Chapter 4
The Harsh Light of Day
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I t was Meg, who brewed the finest ale to be had, who was on Robert's mind on the morning of his wedding. When he had returned from France and seen her again, he had not recognized Meg at all. The sweet-faced seventeen year old girl he easily recalled was vanished and in her place was a sweet-faced old woman with pocked skin and very few teeth. Now he could not escape the thought that Meg was younger than he was, and he was younger than Eluned.
At first, nothing had seemed to matter at all except that Eluned had agreed to marry him. Despite the rather formal language she used in the message she had sent, he had seen her request that they be wed as soon as possible as a sign of her eagerness to be with him again. He had indulged for the last few weeks in fantasies of how joyous their reunion would be. After sobering up – and eventually climbing down from the giddy heights of being able to say her name so freely – it was borne in upon him that eighteen years was a very long time.
Now he found himself dwelling on Meg's few teeth and questioning the reason for Eluned's haste. They were supposed to have time together before saying their vows. A day, at least. But her party had encountered a delay on the road in the form of a washed-out bridge, and now she would arrive directly at the church doors. It must be today, if they were to be wed before the season of Advent prevented it.
The doubt and worries that had crawled into his head were not difficult to silence. All he need do was remind himself that it was her spirit he had loved. He would still want her, no matter if she little resembled the girl he'd known. He would always want her. But he would also like some warning.
For the tenth time this morning, Robert decided that gray was too somber and reached again for the rust-colored tunic. The gray had more embellishment but the rust was a more impressive velvet. And if he put the heavy silk velvet with the belt covered in topaz and emeralds, he thought he would make a fine looking groom. Maybe he would ask Kit which one suited him better. Or at least which one made him look younger. Then again, Kit might tell him he need not bother to expend such effort on impressing his bride.
He picked up the gray tunic and looked at the polished bits of jet at collar, cuffs, and hem. It would match the bits of gray hair that had lately begun to grow at his temples.
"You can always go naked to the church door," came Kit's voice. "But I have seen your bride, and I assure you that you will be sorely underdressed."
Robert looked up at him expectantly.
"You decided to shave the beard, then! Well done, that servant might have wept if you'd called for the razor only to change your mind again. I have not seen your jaw in a year."
Robert resisted the urge to run a hand over his bare face. He was still waiting, and his friend knew it. But when Kit said nothing more, Robert reached for the flagon of ale. Kit's hand stopped him.
"She is handsome."
Robert met his eyes. "How handsome?"
Kit gave a little shrug and a smile. He was clearly enjoying this. "She has all her teeth. Or at least the ones in front. And they are white as pearls."
Robert nodded. He wanted to ask if her hair was still a dark brown, how worn was her face, if she had grown portly and if her eyes still flashed fire. Eighteen years was a very long time. He went ahead and drank some ale.
"You are sure she has a full forty years now?" asked Kit, which lifted Robert's hopes further.
"Forty-one, perhaps, I know not the day of her birth. But I thought she might still be uncommon lovely, if my father seems to think her younger than that."
He had wondered if Eluned put out rumors that she was younger than she was. But he did not think her vain enough for such a ruse. It was more likely that his father, who had spied her at court a few years ago, saw what he wished to see: a bride young enough that there was a chance she might still give Robert a son and heir. Why more grandsons should matter was beyond Robert. His brother Simon had three sons, and they would inherit everything if Robert died without issue. His father should be happy enough with that.
"I did not see her very closely, but she looks younger than that. She has a noble bearing, too. A man could not be faulted for thinking her royalty, such is her elegance."
This assurance from Kit sounded quite genuine, which only compelled Robert to drink more of the ale. He should have written to her. A letter, as expected of a groom, full of praise for her beauty and declarations of his joy at their impending wedding. The household cleric had a great number of examples and suggestions for such a letter, as it was apparently a gesture so standard as to be akin to writing out a bill of sale. But it was unthinkable that he would send such practiced and hollow words to her after all this time.
He had written dozens, even hundreds of letters to her over the years – just never on paper. In his mind he had composed them, page after page filled with the mundane events of his life, thoughts and stories and other tidbits reserved for her, couched in words of love. He had not even realized what a habit it had become, this constant but silent narration of his life to her, until he was presented with the opportunity to make the communication real. And then he found too much to say, impossibly overwhelmed, until she was suddenly arriving in a wedding procession this morning. Now. With a regal bearing and teeth like pearls.
