Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Duncan was tired and he was sore, he was hungry and more than impatient with the hospitality of Haynesdale. Still, those were not the sole reasons he found the lady's solution unsavory.

He stared at the black hole of the sewer and sighed. "No other way?" he muttered.

Lady Marie had ushered them to the back of the stables, one at a time, using her cloak to disguise them from view. Bartholomew had already cast aside his stolen helm and had opened the wooden trap placed over the hole. The smell was pungent and strong enough to bring a tear to Duncan's eye. The mingling stink of kitchen waste, dung from the horses, and slops less than inviting.

"No other way," Lady Marie insisted. "Be quick!" She stretched to kiss Bartholomew's cheek. "On the first day that the sky is clear after the snow," she whispered. "Meet me at the old mill after midday."

The younger knight nodded once, his expression grim. The lady strolled through the stables to her waiting maids.

Duncan looked at the open square of the front gate, yearning for a cleaner solution. "Could we not detain another guard, lad?" he asked, even as Bartholomew shed the borrowed tabard. "Or one of us walk out the gates?"

"We would not get far," the knight replied. "Or travel quickly enough to evade pursuit once they lent chase." He gave Duncan a look. "It cannot be that deep."

Duncan thought of the height of the motte and was not so certain of that. The conduit might narrow too much for them at some lower point, and they could be trapped within a sewer for good. He might have argued more but one of the sentries shouted from the curtain wall.

"Hoy!" that man cried. "An intruder has entered the keep from the back portal! I see his tracks in the snow."

"Drop the portcullis!" shouted another. "He will not leave this place alive."

The gate could be heard to creak, then the iron spires fell to the ground to secure the bailey.

Marie strode to the bailey and raised her voice imperiously. "An intruder? In our keep? Find him immediately!" The guards and sentries scurried to do her will, even as she barricaded the view of the stable's interior. The horses nickered and tossed their heads, sensing the agitation of the men.

"No other way," Bartholomew said quietly, then arched a brow. "After you."

Duncan growled disapproval, but lowered himself into the hole. It was not that tight a fit, being almost arm's length in diameter. It was wrought of a column of fitted stone, and he was reassured that the walls would be more stable that way. Duncan could not discern the bottom beyond a glimmer in the distance and was unsure of its depth. Bartholomew knotted a rope around the end post of a stall, then cast it down into the hole. Duncan gripped the rope, braced his feet on the walls of the sewer and rappelled himself down into the darkness.

Zounds, but the stink only grew stronger.

Darkness closed around him, the circle of light above him blocked by Bartholomew's figure. He heard the knight drag the wooden trap over the top, then the scrape of the knight's boots on the stone walls above. There was muffled shouting from the bailey, and he moved more quickly.

They had to reach the bottom before the rope was discovered.

Nay, they had to be through the sewer and in the forest before the rope was discovered. He hoped Lady Marie could keep her husband's men at bay.

Then his boots splashed into muck. To his relief, it came only as high as his knees.

Which meant the outward passage must be higher than that. He flattened himself against the wall as Bartholomew dropped into the mire beside him, then slid his hands over the wet walls.

Oh, they were thickly coated with a substance he did not wish to feel on his hands. Perhaps there was a blessing in the darkness, for he could not see what surrounded them.

Though the smell was sufficient to leave no mystery.

"Here," Bartholomew whispered, then guided Duncan's hand to the gap in the wall. It was of similar diameter, but a horizontal bore, with a slight downward slant. At the far end of it, he could see light again.

He grimaced, then climbed into the tunnel, crawling forward on his hands and knees. At least there was only a handspan of filth in the tunnel, but Duncan hastened on, fully anticipating that some soul would cast some mess down the sewer. The last thing he wanted was that tide rising beneath his plaid.

He swore when he reached the grid hammered over the end of the sewer, and gave the metal bars a hard shake. Bartholomew joined him but a moment later and peered though the bars.

"We are on the other side of the keep," he murmured. "See how this drains into the river?" He nodded with satisfaction. "My tracks in the snow are on the other side."

