Yearning Heart (16 page)

She was setting out to prove Papa right.

Voices raised in song startled her. Who would sing on such a miserable evening? The sound of merriment came closer. Voices broke into conversation, words she did not understand. French. The hard lessons she had studied with Sister Emilie came faintly back, and she caught words here and there. The voices were light. Gay laughter followed.

“Ah, ‘tis fine to be alive,” a deep male voice proclaimed.

“Hugo, you rascal,” a female voice teased. “Every day's a good day to be alive for you. Be it fair or foul, ‘tis all the same to you.”

“You're right, Mam'selle,” came the same cheery voice. “To live at all is to experience the ultimate. To live and love at the same time is exquisite rapture.”

“The voice of the minstrel sends forth his soul to reach the heavens—or the heart of an unsuspecting maiden,” another male voice joined in the merry exchange.

Had she not been so miserable, Rebecca would have laughed along with them. She stared at Bundy's muddy boots, too big on her feet, hoping the people would pass close enough to her that she could see their appearance. Not that it would help her much.

What could she tell from looking at strangers from a distance? And, if they were highwaymen who robbed travelers, what then? She had nothing save her life. Perchance they would take that had she nothing more valuable to offer.

She thought of getting up to move farther into the forest, but she was exhausted. Her body ached, her face felt hot, and she blinked rapidly to keep her eyes open. Pushing herself upright against the tree trunk where she had rested, she lifted her head at a nearby sound and gasped.

A short distance away was a tall man with a staff in his right hand. Merry black eyes surveyed the dismal creature in front of him. Black hair touched his shoulders and a dark beard covered most of his face. His skin was brown—what she could see of it, with a broad nose separating high cheek bones. With the staff he pushed back the soft, wide-brimmed hat, reminding Rebecca of a ship's captain she had once glimpsed on a London street.

“What have we here?” he murmured in French. “Methinks I've come upon a damsel in need of friendship?” It was a question as he continued to look over the figure propped against the tree.

“What, Hugo? Do we linger this near the highway with the likes of Nathan abroad. That barbarous robber will take what food we have ere he...”

The voice broke off as another man appeared beside Hugo. Flamboyant red hair framed a face covered in rusty freckles, a wispy beard straggling over a pointed chin. His mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ as he, too, stared down at Rebecca. He was shorter than Hugo with stubby legs ending in muddy leggings from which peeked bare feet, dirt oozing between the toes.

“Mon dieu,” the red-haired one said. “Perchance ‘tis the vision my sainted mother, rest her soul, said would appear afore me one day.” He stepped closer to the forlorn figure. “What say, Hugo?”

“She is but a child, Gerald.” He laughed again, not unkindly. “Where's your mother, Small One?”

Rebecca eyed the lumpy pair in front of her—a mislanded sea pirate and some beggar's orphan, probably. But they were the only humans she had seen since leaving home.

“I am tired and hungry, my lord,” she said.

There was no mistaking she told the truth. The blue eyes were dull, her creamy complexion smudged with gray mud, blonde hair tangled beneath the wimple which had once been pale blue, covered now with layers of gray dust, stiffening as it dried. Her soft mouth drooped at the corners, and she raised a limp hand to push stringy hair from her cheeks.

Hugo dropped the bag from wide shoulders and knelt beside her. Keeping his eyes on Rebecca, he thrust one large hand into the bag and withdrew it to extend a handful of figs.

“ ‘Tis not much, my cabbage,” he said. “We will stop here for the night and mayhap Gerald can fetch us a rabbit to roast.”

Gerald laughed.

“Surely you jest, my friend. I aim at the ground and hit the stars.”

Rebecca glanced up from the figs she was devouring. In spite of her misery, she smiled, and then spoke boldly.

“I am a good hunter.”

Hugo's black eyes widened.

“You, my Cherie? Surely you are too weak to hold the bow and arrow.”

“My brother, Richard, taught me when I visited him on the far side of papa's land.”

“Do not feel badly, child,” a female voice said. “Hugo thinks all women should be home in their husband's bed and not allowed out into the world.”

Rebecca looked at the woman who now stood beside Hugo. Her red head reached almost as high as Hugo's, the tallest woman Rebecca had ever seen. The dark gray tunic hid most of her body, but one could see she was thin. Bright green eyes sparkled at the world from a face covered with the same rust-colored freckles as Gerald's.