He made to bring the flagon to his lips again, but his hand was suddenly empty.
"Dress, not drink," said Kit, helping himself to the ale, which he had taken from Robert somewhere along the way. "The procession has begun and there is naught but half an hour until she arrives at the church."
Robert looked at the gray tunic, and the rust. Did it really matter which? It was eighteen years. It was marriage. If she did not like what she saw of him at first glance, it was doubtful she would turn tail and run back to Ruardean.
"I am told the stray branches have been cleared from the path," he said as he pulled the rust-colored tunic over his head. There had been a storm that left debris along the road where the bridal procession would travel. "Tell me it is true."
He reached for the belt covered in topaz and emeralds as Kit answered. "Aye, cleared of every stray leaf, and there's new thatch on the storehouse and the stables are so clean you could serve the feast in them. You can be proud of it, Robin."
Robert fastened the belt, slipped a leather pouch into his pocket, and took a short deep breath before looking up at Kit. He held his arms out slightly, hands up, and gave his friend a doubtful look.
"Well? Will I please this regal bride?"
Kit frowned in consideration a moment, then shrugged. "Even were she not regal, she is still a woman. No man can predict what will please a woman."
Robert dropped his hands and headed for the door. "By Mary, what kind words from my bosom friend."
"Kind words or honest words, Robin. A bosom friend can offer both, but not always at the same time."
S he was only a green and gold shimmer in the distance, and he almost could not bear the anticipation of seeing her. He found himself fixing his eyes on the place where her hands held the reins.
There was music, and the chattering of a thousand voices. There were banners flying, ribbons fluttering, and colorful petals falling, flung over her and strewn in her path on her slow ride toward him. But all he could hear was the beat of hooves that had galloped toward her a lifetime ago. All he could see was the memory of his own hands gripped tight on the reins, knuckles white and aching, as he rode to meet her that first time and chanted to her in his head, Please be there, please be there .
She was close now, sunlight flashing off of emeralds and cloth-of-gold around her perfectly serene and familiar face. The years had barely touched it. It was a white, smooth mask that showed nothing. Please be there, he thought.
He might have stood there for hours, just looking at her, if Kit had not cleared his throat rather too loudly. Then Robert was in motion, striding toward her, reaching up to lift her from the horse, and the feel of her weight, her body – how she so naturally leaned down and put herself into his waiting hands – caused all the color and sound to burst forth on his consciousness. It was Eluned. Eluned in his arms. Here and now.
"My lord de Lascaux," she murmured with downcast eyes, and it looked as though she meant to bow her head to him, to pull away and bend her knee in some sort of courtesy, but he would not allow that. He could never allow that.
"Cariad," he said.
Her eyes were on him then, a flash of gray intelligence under a still luxuriant sweep of lashes. She looked startled. But she did not smile even a little, and her chin stayed stubbornly level as a little pinch formed in her lips. He remembered that pinch, though it had not used to be so severe. It meant she was suppressing unwise words.
Without thinking, he did what he would have done years ago in a secret sunlit patch of grass, far from prying eyes. He kissed her, pressed his lips to that endearing pinch. The crowd was pleased. He could faintly hear them over the pounding of his heart. She was warm, a sudden heat rising from her face accompanied a sharp intake of breath. He ended it quickly, fearing she would stiffen or pull away.
Amid the cheering the priest beckoned them forward, and holding her hand high in his, Robert led his bride forward to the church doors so that they may say their vows. It was strange and yet perfectly right, he thought, that these would be the first words spoken between them after so many years. As he waited for the cheers to subside, she looked full at him, her eyes roving over his face. He could not read her expression except to say that he saw no chagrin or regret. He thought he looked much as she did, with more lines around his eyes and less tautness to his face, but still recognizable for all that.
"I pledge to you the faith of my body, that I will keep you in health and in sickness, and in any condition it pleases the Lord to place you." He repeated the words after the priest, watching Eluned closely for any emotion. Her composure was absolute, a stark and unnerving contrast to the tumult in him. "And that I shall not abandon you for better or worse, until death parts us."
She said her own vows steadily, easily. Even when the priest enjoined her to promise obedience and compliance to her husband, she repeated the words without hesitation – without even a sideways glance at him – and Robert began to fear that he had dreamed everything about her, and all that had been between them.