Duncan gave the bars another shake. "We are not away yet, lad."

"Nay, we are not." Bartholomew peered at the bolts that secured the iron grid in the stone. "The mortar is chipping," he noted, picking at it with a finger. It crumbled beneath his touch, but not enough to loose the grid.

Duncan pulled his dagger from its scabbard and stabbed it into the crumbling mortar surrounding the bolt closest to him.

"That is fine steel!" Bartholomew protested in shock.

"And my life is well worth losing the hone of the blade," Duncan muttered.

"True enough." Bartholomew pulled his own dagger and hacked at the mortar on his side. It was not long before they had loosened two of the four bolts. Bartholomew gestured for Duncan to move aside, then he kicked at the grill with his legs. Duncan did the same, the pair of them alternating until the grid broke free and tumbled down the slope to the snow-covered moat.

They waited a moment, fearing it might have been seen, but no alarm was cried. Without further ado, they climbed out the hole, each helping the other. Again, they waited against the wall for a sign of discovery, and when there was none, they bolted toward the forest.

One of Duncan's boots crashed through the ice on the moat, and he bit back his cry of dismay. Bartholomew seized his arm and fairly dragged him to the opposite side. They crawled on to the bank but did not dare to linger. Duncan refused to consider how readily the hounds would track them, much less when he might be cleanly garbed again.

First they had to escape.

He only breathed a sigh of relief when they had taken fifty paces into the forest, but Bartholomew did not slow his pace even then. Duncan was aching from head to toe, but he would not delay their retreat.

Indeed, he did not doubt that if they were captured again, neither of them would survive the day.

*

Bartholomew was not certain how far they had run, but he did not think it was enough. Duncan was limping, though that man struggled on, and he wished he had Anna's knowledge of the forests. Which was the best direction to flee? Where might they find a haven? It was clear that Duncan could not travel much farther. Bartholomew might have led the other man back to the refuge of the villagers, but he was uncertain of his direction in the snow, as well as aware of Anna's protectiveness of her fellow outcasts. He did not doubt that Royce would hunt him and Duncan and did not want to bring danger to those who had shown him hospitality. Were there more hidden caves? Could he find one?

They reached a stream that looked familiar, though he would wager that all streams looked much the same. Some slight sound prompted him to glance over his shoulder at the surrounding forest.

Then he froze in place, for in the shadows behind them, he could discern Anna. She had loaded the crossbow and aimed it at his chest. She was dressed again in man's garb, her chausses and tabard simple and dark of hue. Her hair hung down her back in a dark braid and her expression was accusatory.

He recalled all the warnings he had ever heard of the wrath of a woman scorned and took a step back.

"Come, lad," Duncan said, with a glance at the sky. "If we hasten, we can put good distance between us and the keep before they can lend chase."

"Nay, Duncan," Bartholomew said quietly.

The older man turned and followed his gaze. He whistled through his teeth even as Anna took measured steps toward them. Her gaze was steely and her aim unwavering.

Bartholomew licked his lips. "I did not wish to awaken you this morning."

"Because you will leave," she charged. "You pause only for your comrade and now would leave forever."

Bartholomew had no argument to make against that.

"Surely, you did not imagine he would stay," Duncan said, looking between the pair of them. "Come, lass, his fortune lies away from this place."

"Does it?" Anna challenged, which puzzled Bartholomew. "You did not tell them," she said to him, fury in her tone.

Duncan sat down heavily. "Tell who what?" he demanded with impatience.

"He is the lost son of the last Baron of Haynesdale," Anna declared.

Duncan regarded her. "How do you know?"

"He bears the mark of the true son."

Bartholomew's blood went cold. "You cannot know…"

"I do." She glared at him.

Duncan rubbed his brow. "How do you know, lass?"

"He was marked by the smith, my father, so that he could not identified no matter how much he changed or how many died." She glared at Bartholomew, her vexation with him clear. "You mean to abandon your legacy!"

Bartholomew was well aware of how Duncan looked at him in curiosity. "So this is why you insisted upon the Haynesdale road," the Scotsman mused. He considered Anna anew. "And this is why Fergus says you are bound to his fate."

