Yearning Heart (21 page)

For once, he wished desperately for a drink of whiskey if for nothing else than to deaden his clear thoughts. He preferred them muddled to dealing with that which hurt others. He rounded a corner, trying to remember where the bar was which the merchant, Cormand, recommended.

At first, he did not know what the noise was. He neared an outdoor performance of minstrels and heard laughter and singing. He smiled a little.

By God's eye, at least the peasants had a bit of pleasantry to banish thoughts of high costs of materials and sorry crops because of drought. Mayhap the storm lingering tonight would, at the least, help the farmers.

Stephen stopped at the edge of the crowd to watch a small minstrel dressed in red and black as he knelt before a richly frocked figure who, by the movements of his arms, was about to condemn for some sin, real or imagined.

There was something familiar about the two cavorting jongleurs, and Stephen watched along with the crowd. He stood head and shoulders above most of the audience, hands linked loosely behind his back, uncovered head tilted to the side, thinking of where he might have seen this performance.

The rain started again, and Stephen was about to resume his quest for a drink of whiskey when the small minstrel dropped to kneel in front of the taller one and started to sing. Stephen forgot the drink, ignored the rain, and realized the voice was the one he'd heard in the palace performance for Queen Eleanor.

Entranced, he stood still until the taller figure ran, slid down the pole out of his sight, then he made his way around back to the biggest tent in the middle of the arena set aside for the performers.

A tall woman, her deep red hair wound around her head, freckles across her straight nose and a wide mouth stretched in a smile, stood at the entrance, gazing toward the performing minstrels. She turned at the sound of Stephen's footsteps.

“Good evening, my lady,” he said, bowing. “I would speak with the leader of yon minstrels.”

Margaret's deep green eyes went over the richly attired man, the pale blue waistcoat over darker blue pants, blond head bared to the elements. A thick mustache, darker than the hair, did not hide a wide, sensitive mouth softened by the half smile.

“My lord,” Margaret said.

She glanced towards the cavorting figures on the stage and back at the handsome stranger. She hesitated, aware of a reluctance to do as this man bid. She did not know him, had not seen him except this one time, but a question of his intentions caused strong temptation to ask that he be gone.

How could she do that? He might have a part in their pay and, should she be distant to him, make it hard for them to collect their monies.

“Dost know Hugo?”

“I know of Hugo Benet from his performances for the King and Queen of England before I sailed for France.”

Margaret smiled. There was no need to worry if ‘twas Hugo he wished to see on business. She pulled aside the tent flap and bade Stephen enter.

“Hugo is changing his costume if thou wouldst wait.”

“Thank you.”

Stephen was about to speak of the singer when Hugo came through the back entrance of the tent.

“Margaret, I would have the ...” Hugo's voice ceased as he caught sight of Stephen.

Stephen bowed.

“I am Stephen Lambert. Thou art Hugo Benet, leader of this minstrel group?”

Hugo looked from Stephen to Margaret who watched Stephen with a worried look.

“I have seen your group perform before the king and queen, and the same small one sang in London and again today.” He nodded toward the outside. “I would meet the performer whose voice is so beautiful.”

“My lord, the small one is shy and does not wish to meet with strangers.”

Instantly, Stephen's eyes became as the cold blue lakes of the English countryside.

“ ‘Tis not asking that much, Monsieur Benet. I will meet her.” Stephen's appearance bode ill for refusal of his request.

Hugo bowed.

“I will bring her when her performance is complete, my lord.”

* * * *

Rebecca laughed as Gerald helped her through the mud. They would both have to change costumes before the later performance, but the crowd's happiness made them feel good. When the audience enjoyed their antics, their tiring routine came more easily for them.

Rebecca's efforts to stay on her feet went for naught when Gerald stepped on the deep folds of her pants legs and both tumbled into the muddy ruts.

“Oh, Gerald, ‘tis a clumsy one you are,” Rebecca said when she caught her breath.

“Ah, Rebecca, I am a bumbler, I am. Forgive me.” He looked at her from his painted clown's face and laughed. “'Tis a beauty you are even with mud and paint to adorn thee.” He dragged himself up and pulled Rebecca with him. “Let's go to the wagons to wash our faces.”