Once they had entered the church to celebrate the mass, he let himself look at her in quick glances and secretive gazes. There were furrows etched into her brow and her hair was a darker brown now, with strands of silver running through it. It was coiled in heavy braids inside a golden net that glittered with emeralds. He imagined anyone looking at her would see what they were meant to see: wealth in great abundance, power and status that set her apart. But he looked at her and saw her hair unbound, sliding over her bare shoulders. He knew the feel of it in his hands as he braided it, softness between his fingers as she sang a Welsh melody to him.
She wore a bliaut of deep green, touched with gold embroidery all over. The inner lining of the wide sleeves, the laces along the sides, and a border at the hem – all were made from cloth-of-gold, and he had an idea what such extravagance cost. It was her veil that made him smile to himself. Made of some wondrous sheer golden fabric, light and shimmering, it hung from the net that bound her braids. It draped across her throat and framed her face. Any other woman who was no longer a fresh girl would use the veil to conceal the few threads of silver in her hair and draw attention away from her face. But she did the opposite. This was the Eluned he knew, bold in her declarations and daring the world to see her as she was.
His Eluned was in there, beneath all the riches and all the years. He was sure of it.
But his conviction was tested as the day wore into the evening. He expected her eyes to come alive with keen assessment when he presented her to his father, but she only uttered commonplace greetings and calmly assured him that she was honored to join herself to his family. Others came to embrace her and congratulate them and, whether well-known acquaintance or stranger, high-born or humble, family or not, she was polite and distant.
She was a perfectly agreeable bride, pleasant and bland. In his direst imaginings, he could not have envisioned this.
Even when she introduced him to her son, she did not betray any extra warmth or animation. He could never forget how well she adored her daughter, which made such a striking contrast to her indifference toward her son. Robert began to feel the first trickle of real dread as he looked at the boy who had been born more than a year after he and Eluned had parted, and who looked so like his dead father.
What had these years been like for her, how had they so changed her that she would be like a stranger to her son? She almost seemed to embrace the distance, to pull it close and shove it between herself and her son even as the boy – so obviously, to Robert's eyes – wished to close it.
"I have hoped to meet you in France, my lord, but am full glad that you are come to England instead." William smiled at him, and it caused Robert to catch his breath. It was Eluned's smile, that he had last seen before this boy was born, shining forth from her son's face.
"Wherever your fair lady mother is, there I am glad to go." He watched William slide a tentative look toward Eluned, and endeavored to find a topic less awkward for the boy. "But tell me, do you travel to France soon?"
"First I will go to court and make my oath to the king, but after some time attending my affairs at Ruardean it would please me to see Gascony, I think."
"May it please you to taste Gascony first." Robert waylaid a passing servant and, taking a goblet filled with wine, offered it to William. "It is from our own vineyards."
He smiled at William's fervent compliments on the wine while closely scanning the crowd. There was no one, in the Ruardean party or anywhere else in the hall, whom he thought could be Gwenllian.
When he took his place in the middle of the high board with Eluned seated beside him, he could think of nothing to say to this quiet woman who did not look at him. He watched as she stirred her spoon in the pottage of beef and wine, the silence growing between them until he decided he must say something. Like a blind man feeling his way, he carefully touched on something he knew to be close to her heart.
"My lady, I am sorry I do not find your daughter among our guests."
She looked out over the noisy hall as though to verify this before answering him. "I would not have her travel such a distance when her child will soon be born. It is best for Gwenllian to stay at her home in Morency."
"It is not her first child, though?"
"Nay, her son was born two years ago and by the grace of God both child and mother came through it in good health."
He wanted to ask if she was happy her daughter had married so much later in life than she had. I had not even an hour between being a child and becoming a mother , she had once said to him, with furrows in her brow that echoed the ones etched there so many years later. But he could not mention such regrets now, in this place and with this company. He did not know if she had even told anyone that they had known one another years ago.
"Morency," he said instead, and watched her mouth pull taut. "You have married your daughter to a formidable man. I have seen him fight at tourney, and think I have never seen a man better at the sword."
Her chin thrust outwards, a gesture that said everything to him. The glittering veil at her throat fluttered, almost distracting him from the matching spark in her eye. He felt warmth spreading through him at the sight, like a burst of summer had visited him in the chill.