"I am?" Anna asked in surprise.

Duncan smiled. "It was why he bought the kirtle, he said, for he saw you in his dreams."

This appeared to fluster Anna. "I do not believe it. No one can see the future."

"Fergus can," Duncan insisted. He eyed Bartholomew, then spoke to Anna again. "What is this tale you tell of my companion?"

"It is no tale. It is truth. Haynesdale is his rightful legacy."

"What do you know about it?" Bartholomew demanded.

"Everything! You are the lost son returned. You are the hope of all those people, who begin to despair that justice will ever be restored."

"It is not that simple…"

"It is cursed simple. You are the rightful baron!" she cried, interrupting him. "You bear the mark of the signet ring, impressed into your flesh by the smith when you were but a boy, at your mother's command." Duncan blinked at this revelation and Bartholomew's neck heated. Anna took another step closer. "How dare you abandon us to this tyrant and evade your responsibility?"

Bartholomew ground his teeth. "I have no choice, Anna."

"You have every choice, and you make the sole bad one!" She lifted the crossbow higher.

"Anna, you must understand." He exhaled when it was clear she did not. "I make the sole possible choice. I must appeal to the king and the king's justice to see this matter changed."

She did not relent. "You should take Haynesdale for your own first."

Bartholomew flung out a hand, his temper expired. "And what merit of a deed would that be? What would be the difference between me then and every other villain who simply steals what he desires for his own?"

"Might makes right," Anna argued.

"Nay, never that." He marched toward her, ignoring the crossbow in his anger. Indeed, he pushed it aside with a fingertip. "Do you not think I have seen the effect of such choices? Do you not think I have seen grown men steal food from children to sate their own needs? To steal whatever gold they lust to hold as their own, regardless of who rightly claims it? To savor a woman, whether she wills it or nay, simply for the sake of their own lust?" He flung out his hands and his voice rose. "What is the difference between us and barbarians, if our word has no value, if we cannot be relied upon to do what is right, if we do not cede to a higher justice?" He shook a finger at her. "What then is the point? I will not be as those fiends I have seen in Outremer. I will not take simply for my own desire. I will not disregard law and order and justice and truth, simply because it is not convenient for me to do as I have pledged."

"Amen," Duncan said quietly, but Bartholomew ignored him.

"And if it means that I shall die without the seal of my father's holding in my hand, so be it. I shall die an honorable man."

Duncan nodded approval of this sentiment.

Anna was less convinced. "Is it not just as foul to turn one's back upon wickedness?" she insisted. "Or to abandon those in need of your aid?"

"I do not abandon you. I seek recourse by the only honorable means."

"Kill Royce before you go, then!"

"I will not do as he has done." Bartholomew glared at Anna, furious that she could not see the merit of his choice.

She glared back at him, evidently just as angry that he refused to do as she desired.

Suddenly she lifted the bow again and aimed once more at his heart. Bartholomew reached for his knife, though he knew he could not draw it in time. Indeed, her bolt was loosed before the blade was clear of the scabbard. It sailed over his shoulder, fairly nicking his ear as it flew past him.

He had a heartbeat to believe that she had missed.

Then he heard it sink home.

Bartholomew spun in time to see the victim raise a hand to his wound.

The assailant wore the baron's colors. The bolt had caught him at the base of the throat and he bled profusely. His eyes were wide and he fell slowly, first to his knees and then fully to the ground. His loaded crossbow dropped to one side, released from his loosened grip.

His companion fled through the forest, no more than a flickering shape in the distance. His boot falls faded from earshot with all speed.

Anna strode past Bartholomew, another bolt loaded and trained on the bowman. She reached the man's side and kicked his crossbow out of his reach, then rolled him to his back with a nudge of her foot. His hand slid limply to the earth beside him and his blood stained the snow. He stared at the sky, unseeing, and his chest did not rise again.

