The farm was in darkness. The man stood at the kitchen door and knocked gently. “Mistress?” The farm was in darkness. The man stood at the kitchen door and knocked gently. “Mistress?”
A shutter scraped open above the man’s head. He stepped back and looked up. There was just enough light to see her face.
“Leif?” The terror of a strange voice in the night ebbed, to be replaced by guilt. This was normal, however; she was dreaming again. Anne saw Leif’s face often in dreams, and she would wake soon. Wake into the nightmare her life had become.
Below her, the big man smiled. “Yes, lady. No need to be afraid. Will you let me in?”
Anne shook her head to clear it and, as if for the first time, felt the cold iron of the latch on her window, saw her breath as it floated in the still night. This was no dream. She was awake. Leif was real. “Yes. Of course. Stay there!”
Leif gazed up at the woman whose face had haunted him all these long months in the north. Faint light glimmered. It caught the lines of her face, the curve of one shoulder as she leaned forward to throw the shutter back—being careful to crouch a little behind the window’s sill so that he would not see she was naked. Her hair was unbound, like a child’s.
Leif swallowed hard. Anne was alive. And seemingly unhurt. The tiny hammer at his throat was warm as he touched it in silent thanks to the God of War for this unexpected kindness.
“Yes, lady. I’ll wait.” He spoke softly. He would always wait for her.
Anne nodded and ducked back inside the room, pulling the shutter closed as gently as she could so as not to wake Deborah or little Edward. She padded back to her bed, shivering. Groping along the wall in the dark, she found her kirtle, an undershift, and her shawl. They would have to do. Her feet were cold, but bare feet would be silent in the sleeping house and that was good.
A moment later, Anne slid the three stout bolts on the kitchen door from their keepers and lifted the latch.
“Lady Anne.” Leif bowed to her and ducked beneath the lintel. She didn’t catch the expression on his face, but her voice quavered when she replied.
“You are welcome in my house, Leif. So welcome. I’ll make a light so we can see each other.”
Leif watched Anne as she tried to apply flint to the wick of a pottery oil lamp. After three attempts he took it from her and coaxed a small bright star from the wick. “Sit, lady. On the settle. I’ll restart the fire. It’s cold in here.”
Anne nodded and sat while Leif took the great poker to the ashes of the fire, stirring them vigorously and blowing hard until he found live coals buried deep. He fed the small flames with twigs and a little straw. Warmth bloomed and rosy light transformed the kitchen, winking on copper pans and gilding the edges of the pewter chargers on the cupboard. It was a cozy, homely place—beautiful in its simple usefulness.
Anne saw nothing of this, however, as shame, joy, and confusion pulled at her like a trinity of wolves. She had no right to this kindness and she would not take advantage of what he felt for her. How could she do that when the substantial shadow of Edward Plantagenet was still such a huge part of her life?
Leif turned and smiled at her. “Room on the settle for me?”
Anne found words for simple things. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s late, and I’m sure you’re hungry. Are you hungry, Leif?” She could hear herself prattling; she sounded like a loon! Action was a remedy for such foolishness.
She jumped up as he sat down and hurried over to the three-legged pot sitting in the fireplace. It was half full of good winter stock simmered from bones and scraps of meat and the last of the stored root vegetables. This soup was one of the staples of Anne’s kitchen, and each evening barley was added, along with wild garlic, and then the ashes banked high so the broth would cook overnight, ready for break-fast in the morning.
Anne lifted the iron lid and dipped in a ladle, then poured the thick, savory liquid into a wooden bowl. She carried the soup to Leif, realizing again, with something of a shock, how very big he was. The work of hauling ropes and straining at the tiller of his cog had given Leif a broad chest and massive arms and shoulders; even seated, he dwarfed Anne’s standing height. And she could smell him: healthy, warm, male, musk and spice. He was the captain of a trading vessel, and when he moved there came the scent of cloves and quills of cinnamon—the ghosts of previous cargoes. His scent sharpened her sense of loss.
“I have bread, also. Yesterday’s, but still good.”
“Bread would be excellent. If it’s Deborah’s?”
They both smiled. Try as she might, Anne had no skill at kneading bread and her loaves were always heavier than her foster mother’s.
“Yes, she made the bread. Don’t worry, I’ve not had my hands anywhere near it.” A round loaf and a little pot of rendered goose fat were quickly found.
Anne hesitated, then sat down beside her guest; watched, without speaking, as Leif tore a thick piece off the loaf and dipped it in the goose fat. That task accomplished, he spooned soup into his mouth, glancing quickly at Anne. She was tired and the circles beneath her eyes spoke of trouble. Or fear. He didn’t like to see that.
“This is very good.” Leif smiled at Anne. She nodded, but would not look at him as she fed more wood, unnecessarily, into the flames.
Leif ate steadily for a little longer, then, sighing, put the bowl down and turned to her. “I don’t blame you, lady. You had to go with the king. They told me you had no choice.”
Anne ducked her head in a vain attempt to hide sudden tears. When she tried to speak it was in a choking whisper.
“I’m sorry, Leif. So sorry. I deserted you.”
He shook his head, a smile glimmering. “No. You didn’t. He did, though.” Between outrage and astonishment, Anne couldn’t speak, but Leif laughed. Actually laughed. “When I got over it, I understood. It’s what I would have done. If I’d been him.”
At that moment, little Edward ran into the kitchen in his nightgown shouting “Leif!” and hurled himself at the big man like a cannonball. The sailor shoved his bowl away and gathered the child into his arms and up against his massive chest.