"She is more than a match for him." There was the hint of a triumphant smile at her lips.
"If your spirit runs true in her, I would expect no less."
She seemed for a moment as though she might contradict him, but said nothing. Instead she gave him a startled glance, as though she had forgotten and then been reminded he was there. Her mouth pinched shut again, holding in words he was sure she might have spoken if not for the many listeners nearby.
"Yes, her spirit." She took a sip of spiced wine.
"Even in France we have heard many rumors concerning Ranulf of Morency over the years. I trust he is not so bloodthirsty as the gossips would have us believe?"
"I have had little acquaintance of him. But it has been enough to know that only the most foolish would trifle with him, even were he not great friends with the king."
There was a bitterness in her voice at the last word, and a tension that radiated from her. So she did not like King Edward. Maybe she even hated him. He opened his mouth to ask but a flourish from the musicians, heralding the entrance of the next course, interrupted him. He felt a stab of annoyance. There was so much to ask her, so much he wanted to know. He wanted to hear about every minute of her life for the last eighteen years, and what she had felt when his name had been spoken and she was asked to marry him, and if she remembered the time it had been so wet and cold that they had huddled together beneath their cloaks and only talked for the whole afternoon.
But this was not the place for that. Later, after they finished the feasting and revelry, they could talk freely.
Three roasted swans, so elegantly reconstructed that onlookers could be forgiven if they thought the birds quite alive and swimming to the dais, were followed by two equally impressive peacocks and one magnificent crane whose gray feathers were painted silver. There were enough sounds of appreciation as the servants carried the dishes through the hall that Robert thought it must be a sufficiently splendid display, but he could not help looking to her to see if she took any delight in the festivities. She smiled at it all – at the dishes sailing toward them, at the merry music playing, the chattering guests – but there was no mistaking the emptiness behind the smile. It worried at him, that hollow pleasantness she wore. It caused something like despair to rise up in him to see her wear it so consistently.
As she held her hands under a stream of fragrant water that a servant poured forth from a golden ewer, he watched her closely. There was a wistful look that floated across her features as she looked at the ewer that was shaped like a dragon, water pouring forth from its mouth, and he remembered a brooch of a similar shape that she used to wear all those years ago. A bit of my old home, she had called it, because dragons were a symbol of Wales.
In a flash of insight he suddenly understood, and felt like the callow young fool she had named him on their first meeting. He waited until the servant retreated before speaking.
"Eluned. I am sorry we could not meet before our wedding feast, for I would offer you comfort in a less festive company for the loss of your brother. And Dinwen, that was your home before Ruardean." She paused in drying her hands. "I have remembered well how you spoke of its beauty, the bluebells in spring."
Her gray eyes turned to him again and knew he had not imagined the sadness in her. She did not speak for a long moment, and he began to worry he should not have said it. But then she nodded in acknowledgement, and spoke.
"I would petition the king to grant us those lands, if my lord husband wishes it."
There was no doubt his father had communicated his ambitions to her, of the lands and titles he hoped this union would bring. But he did not want to speak of such arrangements just yet. Lands, titles, political ambitions, all the things her wealth and connections might accomplish in the future – all of these seemed like the smallest, easiest prizes. Far greater was the challenge of finding her again beneath this stilted speech, this empty expression.
"Hardly can I even believe I am your lord husband. But knowing that it is so, I am content to let you tell me which lands will merit the effort. Your talent for such things can only have grown since you recommended this estate to me."
There was a moment of startled confusion in her eyes again, and then it was as though his words had woken her from a deep and troubling sleep. She looked at him directly at last, in recognition, a tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she spoke.
"You have done well with it. This manor house is tripled in size from the days when Whittington held it, and the land and villages so much improved they are near unrecognizable." She leaned a little closer. "Did my lord Whittington's curses follow you to France?"
"Curses were the only thing he had in abundance, and I invited him to spend as many as he liked."
Her response was a look of such fondness that it dazed him, made him a green boy again. Then she turned to wave away the servant who offered her the swan in mustard sauce, taking instead the woodcock baked in pastry. With a little puff of steam, she broke open the hard pastry, and as she spoke the fragrance of the bacon that was wrapped around the tender meat made him reach for his own plate.
"I have thought often of the good it may have done for Aaron of Lincoln, to sell it to you," she said. "But we can no longer name him Aaron of Lincoln since he has quit that place. I fear Whittington may have done him harm out of spite."