Anna waited a long moment, watching for some sign of life. She then removed the bolt from her own crossbow and slung it over her back. She claimed the fallen man's crossbow, removed its bolt, then returned to Bartholomew.

She dropped to one knee before him and offered the weapon on the flats of her hands. "My lord," she said and bowed her head.

She paid homage to him.

"You have killed one of the baron's men," Bartholomew said, when he had recovered his speech. "You have made yourself an outlaw in truth."

"I have saved the true baron's life," Anna corrected, that familiar fire in her eyes as she looked up at him. "And I have ensured that he is armed."

"And I wager that Sir Royce will know the truth of your identity soon enough," said Duncan, his eyes gleaming as he watched. "You will be hunted to the ground, lad, sure enough."

*

Bartholomew could not leave Haynesdale, not without seeing justice served first!

Anna was aware of his resolve, though, and knew he would do as much if she did not intervene. She admired his respect for the law—indeed, that would make him a good baron and overlord—but she disagreed with his conviction that justice would prevail. Anna had learned to expect the opposite. Justice was won when those who could dispense it had little choice in the matter.

Particularly when it came to righting a wrong. In her view, Bartholomew's appeal to the king would be vastly improved if he had already claimed the barony from Royce.

Even if that required Royce's demise.

How could she change Bartholomew's thinking?

He took the crossbow from her, and she noted how he admired its craftsmanship. It was a finely made weapon, and a baron—in her view—should be a warrior, as well. He had an archer's hook on his belt, so she knew he could use the weapon and well. Anna gave him the fallen man's quiver of bolts, as well.

Though he accepted both, he made no acknowledgment of her obeisance, much less Duncan's comment.

"You are too weakened to go far this day," he said to Duncan instead. "I would not have come to your sanctuary while the baron's men pursued us, Anna, for I would not have put the villagers at risk. I would ask you for shelter, though."

It was not what Anna truly desired of him, but it was better than him leaving immediately.

Perhaps she would have a chance to persuade him.

"Of course." Anna rose to her feet and gestured for them to follow.

Duncan stood with a small groan, but kept a good pace when Bartholomew took his arm. "That bastard beat me truly," he said through his teeth. "Though it was not a fair fight."

"His kind does not fight fair, Duncan," Bartholomew agreed, and Anna was glad that he had some understanding of the nature of the men beneath Royce's command.

To her relief, both men moved quietly through the forest. It made no sense to blindfold them, since Bartholomew had come from the refuge earlier that day, and she thought it might be a good sign of trust not to suggest the blindfold for Duncan. She still guided them on a circuitous path to ensure they were not followed. The snow was falling with greater volume which meant it would quickly disguise their tracks.

When they reached the edge of the haven, she heard a whistle, like that of an owl.

Moments later, they were seated beneath a lean-to, where soup simmered on a low fire. If Duncan was surprised to find so many people hidden in the forest and living as outlaws, he hid his reaction well.

"You are saved!" Percy cried and flung himself so hard at Duncan that the Scotsman near lost his balance. "He saved me!" he declared to the others and Duncan ruffled his hair.

"It is likely too much to hope that you will give up thieving," he said gruffly and Percy laughed.

That Duncan was Bartholomew's friend and had been brought by Anna would have been sufficient to see him welcomed, but Percy's greeting ensured his welcome was even warmer. Edgar found him a seat by the fire, and Willa served him a brimming bowl of soup. There was yet a bit of bread left and it was given to Duncan without discussion. The soup was thin but warm, and Anna saw Duncan's surprise when he tasted it.

"Chicken?" he asked, looking about himself. The company laughed.

"Esme brought her hens from the village two years ago," Anna said. "She refused to leave the flock behind, so we have eggs instead of the keep."

Duncan bit back a smile and clearly savored the soup. It seemed to restore him greatly, though the bruise on his face looked sore. She wondered how many other bruises he sported, for Royce's men could be cruel.

Willa refilled the bowl with a smile. "I wish we had better, since you have been in Haynesdale's dungeon."

"It is the finest meal I have eaten in a long while, lass. I thank you for it."