“Ah, my Margaret,” Hugo said, his voice chastened. “You do me an injustice.” He looked back at Rebecca where she sat, her hand near her mouth with a half-eaten fig in it, staring at the other woman. “Mayhap you can tell us why you linger in such misery alone. Do you not know the dangers in this place?”

Rebecca clasped her hands together, looking down. “I am from Gloucester. She hesitated, twisting her hands and glanced up at three interested faces. “I ... Papa—”

“Gloucester?” Margaret said. “That is many days from here.”

Rebecca nodded.

“Papa.” She hesitated. “I was with child and papa sent me to London to hide me because I would not tell the father's name. I shamed them.” Her voice quivered, and she swallowed. “The baby did not live, but I cannot return home to cause them more suffering. I ran away.”

She sat with her head bowed, squeezing her hands into fists.

The pain was not pretense. She hurt as though the tale were true. The hurting was real if her story was not.

“Do not cry, little one,” Margaret said, kneeling in front of her. “Each of us has a burden to bear so we help each other. We do not condemn a body for being human.” She picked up Rebecca's clenched fists and rubbed them with long, freckled fingers. “You are welcome to stay with us. What say?”

Her heart stilled within her. They were strangers ready to take her in, strangers who questioned not whether she was a good woman or not. Even with her lies, they took her for what she said she was—and without blame.

She lifted her eyes, swimming with tears.

“You are most kind. I will try not to be a burden.”

“Never,” Hugo said, helping her to her feet. “Are you able to walk? We have two animals to carry our goods, but the Big One can carry a bit more weight such as yourself.”

“We are on our way to London,” Gerald said, “but we will hide your beauty beneath a jongleur's outfit, lass. No one will know you.”

“Ha,” Margaret said. “She is much too pretty not to be noticed. Mayhap we can use her as a dwarf. She's that small.”

“We are on our way to London to perform for Queen Eleanor. She is fond of our entertainment. But,” Hugo said, bending to pick up Rebecca's small packet of belongings, “you will go as one of us, and you will not be noticed as being different.”

The jovial conversation went on as the horse Hugo called Big One was brought out of the trees where he had been tied while a meal was prepared. A smaller donkey, not much bigger than papa's largest sheep, trailed along behind.

“I can walk,” Rebecca said.

“You are weak from loss of the child and tired, lass. Here. Up with you.” Hugo lifted her onto the broad back of Big One and handed her a rope. “No need to guide. He will follow us.” His hand remained on the horse's rump. “What are you called then?”

“Rebecca.”

There was no need to invent a name. She would not be searched for in the company of minstrels making their way into London along England's back country roads.

Hugo's long legs took them down the muddy tracks and Gerald trotted a few feet behind while Margaret stayed near Big One. Rebecca's body ached, but she said nothing as the hours passed. She was thankful she did not have to walk.

Rebecca lost count of the days and at night, lay wearily on a sheepskin spread over piled rushes, unable to sleep. She tried not to think of Stephen but to think only of the beginning of a new and different life. The minstrels lived simply, far from the comfort of the Glastonbury home she had left. For Rebecca, it mattered not. She would not be alone, and the offered friendship gave her a warm feeling of belonging.

“I am lucky the child did not live,” she often whispered to herself, ignoring the ache even as she spoke the words. “I would not want to raise him in a home without a loving father, and Stephen was not pleased that he was to have a son.”

She heard Hugo stirring and saw him tend the fire. When he finished, he moved to where Margaret lay, there was a murmur of voices, then he slipped beneath the sheepskin with her.

Rebecca looked away, envying Margaret and Hugo.

* * * *

Rebecca looked down at the stream at her feet. It was cold, very cold. But she needed a bath. Her clothing stuck to her with dampness and mud caked the bottom of her long tunic. Color was no longer distinguishable. Tomorrow they would be in London, and Hugo would give her a jongleur's robe to appear before the queen. It was a long gold wrap with matching hood to hide her pale hair that had grown too long to let hang down her back. She could not abide putting her unclean body into the clean clothing.