"Let your mind be at peace. Aaron came to me in France for a short time before moving on to Basel." He spooned the mustard sauce over his meat, his appetite fully recovered now that she spoke so naturally. "It was not the anger of Whittington he fled, but the mood of England toward the Jews here."
There was a short pause as she sipped the wine. "You told him to come to you." She did not ask it, but he knew it was a question nonetheless.
"I did. He was so burdened with worry for the fate of his sons, and what protection I could offer was trifling. I am sorry France was no better for him than was England, but he has had great success in Basel. If he had known of your concern, is sure he would have sent word to ease your mind."
This admission did not alter the arrested look on her face. It seemed to trouble her, though he could not imagine why. She only murmured, "Your kindness would shame the saints," but she said it so softly that he was glad to pretend he hadn't heard it.
He watched her fingers playing with a bit of pastry crust. Her earlier indifference was now replaced by an air of distraction, as though she were thinking very hard and only sometimes remembered to take interest in the celebration around her. From the corner of his eye he saw his brother approaching, only to be intercepted by Kit before he could reach the place where Robert and Eluned sat. Kit drew him into conversation, and Robert smiled his thanks at his friend before turning to Eluned again.
"Only last week I wrote to Aaron, and gave him news of our wedding." He took his cup in hand and gestured at a servant to fill it with the plain wine, unspiced because it was a finer vintage. "He is a merchant now, and we deal together in wine. Taste and you will see why it is in high demand, and why he is so glad to know I will always keep a portion aside for him."
He held the cup to her lips and she drank a swallow. Her lashes lifted, an expression of pleasure at the taste, her eyes meeting his over the brim of the cup. In an instant they were back in that moment a lifetime ago, when she had looked at him over the edge of her cup and he had known they would become lovers. For only a breath, the thrill of deep awareness connected them – and then she looked away and said something about the wine as he watched her skin go pink and then white.
All through the rest of the meal, he reveled in the memory of that moment. He told her of his estate in France, how he had assumed its management and led the seemingly endless efforts to keep King Edward's French lands safe from Spanish aggression. She had great interest in it and asked many questions, as he expected she would. There was still such confidence and competence in her, magnified and polished by the years.
She was changed; she was wary. But she was still Eluned, curious and discerning, and to talk to her like this again gave him hope as nothing else had.
A troupe of acrobats tumbled through the hall to the great delight of the guests, and she allowed a polite smile at their antics. He thought of telling her how Kit's son had been taken as surety against an imagined aggression and what might be done about it. But this was the wonder that he still could not comprehend – that he need not hurry to tell her everything now. They would have tomorrow, and the next day and the next. He would not have to surrender her after an hour and wonder when he might see her again. Now the dessert came, and they would soon end the feasting and be alone together, to talk and lie together all the night through. It seemed an impossible wealth.
"My son will go to Edward's court, and I would have us follow him there," she said as she was served a dish of spiced pears, painted in gold leaf and set in almond cream. "There we may hope the king remembers you if he truly will make a new lordship in the marches."
"Christmas with the king, then? We will meet with many others who think that prize should be theirs."
Her lips pursed. "None have done such a great service for Edward as you have, in preserving his duchy. You will remind him of this, and I will add our petition for Dinwen which lies close to the lands which are my marriage portion. I have experience of ruling in the marches, you have experience of maintaining his power in border lands. He is beholden to you, and will be happy for such an obvious choice. He values expediency, this king."
As she methodically laid out the points in their favor, she cut the gold skin away from the pear to get at the flesh. Careful and exact movements, careful and exact plans. There was no hint of a woman who was given to passionate outbursts. There was no relish in her voice, nor even interest as she spoke words that in another age would have been imbued with fire.
"If it pleases you," he said.
"If my lord has no care for the lands or title, or if there be other plans for achieving this ambition, I am content to do as I am bidden."
He stared at the discarded golden peel beside her plate, glittering and empty, and thought he had not felt such despair since the moment she had said he must never see her again.
"I would speak of anything else now, Eluned. There is time enough to plan such things." He took care to say it without rebuke. Then he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, desperate to see that hint of a real smile in her face again. "Instead let me entertain you with tales of my father's visit to me at Christmas four years ago, when he thought to gift me with a bride from Scotland. She was so amusing and he was so appalled at her brashness that I admit I was almost tempted."