Percy demanded the tale of Duncan's escape and Bartholomew told some of it, though Anna expected he was unduly modest. Duncan's quick sidelong glances confirmed her suspicions. He gave her great credit for saving him from the archer and showed the bow to the others. Duncan asked if any man had a steel, and set to honing their daggers while the boys watched with interest.

The snow fell thickly, blanketing the world in white and bringing a peaceful quiet to the forest. All the while, Anna puzzled over the question of how to convince Bartholomew to stay, or to overthrow Royce before he departed to the king's court. He could be gone months once he left, for the king was likely in Anjou, and crossing to France in winter could be precarious. He might not return at all. The very notion chilled her, like a hand of ice closing around her heart.

Her dismay was not entirely for fear of the future of Haynesdale.

Nay, she would miss him.

And she would miss the conviction that the true son would return, no less the hope that such a belief gave her. She surveyed the tired group of villagers and feared that many of them would lose hope, as well. She could not bear to see them suffer more than they had.

Which meant that she had to make use of the time that Duncan rested to try to persuade Bartholomew of her chosen course.

In addition, she should seduce him as oft as possible before he departed, the better that she might conceive his heir. There could still be a true son. Though Anna put little stock in her sensual allure, her night with Bartholomew had been wondrous. Perhaps he found her enticing despite her inexperience. Her heart skipped a beat.

Perhaps she should put the gathering of the villagers to use in pursuing her first goal.

"I have a tale to entertain you on this cold day," she said, raising her voice to the company. They nodded and gathered closer, more than amenable to her suggestion. "It is a tale of which many of you know parts, but I know the whole of it. On this day, perhaps we will learn the ending."

"Anna," Bartholomew warned in a growl, obviously anticipating which tale she would tell, but she ignored him.

"Once upon a time," Anna began. "There was a baron who held the seal of Haynesdale. He came from a long line of noblemen who had been lords of the same holding, son after father, father after son. Their lineage was Saxon, though they had taken Danish brides when Knut held thrall in England. When the conqueror came and all old rights were swept aside, the baron of that time saw the course of change. He surrendered his seal to the new king, in exchange for the welfare of his people."

"A wise choice," murmured Duncan. "It is a rare man who can see his way through war with his holdings intact."

The company nodded agreement with this before Anna continued.

"William admired the baron's bravery and his repute. Though the holding was claimed by the crown, the crown granted it anew to the baron in exchange for his faithful service in future. The baron not only served William but took a Norman bride, at the king's suggestion."

"A tradition at Haynesdale, evidently," Bartholomew said but again, Anna ignored him.

If he meant to warn her that he could not ask for her hand, he wasted his breath. She knew he was born higher than she, and she understood how such matches were arranged. She was not some witless village girl. She lifted her chin, granted him a look, and continued.

"And so it always has been with the Barons of Haynesdale: they honored the past but defended the future. They upheld the law but were unafraid to fight in defense of what they called their own. They blended the old ways with the new, just as they blended their bloodlines, to ensure the safety and prosperity of those beneath their hand. Perhaps because of their reputation for honor and justice, perhaps because their holding was not so rich as that, and perhaps because Haynesdale was a little too far from the king's court, they were trusted by the crown."

"Perhaps it was that they never defied a king's will outright," contributed Father Ignatius. "Or rose in rebellion against the crown."

Anna smiled. "Or perhaps it was because they paid their tithes on time, and sent gifts to the king with regularity. The Barons of Haynesdale were able to pass their holding and title down through their own blood sons."

"That is as it should be," protested one of the company.

"With the payment of coin for the escheat, to be sure," Duncan muttered.

"When William the Conqueror claimed this land, he took suzerainty of it all himself," Bartholomew contributed. "He granted titles to his favored barons, but on the death of the baron, the title and holding reverted by law to the crown. So it has been these hundred years in England. When a baron dies, the assignment of his holding remains the king's own right."

"Some were more vigorous about this than others," Duncan provided. "The current king, Henry, is less concerned with England than with Normandy, and prefers not to trouble himself with the assignment of holdings he deems petty."