She had brought her sheepskin with her to wrap in once she bathed. She discarded it and, taking a deep breath and holding it, slid into the icy water.

“Ohh-hh-ohh,” she moaned, her teeth chattering.

But she stayed, splashing water over her until she became numb enough not to notice the cold so much, then she went underwater, washing her hair as best she could. She stayed as long as she dared then stepped out to wrap the sheepskin around her. Her teeth chattered, but she laughed lightly. How good it felt to be clean! Ah, it was lovely.

Numbness slipped away as she rubbed her body dry, and she hummed one of the old ballads she once sang to Richard. Her voice rose, its lilting melody carrying through the early morning quiet.

In camp, Margaret lifted her head. Across the breakfast fire, Hugo and Gerald listened.

“Bring my love, though darkness fall, bring my love to me. Hold thy nearness, thy dearness, hold me eternally.” Rebecca's clear voice lowered until its softness brought an ache to the throats of the three listening. It was warmth and sweet pain and a deep longing all mixed in the clearness of her words.

The sound stopped, but the three of them sat staring at each other. When Rebecca stepped into the clearing, wrapped only in the sheepskin, they looked at her as though she were someone they had not met.

Rebecca, unprepared for an audience, stopped, her mouth open in surprise. She had hoped to find the robe Hugo put aside for her and be dressed before the others saw her.

Now they watched her wonderingly.

“Where did you learn to sing like that?” It was Margaret who first found her voice.

“Oh. Oh.” Rebecca smiled. “I learned music in Sister Emilie's school in Suffolk. I cannot sing, but I do like music.”

“Dost perchance play an instrument?” Henry said.

“Only the harp. I could never learn the flute. I kept bumping my teeth.”

“You have a lovely voice, Rebecca.” Gerald gazed at her as though entranced. “Have you ever performed?”

“I sang to Papa's cows and sheep.” She laughed. “They did not complain of my noise.”

“Minstrels and jongleurs are favorites of Queen Eleanor. She loves stories and songs. You will help us in the Christmas celebration.”

“But, I have never ...” She knew Eleanor loved songs and stories. Last

Christmas ...

Would Stephen be in the royal palace this holiday season as in years past? As last season when she first realized she was in love with him? The same Christmas she became pregnant with a son he did not want.

“No one will recognize you, Little One,” Hugo said. “You'll perform with robes and a mask.”

She trusted him. She trusted Margaret and Gerald without knowing why. They were strangers, but they had saved her life and were willing to care for her. The least she could do was help them entertain.

What had Stephen told her about entertainers?

“Are not jongleurs banned by the church? With trouble between the archbishop and the king, will we be allowed to perform? Sir Thomas is strict in such things.”

“Ha,” Hugo said. “That is why we are invited. The queen loves us all the more because we are a thorn in the side of Sir Thomas and will cause her king anguish.”

“I think perchance Queen Eleanor doubts her husband's love and mayhap looks for ways to make him unhappy.”

“It will be good to make her happy for a short time.”

“What dost know of royal unhappiness, my child?” Margaret said.

“Only gossip. The king's affairs are talked of even in the country.”

“Aye,” Hugo said. “'Tis true, but let us not talk of such. We will prepare a royal performance to brighten the queen's day.”

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Chapter Eleven

It was the bellow of an angry boar.

“Lady Rebecca is not about? What say ye, vassal? She has departed to what place?”

Stephen's body fairly shook with outraged disbelief.

“I know not, my lord.”

The manservant knelt in front of Stephen, awaiting the whip on his back. He had dreaded lo these long days when his master would return. It was best to be over and done with his punishment.

Stephen grasped the man's mantel, drawing him upward until he stared into the frightened eyes.

“Speak, vassal,” he whispered hoarsely. “Tell me wherefore the Lady Rebecca has gone or, by God's eye, I will have your head.”

“Sir Stephen.” Malvina spoke behind him.

He whirled to face her. “Well, sayeth the truth!”

Malvina curtsied.

“She left two days hence your departure, Sir Stephen. We sent word by a traveler when one passed. Didst not get the message?”

“I left London early.”

He had been in a hurry to return to Glastonbury. To Rebecca.

“For what reason does she depart this house while I am absent?” Stephen stood tall and wide above the two servants. “Has she perchance gone to Gloucester?”