She gave a delicate snort. "Not Atholl's youngest girl?"
"That was her," he replied. "She was barely out of swaddling and her first words to me were to ask how much older than Methuselah I was."
He was gratified to see her pause in bringing the spoon full of almond cream to her smiling lips. "And how did you reward this impudence?"
"With laughter, of course. She looked conscious of the insult and then assured my father he looked quite hale for all that he'd fathered a son so old."
She did not laugh, but he could tell by the way she pressed her lips together that she very much wanted to. It heartened him. It was enough, for now.
W hen it was time to withdraw to their bedchamber, the ceremony was less boisterous and more private than it might have been if they had been young. This was the first thing about the day to make Robert glad he was not in fact twenty years younger. Before leaving the celebration in the hall he danced with Eluned. It overwhelmed him. It brought up vivid memories of how they had danced so long ago, all the effort they had put into hiding their feelings in public, the many furtive and freighted glances exchanged, and the thrill they had taken in every slight but sanctioned touch. For all he could see, though, it was only a dance to her. She looked as if it held no meaning for her at all.
He was still reeling from both the memories and her detached demeanor, when his brother and Kit brought him to where she waited in the room they would share. She had gone ahead of him by only a few minutes, and stood waiting for him in her full dress. The priest spent an inordinate amount of time blessing the marriage bed, a sure sign of his father's influence. Eluned was unnaturally still throughout the prayers, a resplendent statue in the shadows of the room.
The small party of well-wishers took their leave, with only Kit and one of her ladies lingering behind the rest. Kit gave him a look that was commiseration and encouragement before clapping a hand to his shoulder and quitting the room.
"I need no more help, Joan." Eluned was removing pins from her hair and waving the girl away. "Go you and find Sir Heward. Better you learn now what he is like in his cups, before you are wed."
The girl blushed a little, made her courtesy to them both, and was gone. The embers glowed in the hearth and the music of the minstrels could be heard faintly, drifting from the hall. Her cloth-of-gold sleeves flashed dimly as she moved her hands over her hair, and the laces at the sides of her bliaut had been loosened. It was such a perfect picture of intimacy, this quiet moment in this room with her as she prepared for bed, that he could almost believe they had never lived apart.
"Let me," he said, and came forward to where she struggled to free the pin that held her golden veil.
She went still as a statue again, unmoving beneath his hands while he worked at the cloth pinned behind her ear. For a moment he thought he could smell fresh grass and wild primroses, so vivid was the memory of their first time together. He was as uncertain as that now, as tentative – while she stood calm and expressionless. He thought of her few scant smiles, and of her eyes meeting his over the cup. How she had flushed so prettily a few hours ago, this woman who pretended to be made of cool marble.
He finally freed the veil at one side. Then he brushed his fingers along the shadowed place beneath her jaw, and felt the frantic beat of her pulse. He bent and kissed her there, where the state of her heart was not hidden from him.
"Eluned," he said, and took her lips. She was not a cold statue anymore, but a soft and fragile thing. He felt her trembling, felt her warm lips open beneath his, and it was like no time had passed at all. It felt so comfortable and so very right that he could almost believe it was just another dream of her, even down to the taste of anticipation, the promise of deeper passion.
He rested his forehead against hers, heard her quick breathing, felt her hand touching his. It was just like before, like all the countless reunions they had had in their secret place. A kiss in greeting, the relief in finding her there, then the little stone given from his hand to hers before they would lie down together under the shade of the trees.
He did not have that little stone, now. It was long lost. But in the silence he reached into his pocket to close his fingers around a familiar shape, and slipped it into her waiting hand. He opened his eyes to watch her pull slightly away from him, open her hand, and stare down at it. She wore a look of wonder.
"I found it." He spoke just above a whisper, fearful of breaking the spell. "I searched until I found it. I kept it to give to you on our next meeting."
Her fingertips traced over the silver button as his had done for years, following the design of a griffin under a band of lent-lilies. These were symbols from the arms of Ruardean, and he had hated the design even as he had loved it, all these years, because it had been hers.
"You thought..." Her voice trailed off as she looked at it. The wonder in her face was gradually replaced with something else, something between disbelief and confusion. And then her voice changed, too. "You thought we would meet again?"
