Yearning Heart (15 page)

* * * *

Stephen sat near King Henry, listening to his Royal Highness explain the new rules for his courts.

“In a trial the sheriff will call in twelve men to give evidence, not just hear it as before. Trials by jury will result in justice served rather than pushed aside.”

When the meeting was finished, Stephen followed King Henry into the Royal Court. For the first time in fifteen years, Sir Stephen Lambert's mind was not on royal business. It was centered in the big bedroom in that gray stone house which Rebecca had made into a home.

And where she had lost interest in the house, Tor, the garden ... and Stephen.

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Chapter Ten

A bellow of rage from a wounded bear in the forest, Rebecca was certain of that.

It would be Sir Stephen Lambert's first reaction when he found her gone. His second likely a mimic of King Henry—
By God's eye, Woman
.

No woman,
no
woman leaves a good husband. It was not written that the husband must love his wife, only that he be a good husband. That might include laying a hand to her backside in order to assure obedience.

Rebecca thought herself a good wife, albeit one who wanted her husband to love her. If he could not, then the union needed to change. She would change it.

Without a glance, she passed Stephen's closed bedroom door in the midnight quiet. He wasn't there. He was on some grand errand for King Henry. Their strained relationship since she lost the baby gave Stephen good reason for more frequent and longer trips. He seldom came to her bed, and they no longer spent hours just talking.

Her leaving would relieve him of a tiresome duty.

She had tried everything she knew to bring Stephen back to her the way he had once come willingly. Her last bit of determination left the day he returned early from his journey to London and found her riding Tor. She slid from the bare back of the stallion and ran towards Stephen, happy to see him home safe again.

He was not happy. Deep-set blue eyes flashed fury at her such as she had never seen.

He raged.

“I forbid you to ride Tor ever again. How dare you take my own steed to ride along the cliffs? He could break a leg on the rocks and dips.”

Rebecca stared at him as his fingers dug into her arms. He did not know that she frequently rode Tor, and that both were surefooted, trusting each other.

He cared not. Hauling her with him up the path, he half dragged her past startled servants up the stairs to her room. He pushed her onto the bed and glared down at her, his cheeks pale beneath the thick blonde hair lying on his forehead. The wide mouth, the lips that had taught her how to kiss, then to love, thinned into a straight line.

“Never,” he said in a cold, deadly voice. “Never let me see you on Tor again.”

He turned and stormed from the room. It was only later that the ache began, the ache at the loss of what she had never really had. Stephen worried not about her hurting herself, but about the giant horse. Something valuable. She should have remembered that she had been traded for something more valuable those years ago. It seemed such a long time now. So much had happened. She'd fallen in love with her husband, become pregnant, lost the baby—and her husband as well. How could one's heart break and it not be seen? How could all the love disappear and leave one so empty? Why could he not understand that she loved him more than life—that he was the real reason she lived? How could he not know?

She did not go down to the great hall for the evening meal but later that night, she went looking for Stephen. Something had been troubling him of late. Mayhap the king and queen were putting too many of their troubles on him. Not only did he try to keep peace between Eleanor and Henry, but he tried even harder to heal the breach between Henry and Sir Thomas. He kept track of royal lands and taxes, traveling many miles to visit landowners to remind them what was due the king. He was tired.

Tonight, she would massage his back when he finished with his bath. Tonight, she would tell him of her deep love for him and ask that he love her in return.

Strangely, the door to the room usually locked was open and, hearing a sound from within, Rebecca stopped, and then pushed the door inward. Her eyes rested on the two people there and breath left her. She could only stare.

Stephen sat on the bed with Malvina kneeling in front of him, his arms clasping her shoulders. He cried, his wide shoulders shaking. Malvina murmured all the while her fingers stroked his hair. Her face was near to Stephen's, close enough that his tears wet her cheeks.

For the longest time, Rebecca did not, could not, move. Numbed, she took in the long fingers working in the dark fabric of Malvina's blouse, heard the woman's whispers, saw her wipe tears from Stephen's cheek.