"Then they can pass from father to son," said Percy.

Bartholomew smiled. "With the payment of coin to the crown, the escheat can be passed, it is true. Without one, who can say?"

Father Ignatius shook his head. "It is no better than a bribe."

"And so it is not, but that is how suzerainty passes in England," Bartholomew agreed.

Anna cleared her throat, disliking this evidence of his resolve. "And so it was that there was a Baron of Haynesdale who was much loved by his people, and not that long ago. He was wedded as soon as he came to hold the seal, as is right and good. His wife was chosen for him by the king himself, and it is said that he was much smitten with her charms. They wed and returned to Haynesdale, where she quickly rounded with child. It was said that the Baron Nicholas was blessed beyond all—until his wife died in the bearing of their child, and the babe was lost as well."

Many in the company shook their heads, for they had seen women lost in childbirth. Esme listened avidly, and Anna knew she recognized the tale.

"There is a stone in the chapel by the old keep where she was laid to rest. Perhaps it has survived the burn. My mother said a thousand masses were said for the lady, and a thousand candles burned for a year in her memory. She said Baron Nicholas was broken by his loss and that he could oft been found, praying at his wife's tomb. The loss changed him, my mother said, for he refused to consider any suggestion that he might wed again. His heart was buried with his bride. That was his conviction."

Esme nodded sadly in recollection.

"Baron Nicholas ruled for many years without a wife, and the prosperity of Haynesdale grew beneath his care. Our markets abounded with goodness. Our granaries were filled every winter. Our sheep were fat, and our cows gave plentiful milk. The years passed and the baron grew aged. And though this is the nature of all things, there were those who began to be concerned with the future. What would happen to Haynesdale when the beloved baron died? He had no son or heir, not even a brother. Who would ensure the protection of all those who lived beneath his hand?"

A murmur passed through the company as all considered the merit of this question. More than one noted that Royce had no son and grew older, as well.

"There was a meeting in the village, for a conviction was dawning that the baron's advisors were leading him astray. Did one of them wish to take the seal himself? It could not be borne. My father was the smith of Haynesdale village, a quiet man who considered long before making his choices. He was much respected, and so it was that he was chosen to take the concerns of the village to the baron's next court. You can be sure that many came to listen."

"I was there!" called an older alemaker from the group, and Esme nodded agreement. More than one in the company appeared to realize then that this was not a tale of wonder, but one of Haynesdale's recent history. They leaned closer to listen.

"My father was no orator. He could not beguile another with fine words and clever phrases, but he spoke always from his heart. He appealed to the baron as a villein who loved his lord dearly and did not wish to see all lost upon that man's inevitable demise. Baron Nicholas listened to him, his fingers toying with his own beard as he sat on his great chair in silence. There were those who feared there might be retribution for my father's audacity, and perhaps my father shared that concern. But when he had said all he had come to the court to say, and I doubt it was lengthy, Baron Nicholas thanked him, then left the court."

The company was silent, their interest clear.

"There was no word from the baron for a week, though once again, he was seen in the chapel, praying at his wife's tomb. The candles were lit once more and burned through the night, and masses were sung in her honor again. And at the end of the week, the baron strode into his bailey and called for his horse. He rode out that very day with a retinue of courtiers, journeying south to the king's court with a speed that would have done a younger man proud. It was said later that he strode directly to the king in his chambers, then dropped to one knee and asked his sovereign to suggest a bride for him to wed."

There were nods of approval at the baron's decisive choice.

"The year was 1163, and King Henry II had just returned to England. He was intent upon putting his kingdom in order, and he liked that Baron Nicholas had remained loyal to him when Stephen and Matilda had challenged his claim. He also was impressed by the purpose shown by this older knight in his determination to do what was right. He vowed to ponder the question, then invited the baron to the board. A lady in the queen's service ensured that she sat near Baron Nicholas, for she was intrigued by him. Gabriella was a beauty and a widow. Her nature was as different from the baron's beloved wife as could be. She was said to be stubborn and outspoken. Her first husband had jested that she was better suited to lead an army than to ply her needle at embroidery."