She moved a step away from him, and it broke the perfect, still circle of enchantment that had held them. The little distance suited the coolness in her tone. Still she gazed down at the button that had held her shoe – that had failed to hold it closed – all those years ago when they had believed they would only be separated for a few weeks.
"I hoped. I never stopped hoping for it." He admitted it easily, so sure was he that it would reach into her and find the woman who had been his lover. "I never stopped loving you."
Her body moved in shadows beneath her loosened gown as she lowered herself onto a bench near the fire. She held her hand open, palm flat, the button staring up at her. He waited in the silence that stretched between them, as he had waited for years and years.
"I told you to stop. I told you not to hope."
"You did." He smiled. "I have defied you."
She turned her face up at last and looked full at him, stern gray eyes in a pale face. There was no answering fondness there, no happiness. It dispelled whatever was left of warmth in the room.
"You have loved a dead memory," she said, not unkindly. "I am no longer that girl."
He shook his head even as a feeling of dread began to grow in him. "You are Eluned, who I loved. Naught can change that."
But there was something in the way she held herself, or the tilt of her head – something was not right. His Eluned was there, he was sure of it. He had tasted it in her kiss. But there was something in her that told him he was wrong in some essential way.
"We think memories are truth," she went on, calm and relentless, "but they deceive us even as we cherish them. The truth is that many years ago, we were foolish and arrogant. We lusted and we sinned. We called it love. But that summer ended long ago."
"Do you tell me your love ended with it?"
"Love," she said, and moved her head in a little gesture of dismissal. The golden veil still hung at one side of her face, because he had only freed one pin. It shimmered with her movement, trailing down the side of her neck to her shoulder, reflecting the little light from the fire.
That was when he saw what was wrong. The birthmark on her throat was there. It was everything he remembered – the size and color, the height from her collar bone, the teardrop shape – except that it was on the right side of her throat. Not the left. Yet he remembered it vividly, exactly. He closed his eyes and saw it, a bright image preserved over the years. In his memories he ran his finger across that mark and opened his mouth over it and looked for it every time she threw her head back to laugh as they sat in dappled sunlight. He had thought of it a thousand times over the years. He remembered that mark on the left side of her throat as well as he remembered her saying I will love you until I die .
He opened his eyes and looked at her, his breath coming too fast. He had remembered it wrong. It was as simple as that. As damning, as awful as that: he had remembered it wrong.
His Eluned burned hot and bright as the sun. She was the cleverest person he had ever known. She loved him and called him her Robin. She had a mark on her throat just to the left of center.
This empty woman before him now was made of cold stone and spoke to him in a reasoned voice about the deceptiveness of memory. She waved away the notion of love, and called it the dead past.
"You have held that summer as a treasure," she said, her gray eyes fixed on the hearth and the button forgotten in her open palm. "You have hidden it away for safekeeping, to be taken out only rarely, to savor or to venerate. But I have laid the days of it before me like playing cards upon a table, one after the other. I took them out and examined them over and over again, until there was no mystery to them. Until the shine wore off them and I could see them clearly."
It was like standing on the sand as the tide came in, sure footing lost in a swirl of water that threatened to pull him under. It was all the more terrible because she was entirely right. He had held those memories as his greatest treasure. He had built his life around them, protected them, believed they were the most real and important part of himself.
Yet the mark was on the wrong side of her throat. Her voice held no fire; it was only a little sad.
"What was it to you?" He asked it though he feared the answer. He had always feared it. A dalliance, a distraction, an amusement for a bored lady.
"It was a dream," she said.
She had said it before, in the dark and with the smell of rosemary all around. It was a dream, and now we must wake . But he had not woken. His waking was eighteen years late. You are a great fool, my Robin , said the Eluned of his memory, and he knew he must leave this room now, immediately.
But he paused as he passed her where she still sat unmoving, looking at the glowing embers. The silver button he had thought to carry to his grave sat in the palm of her hand. He stepped toward her to take it back, but her fingers curled over it in the same instant. He was sure it was a reflex, an impulse. She did not look to him, nor even did she seem to blink.
He looked for a moment at where his token was hidden in her hand, the white beneath her nails where her fingertips pressed her fist closed. Her expression was not changed. She did not even glance at him as he left her alone and walked out into the bright colors and gay music he had arranged to celebrate their joyous reunion.