There had been times when she wondered if Stephen and Malvina were lovers, but it had been many months since she had thought about it. Loving Stephen so much, waiting for the baby—she had not seen the warning signs.

Quietly, she retreated.

The pain disappeared and emptiness descended.

There were warning signs. Stephen's preoccupation when he was home, his long rides alone on Tor when she became pregnant and his refusal to sleep with her except when his body demanded it. His pretense that the baby she carried did not exist.

In the days that followed, Rebecca avoided Malvina, unable to face the woman who, she was now certain, was her husband's lover. She did not have to avoid Stephen. He left before the first day's light and came home long after candles were extinguished for the night. There was no reason to wait up for him. He came in quietly, ate without talking to the servants, even Aubin, and went to his room.

Rebecca waited, but Stephen did not come to her.

One day a message from King Henry summoned Stephen to London to go over the new taxing measures his majesty was planning to impose on the already overburdened people. Rebecca knew for a certainty that Stephen welcomed the chance to leave Glastonbury.

He spoke to her briefly as they ate the evening meal. “I must go to London on business. I do not know how long I will be there.”

Rebecca turned to look at him, but he kept his eyes on his plate.

“I am well enough to travel with you, Stephen. It would be good to leave here for a fortnight.” Good for me, good for you to be away from Malvina.

“No,” he said.

That was all. No. Not wanted. How plainly one word could speak volumes. Would she never learn that she had no place in Stephen's life, that she was only a chattel in his home, something that had to be kept because it belonged to him? Necessity, not desire and certainly not love.

Only her thoughts kept her company during the days Stephen made ready to travel. King Henry beckoned, and he must go. It had always been thus. She stood at her bedroom window watching the carriage being prepared for his trip, watched Aubin stack the cases behind them and caught her breath as Stephen stepped into her view.

He carried his black hat in one hand, a satchel in the other. The black of his coat emphasized the blond hair and darker beard. As she watched, he raised his head to stare at her window as though to make sure she saw him go. As though he knew it would be the last time she would watch him leave her.

Stepping back from the window, she lifted her fingers to waft him a kiss, a kiss he didn't see.

* * * *

She could not live this way. Rebecca's decision had already been made, but she repeated it to herself several times during the days after Stephen's departure. The ache inside her was unbearable. Distance from Glastonbury was her only hope.

The last servant went down the hall, his footsteps fading into the great room, then silence as the heavy door closed behind him. The first light of another day found her still sitting by the window, hands idle in her lap.

Nights passed in this way while she made her plans. A woman in her position had no rights. Her husband could demand a divorce or demand that she return to his abode, but she would not live with Stephen. He could do as he wanted about a divorce, but Rebecca would not stay in Glastonbury.

She ate fresh fruits and vegetables from the winter cellar. She walked up and down the steps many times each day. She lifted baskets of clothing and food, moving them about the storehouse. She carried heavy wood for the fireplaces, shrugging away any servant's protests her ladyship should not do this labor. If her plans were to work, she had to be strong.

And her plans must work if she were to survive.

A sound startled her and she leaned against the wall, holding her breath. It came again. Thunder. She breathed more easily. The storm would help her. She took the small bag she had packed with a few pieces of clothing, enough food so that she wouldn't starve before finding work of some kind. Wherever she journeyed. She didn't care as long as it was away from Glastonbury.

At the back door, she listened once more, and then stepped outside. The spatter of raindrops beat on the roof, and she welcomed the coolness on her feverish cheeks.

Clouds and rain turned the night into pitch blackness, but she knew every step of the path to the stables. At the heavy door, her fingers searched for the latch and she pushed upward to release it.

Tor whinnied and blew out his breath in a sluffing sound.

“Steady.” She whispered to him as she slipped him a piece of apple saved from her evening meal. His whinny was softer this time as she gave him the second slice and heard his big teeth cut into the fruit.