There was a chuckle in the company at this, and Anna saw Bartholomew glance her way. "Many a man would prefer such a woman as his partner," he said quietly and Anna blushed. The company nudged each other at that and her face burned as she continued.

"Gabriella and the baron discovered that evening that they were both equally forthright. Baron Nicholas said he would never love another as he had loved his wife. Gabriella assured him that she would never love a man as she had loved her lord husband, and here, too, they found common ground. They were both practical, as well, and spoke of finances and expectations, their notions of justice, their taste for luxury, and a hundred other matters that first night. By the time the court retired for the night, each was convinced of the merit of the other."

Anna continued. "It was said that Baron Nicholas prayed that night for his wife's blessing for him to wed this lady, in order to ensure the security of his holding. He was granted a sign, in the sudden leap of the flames on the candles in the chapel and took this as her agreement. The king had witnessed the felicity between the pair at his board the night before and pronounced that Baron Nicholas should wed the lady Gabriella. They exchanged their vows before the court the next day and returned the Haynesdale."

"I wager she was welcomed," said one of the men in the company.

"Aye, she was. The lady won the hearts of the villagers quickly, for she was kind yet firm. She gave alms and she granted good counsel and had an unerring sense of what was right. Those in service in her hall were treated well, and she suggested new possibilities to the baron. Their match appeared to be amiable, and indeed, she rounded with child within the year. The baron was seen to be concerned, but the lady might have been fearless. One the anniversary of their nuptial vows, Lady Gabriella delivered onto him a healthy son. The babe came quickly, as if she wanted to see her husband's fears set to rest as quickly as possible, and there was much merriment in Haynesdale." There was applause at this and Anna turned to the priest. "Father Ignatius, did you baptize the boy?"

"Indeed I did. He was named Luc, which was the name of Baron Nicholas' father, and Bartholomew, in memory of Lady Gabriella's first husband. In the tradition of Haynesdale, his names blended two strains, just as the alliance of the marriage had done. He was a most robust child. Handsome and well wrought."

Anna saw Bartholomew start at the mention of the boy's name.

"He had a valiant heart," Esme contributed. "It could be seen even when he was a boy, and he possessed a generous nature. He played with my Oswald when the lady Gabriella came to visit me."

"There was the day," sighed a woman. "We did not appreciate our good fortune in our baron and his wife until they were gone."

Anna saw how Bartholomew observed the company. "It seemed all went well at Haynesdale but in truth, there was trouble brewing," she said. "The baron battled a neighbor on his northern borders, one whose holding was not so prosperous and who had an avarice for what was not his own. His name was Royce, and it is said that once he saw the lady Gabriella, his attacks grew in ferocity. The two barons treated and it was believed that all might be at peace, for a few years at least. The boy was four summers of age when Royce's men came in stealth. It was Christmas and Baron Nicholas had invited those on his holding to feast in his hall. The ale was tainted, by command of Royce, and all slept too soundly that night. The villains crept into the keep at Haynesdale, slaughtering any who awakened to challenge them, and murdered Baron Nicholas in his own bed. His wife would have been taken captive, for Royce desired her for his own, but she fled the hall, disguised as a servant."

Esme crossed herself. "God in Heaven, but I remember that night," she said softly.

Anna swallowed. "In truth, my mother gave the lady her own garb and aided in her escape. She came to our home, which must have been humble to her, but my mother said she was gracious and grateful. When the keep was set ablaze by the attackers, my father kept the lady from trying to aid those who were surely lost. They said the keep of Haynesdale became the old baron's funeral pyre."

More than one crossed themselves. "The old burn is still haunted," muttered someone. "You can hear their cries of pain when the wind rises."

"At Christmas," added another grimly.

"Fiend," said a third and spat at the ground.

"By morning, the fire was spent, the keep reduced to ash and the air filled with lingering smoke," Anna continued. "Villagers had been gathered up by the attackers and imprisoned. My parents had retreated to the forest with the lady and her son and watched in horror as Royce's men strode through the remains of the village, setting fire to homes and routing those who were hidden away. It was declared repeatedly that Royce would show mercy if the lady Gabriella surrendered herself to him."