Gerald's short, sturdy legs steadied them as they made their way to the wagon where a round tub held water for cleaning up such as this. He took a soft cloth and wiped her face, and then she did the same for him. When finished, Rebecca kissed his cheek and smiled when he blushed beneath the coppery freckles.

“Rebecca.”

She turned to see Hugo come from the back entrance to the main tent.

“Didst like our reception, Hugo? It seems to get better with each audience, eh?”

“It is indeed so, Rebecca, and you have a special admirer who would meet you.”

She shook her head.

“Nay, Hugo, thou dost know I do not enjoy meeting strangers. Tell him I am glad he likes my performance, but I cannot grant audience to him.

“It is not a request, but a command,” Hugo said. “Methinks Stephen Lambert is not a gentleman to be ignored.”

Rebecca, in the act of hanging the cloth on the side of the tub, whirled. Her face drained of color, her hands pressed to her breast. She stared in disbelief at her friend.

“What say, Hugo?” she whispered. Her heart pounded and her ears rang. She swayed, and Gerald, standing behind her, placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Stephen Lambert. Dost know him?” Hugo's dark eyes had not missed Rebecca's shock.

Rebecca swallowed, trying not to retch.

“ ‘Tis only that I do not wish to meet him. Or ... or anyone.”

How many times had she thought of meeting Stephen once more? How many nights her heart ached for just the sight of him, for a touch of his fingers on her cheek, to hear his deep voice as he spoke to Aubin, or Bundy, yea, even Malvina, who had been his favorite, after all.

How did he come to be at the tent of the minstrels? Did he not have a rich man's rooms in Troyes where he spent great amounts of money for market goods?

Rebecca's heart twisted as did her hands.

She turned away, catching the legs of her costume up so as to move quickly. No matter if Stephen wished to meet her, he could not know she was Rebecca, his wife, and he must never know.

She stumbled and a hand reached to help her. Mumbling her thanks, Rebecca looked up into Stephen's stern face.

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Chapter Fifteen

Stunned, Stephen stared into Rebecca's face, hers no longer the face of a child, but a beautiful woman. Spots of paint lingering along her cheek reminded him of the day he took her from Grinwold in her sixteenth year. Blood from the rabbit she'd slain with a bow and arrow had stained her fingers, face smudged with dirt and dark rings beneath her fingernails. He'd thought her a plain little urchin then.

Rebecca was no longer plain. The wheat color of her hair had lightened from hours spent in the sun and all kinds of weather. The blue of her eyes had deepened, or perhaps it was because thick lashes were blacker and curled at the ends. The childish features had disappeared, and in their place, was a lovely woman with thin, high cheekbones, a generous wide mouth and lips the color of the roses atop the arbor she and Aubin worked so diligently the long days he left her alone. Her body was slight, but there was a gentle swell to her breasts and a defined flare to her hips that he did not recall.

This is Rebecca, he told himself, but she has changed.

For many fortnights after Rebecca disappeared, Stephen had railed and cursed her, had blamed her for his misery and unhappiness, his inability to take care of the smallest duties. Everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of the woman he had married under duress, the one who made his days pleasant and his nights delightful. The servants spoke in whispers lest he chastise them for idleness and gossip. Aubin watched him with worried eyes, hovering to make sure Stephen was comfortable.

Finally, he'd admitted to himself that it wasn't entirely Rebecca's fault. He had been remiss in reassuring her that he cared for her, that he truly enjoyed having her near him, was glad she was his wife. Oh, yes, he had meant to tell her such things, but the time had never presented itself.

Then the loss of the child. He didn't know how to console Rebecca in her sorrow, didn't know how to tell her he, too, felt the emptiness, the pain, the sadness that a child would not fulfill her wishes. He knew, deep down, he knew that Rebecca needed someone, something of her own, to love. He had not given her the things she needed most, and she had left him.

