “Are you sure ‘tis penance you give
me?”

“You will find it so, once you apply
yourself to the task in earnest.”

She leaned forward and kissed Friar Tupper
on the cheek. “Then bear witness. I leave Ana, the brewer’s
daughter, here in this place, and go forth as Juliana Mandeville,
Lady of Penhurst.”

»«

“Too young, too old, possesses a fell temper
. . .”

Royce worked his way down the list of
suitors, crossing off names. He abhorred being pressed to make a
decision in the matter of choosing a husband for Juliana. Yet, the
king charged him to name her future spouse in just a few short
weeks when the Court gathered at Guildford. Thankfully, Lady
Sibylla had departed Penhurst soon after her arrival. Despite her
good intentions, her presence drained

his energy, clouded his thinking and
judgment, and aggravated his moods.

He put pen and ink to parchment once more.
“Squanders his money, a poor administrator, lecherous, a drunkard,
given to eccentric excesses . . .”

Royce skipped over several names with whom
he could find no obvious fault. He’d return to them later, he
decided. Perhaps he could find some shortcoming that would allow
him to strike them from the list.

Royce tossed down his quill and shoved his
hands through his hair. What was he doing? He wasn’t trying to find
Juliana a husband. He was trying to find reasons to reject every
suitor named on these lists.

He leaned back, tilting his chair on two
legs, his thoughts on Lord Gilbert’s will and the final words
Penhurst’s lord had spoken to him. He’d urged Royce to watch over
Juliana, to choose her a husband of “sterling character,” one who
would love her. He’d further said Royce should look to his heart if
his mind was filled with doubts.

The heart speaks truest when reason fails.
‘Tis there you shall find your answer.

As Lord Gilbert’s words echoed in his mind,
Royce was unsure what his heart spoke, if it spoke at all. Lord
Gilbert had placed his faith in the wrong man, Royce feared. He had
no wish to choose any man to take Juliana to wife. Still, he’d
given his oath to her grandfather to see her wed. Strange, only a
short time past he couldn’t wait to be rid of the maid. Now, he
despised the thought of her not being near.

Unable to tolerate another minute in the
confines of the tower chamber, Royce rose and headed for the
stable. Saddling Hannibal, he rode out toward the Meon River.
Giving the stallion his lead, Royce spent the morning savoring the
calm and quiet of the winter landscape, sorting through his
thoughts. Rather than finding peace, however, as he returned to the
castle he felt even more conflicted.

Approaching Penhurst, Royce spied Friar
Tupper pacing slowly through the barren orchard, meditating with a
small breviary open in his hands. Royce reined in Hannibal,
dismounted, and sought out the churchman.

“Good friar, might I have a word with you? I
find myself in dire need of confession.”

“You also?” The monk’s bushy brows rose. “I
mean, how so, my son? You wish to confess here? Now?”

“Aye, if ‘tis possible.” Full of high
energy, Royce fell in pace beside him. Confession was ever good for
the soul and would help clear his mind. “My duties as Penhurst’s
guardian plague me night and day,” he conceded. “My temper is
short, I find fault in everything, I’ve been unreasonable with the
servants, and even yelled at my men when ‘twas undeserved. Worse, I
cannot seem to restrain myself from these — these fits!”

The monk pondered his words. “Does something
provoke these outbursts, my son? Something you’ve not told me?”