She found the tether where she had left it the day before, thankful Bundy, the stable boy, had not been around to put it in its proper place. Tor lifted his head, and she quickly slipped the rope on him, murmuring quietly all the while. She put a booted foot on a stud in the wall and swung on the horse's broad back. He snorted, but she patted his neck, soothing him with her soft voice as she guided him through the door she had left open.

She held the rope tightly, trying to keep the big horse from breaking into a trot as he loved to do when she rode him bareback without the heavy saddle to slow him. He took her along the edge of the forest, across the pond road, along the cliff's edge.

Rain slanted into her face, and thunder rumbled quickly behind the blue-orange flashes of lightning. Even so, she could hear the surf slapping at the rocks far below. It was a guide for Tor as he took the familiar path they often rode when Stephen was away.

Would Stephen care? Only if she didn't return Tor.

She tossed her head and kept her chin elevated at its most stubborn angle. He would be angry, of that she was certain. No woman left a good husband. She had no right to leave him. He saw that she was fed and clothed. He came home to her when he had no arguments to settle between Eleanor and Henry or savage bouts to referee between Henry and Sir Thomas. They were like children, arguing and quarreling over everything or nothing.

She would not worry about what Stephen might think. From this moment on, she would think of her own life, not a life tied to Stephen, smothered by what she must do for him or for their king and country. She had given him two years of her life. She had given him her love and, in return, he betrayed her with Malvina. She would not share him with Malvina—or anyone. To know he did not love her was one thing. To know he loved Malvina shattered her.

The sudden pain made her jerk on Tor's reins, and the horse sidestepped, shaking his head.

“I am sorry.” She leaned down on the strong neck. “You could not know how it hurts to love and not be loved in return.”

She straightened, aware now that her tears mixed with the rain. This time, she did not bother to wipe them away.

She traveled that night, and late in the morning, stopped behind a grove of trees to change to dry clothing. She ate the bread and meat saved for two days before she left home. She was several miles beyond the small village where Malvina visited friends when she came to a barren road she only knew headed away from Glastonbury.

Tor stood patiently waiting for her. She looked at him, put her face against his.

“Go home, Tor. Go home.”

She turned him in the direction from whence they had come and breathed a sigh when he trotted away. He was soon lost from her sight.

Her wool clothing smelled of sheep. Her hair hung in soggy strings over her shoulders. Cold and hungry, she sat near a stream of water behind the trees where two carriages passed one after the other. She dared not cry out to attract attention. Suppose it was a highwayman such as she had read about? Or thieves to set upon her as Stephen said happened regularly to people on the road alone.

She was not afraid, nor did she have anything that might interest thieves. Suppose they wanted her? That happened, too, Malvina had told her.

She shivered. She wanted no man save Stephen to touch her, and he made it clear he did not share her desire.

What attracted such a man as Stephen to Malvina? Was it because she had served Mary before she died with child? Was there something about her dark auburn hair with its heavy waves, her fair complexion with barely a freckle? Malvina's teeth were perfectly shaped, she was tall and healthy ....

Many men preferred dark hair to the pale blonde of Rebecca's ringlets dipping down the front of her blouse. Her eyes were as blue as the summer sky after a storm while Malvina's were as green as the quiet depths of the waves beyond Moon Cliffs.

Before Papa brought Stephen home and gave her over to him for his wife, Rebecca had exercised her independence simply by ignoring whatever Papa said until he tired of raging, and then went on with her dreams. Two years ago she was a child. Today she was a woman without dreams. She would be on her own, all alone, without guidance or consolation of any kind.

If she couldn't have Stephen, she'd as soon be alone.

She could take care of herself. She had never had to make her own way, but she would learn how. Soon she would be as strong as ever after losing the baby. She could find work as a maidservant in London. It was a big city. There must be jobs for someone willing to work. She was schooled. She could teach if need be. Papa liked to boast of a daughter who had been to Sister Emilie's school, who could read in two languages and do figures.