There were many words he could have spoken, reassurances he could have given, had he not been too prideful, too caught up in his own unhappiness to give Rebecca the support she needed, yea, deserved. And so, long since, Stephen had taken most of the blame for his own unhappiness in losing his wife. A wife who, years before, had been unwanted, unneeded, even resented. And, even yet hard to admit, one he had learned to love. With Rebecca, you could not help but love. She had given him her innocence, her unbridled passion after he took that innocence. And he had given her naught but neglect.

Yea, Stephen thought now, how much I would change had I but the chance to do it over again. Regret went deep.

Without taking his eyes from his wife's face, he said, “I will talk with the Lady Rebecca alone.”

“Who art thou that canst come here and demand such of Rebecca?” Hugh said.

“I am her husband.”

Margaret opened her mouth but no words came.

Hugo shook his head, then murmured, “'Tis true, Rebecca?”

She pushed Stephen's arms away and stepped back, turning to face Margaret and Hugo.

“Aye, ‘tis true.”

She clasped her hands together to prevent their trembling, but her voice was low and uncertain. Her friends knew she had been married but did not know her husband.

“We will not leave thee alone with him if thee art afraid,” Margaret said.

“Nay, nay. I am not afraid. It is well that we talk. He will not harm me.”

As Margaret and Hugo left, Rebecca swung around to face Stephen. It was beyond belief that she was standing in front of her still-beloved husband. The strength of his hands had bit into her arms, and she rubbed them, trying to hold the warmth to her. The old yearning returned a hundred fold, the old love so well hidden, all the feelings nurtured in her two years of living with this man. How could he be standing in front of her with his usual demands? The resentment he felt when burdened with an ugly, unwanted bride, filled the air around them. Even so, she was his wife, and she was duty bound to remain with him no matter the circumstances. No matter her heart belonged to him and he didn't care.

How many times had she dreamed of such a happening? How many times had she awakened with wet cheeks after her dreams and fantasies? The years that had passed since her last sight of Stephen faded as she watched the blue eyes darken with anger, saw his fists clench at his sides. No doubt he would love to use them on her, but being the gentleman, he wouldn't. She wouldn't have cared. At least, then he would have had to touch her.

Ah, Stephen, you and I did, indeed, miss our chance at happiness. And who, I wonder, could we blame but ourselves?

Her chin went up. “How art thou, Stephen?”

“I am not here to speak of myself, Rebecca. Give me reasons why I have looked for word of you for near two years. Why didst leave without cause?”

His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Without cause, my lord?”

Rebecca drew in her breath to chastise him. But for what reason? Their marriage was over and done. Stephen had made his choice, and there was naught Rebecca could do. He had been forced to marry her, mayhap not at the point of a sword, but just as binding. Why shouldn't he resent her? Why shouldn't he wish for a wife who lived to please him, who should be thankful she had a home, food on the table, and a fire on the hearth?

In Stephen's eyes, she had everything any sane woman could want. Well, mayhap I'm not sane, she thought as bitterness left a bad taste in her mouth. Here was Stephen, demanding as always. Thinking himself right as always. He would never change.

“I thought perchance it would make the way easier for you should I go.”

“You speak in riddles, Rebecca. Say clearly thy meaning.”

Stephen folded his arms simply to prevent his reaching out and drawing her back inside them. His tall body trembled, but he would not let Rebecca see this. His breath came through parted lips, hurt his chest, aroused pain he had buried lo, these long, long days and nights since Rebecca's departure.

“Riddles, my lord? How so? Dost not remember the unwanted child I carried for you? Dost not remember days, nights, fortnights, away from home because you could not bear the sight of me growing big and clumsy with your son?” She turned away. “And forbidding me to ride Tor?” She glanced across her shoulder, and Stephen was surprised to see her smile. “Tor was my best friend at Glastonbury, and I was forbidden to ride him because you believed harm would come to the steed along the rocky shores of Moon Cliffs. Thou didst not worry about me, so why say ye that I caused later worry?”

Once more, she moved away from him, this time pulling aside the tent flap and dropping it behind her before Stephen could enter. Margaret and Hugo were not there, and Rebecca turned as Stephen slammed his way inside, his mouth a straight, angry line, his eyes sparking blue fire.

“You have no right to speak that way of me, Rebecca. You will come home with me straightway, and you will do as I say. I am your husband, the wronged one, and...”