There was silence at this, and more than one woman eyed Anna with compassion, for her own ordeal was not as secret as she might have preferred. Again, she saw Bartholomew take note of the reaction and felt his gaze upon her.

Her cheeks were hot, but she continued. "My mother said the lady Gabriella seemed to be filled with new resolve by this sight. There were three men loyal to her husband beyond doubt. My father found them, at her request, and they stood witness as she declared the plan. She knew there could be no triumph for her son on this day, not when he was such a young boy. She charged the knights to take her son to the queen, whose court was in Aquitaine, and surrender him to her safekeeping. She wished for him to come of age in that court, to train as a knight, then return to avenge his father."

She took a deep breath. "To ensure that he would be known as the rightful heir, Lady Gabriella had my father heat the signet ring of the Baron of Haynesdale and press its mark into the flesh of the boy, right over his heart. He was branded with the evidence of who he was, that none could doubt him on his return."

More than one villager grimaced in sympathy and Bartholomew looked at the ground.

Anna paused. "My mother said he was born valiant, for though the flesh was seared and the pain must have been considerable, the son of Baron Nicholas did not make a sound."

There was a murmur of approval at this.

"The lady then kissed her son's brow and bade him be good, and she did not watch as the knights disappeared into the woods with the boy. My mother said she wept silent tears. Then she strode back into the village, challenging Royce to show the mercy he had promised. She said she would come to his bed if he released the villagers. He did, and they watched in awe as she mounted behind him on his steed and went to his holding to become his new wife."

"Poor lamb," Esme said.

"There were those who thought the lady had been disloyal to her husband's memory, and still others who believed she had seen only to her own advantage. My mother said she had seen the love blossom unexpectedly between the baron and his wife, and she advised all to wait and see. And so the tidings of the truth came within days. The lady Gabriella had hidden a knife and attacked the new baron when he came to her bed. She had stabbed him in the eye before he realized her intent, then when his men were summoned to his aid, she plunged the dagger into her own heart. She killed herself before them all, rather than pledge herself to him, and avenged her lord husband. Royce bears the mark of her rejection still."

Anna heard the outrage in her own voice. "Royce paid the escheat on Haynesdale with Baron Nicholas' treasury, and there was none who dared to raise a protest against him. None who would be heeded, at least. He sought the signet ring with fervor but never found it. He learned bits and pieces of the truth, sufficient that he sent knights in pursuit of the missing boy, but we heard naught of what transpired. In the meantime, he built a new keep for Haynesdale, funded by the taxes he imposed upon us."

"It grew larger with the dowry of his second wife," noted Edgar.

"Aye, it did. My father was one of the first to become an outcast, but he was not the last, and now the forests of Haynesdale are home to more of us than the village."

Anna turned to Bartholomew. "And since that day of Haynesdale's loss, we have waited. We have told the story of Baron Nicholas and Lady Gabriella to our children and our brothers. We have endured the tyranny of Sir Royce and we have prayed for the return of Luc Bartholomew, the son of Baron Nicholas, and the rightful Baron of Haynesdale."

Anna reached into her chemise and tugged out the ring that hung there on a lace. "What no soul knew was that the lady Gabriella surrendered her husband's signet ring to the care of my father, that it might be hidden until her son's return. I am the daughter of the smith and this is the signet ring of Baron Nicholas." She held it up so that it caught the light. "My father held it in trust until he was taken to Royce's dungeon to confess what he knew. My mother kept it hidden until she, too, was taken to the dungeon to surrender what she knew. I know that neither of them admitted the truth, for I yet have the ring."

The entire company was silent.

"And on this day, against all expectation, I have found the mark made by my father, burned into the flesh above the heart of her son at the command of Lady Gabriella. I have seen the scar that fits this ring." She turned to Bartholomew and offered him the ring, dropping to one knee as she did so. "The mark of your legacy is returned, sir, as your mother decreed it should be."