“Well now, Boy, I thought you’d have forgotten me.” Boy was Leif’s nickname for Anne’s son.
Edward wriggled his way up the giant’s torso until his arms were locked around the seaman’s neck. The child shook his head solemnly. “No. Not ever or ever. I love you. Good to have you home, Leif.” He patted the big man’s face and they both laughed.
Deborah entered the kitchen in time to hear the last of this little speech and saw the wistful expression on Anne’s face as she gazed at the man and the child. She clapped her hands quite sharply. The trio looked up, three startled faces.
“What are you doing out of bed, young man?”
“I heard them talking, Deborah. Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry, but you really should be in your bed, child.”
Edward started to protest vigorously, then changed his tack. “Read me a story, Leif? Then I’ll go back to bed.” Such shining innocence; such emotional cunning!
Leif laughed, and so did Anne. “I’d like that, Boy, except I can’t read. I can tell you one, though.”
Anne interrupted. “Let Edward stay here, Deborah. You too. Isn’t it nice that Leif’s back and we’re all together again?”
The old woman smiled at her foster daughter but said nothing. In truth, it was good that this kind and dependable man had returned, but perhaps it would make things more complicated for Anne. Was that a good thing?
Anne kissed her son. “Come, Edward, you can sit here next to Leif for just a moment. Would you like some soup?” Anne put a small bowl of soup in front of her son as Deborah searched for something in the shadows of the kitchen.
“The warming pan. I just want to heat the child’s bed before he goes back up. It’s very cold. Ah… here it is.” Deborah shoveled hot ash into the hinged metal pan, talking over her shoulder as she worked. “You be quick, Edward, because you’ll need a big sleep. Long day for all of us tomorrow.”
The sailor cut off a lump of bread for the little boy and showed him how to dip it neatly in the liquid and convey it to his mouth without dripping.
“Well done. Now, another bite…”
The child yawned hugely, exposing the half-chewed food in his mouth. His mother did her best to sound severe. “Edward, I’ve told you before. Hand over your mouth.”
The little boy giggled and exhibited the contents of his mouth again with a big grin. That set them all off and soon the three adults were laughing so hard, tears streaked their faces. Then Edward yawned again, his eyes fluttering as he rubbed them with his fists.
“Come, sweet babe,” said Deborah. “Enough of this. We’ll warm the sheets together. Then Wissy will come.”
“Leif too?”
“Yes, I’ll come. Now, tuck up warm, Boy.”
The big man leaned down and placed the small boy carefully on his feet again, kissing him warmly. A visitor at that moment would have thought them a family—mother, father, child, and grandmother. Anne caught Leif’s eye and seemed about to say something, but then turned to her son. “Don’t I get a kiss?”
She hugged the child hard, and then, hand in hand, Deborah and little Edward left the kitchen, singing as they went. “Up the stairs, up the stairs to Bedlingford…”
There was silence in the kitchen now, except for the crackle of the fire. Anne added more wood and poked hard at the ash bed, avoiding the man’s eyes.
“He’s grown. He’ll be a tall man.” Leif did not add, Like his father.
“What’s all this?” He gestured around the kitchen; there were roped coffers and piles of possessions stacked in the shadows. “You’re leaving the farm?”
Anne half turned away, nodding.
“Why?”
“It is my choice.”
Leif got up and took the poker from Anne’s hands. It was the same one that had killed Edward Plantagenet’s messenger.
“You don’t want to tell me?”
Anne shook her head, tears close to the surface. “We must leave Brugge as soon as possible.”
Leif digested that statement without comment. Then, throwing another log from the autumn trimmings of the orchard onto the fire, he gently turned Anne’s head toward his. She could not escape. “I heard the story in town. That’s why I came here. Where will you go?”
Anne dropped her gaze from his. “South. Italy, perhaps. We will start again, Deborah and Edward and me.”
The words were brave, but Anne’s loneliness touched Leif’s heart. He said nothing and it was she who broke the moment, taking the empty bowls from the hearth. Anne returned and sat down beside him on the settle, her eyes far away. Defeated.
He reached over and gently covered both her hands with one of his own. “You don’t have to do this alone, Anne.”
She looked up at the giant man with the kind eyes and it was too much. Deep, wrenching sobs tore from her chest. Instinctively, Leif reached for the girl and this time Anne did not resist; she allowed herself to rest against him as he rubbed her back gently, rhythmically. After a time, she gulped herself into silence and leaned against his shoulder, numb.
“Lady, I’m here to take you home. If you’ll let me.”
Anne’s swollen eyes flew open. “Home?”
Leif nodded. “England. I reclaimed the Lady Margaret from the pool of Delft and she’s moored at Sluys. The tradesmen who repaired her were honest. You were right.” He smiled gently. There was silence for a moment. Then Anne sat up, worry creasing her brow.
“But how can we sail to England? The war is—”
“About to begin in earnest, I’d say. Talk in Brugge was that Duke Charles will help the king at last. But that won’t happen quickly, so we can beat him back. If you’ll trust me to take you there.”
Leif made it all sound so easy. The heartache and confusion were blown away on the fresh wind of common sense. Tears spiked Anne’s lashes.
“I told the king that I must choose what was best for us all—little Edward and Deborah and me—and choose I will.” She blinked hard and shook the tears away. “Can you really take us to London?”
The Dane stood up so abruptly he hit his head on the low brass candelabra. “Ow! Never mind! Why do you think Sir Mathew hasn’t seen the Lady Margaret before now? Yes, of course I can take you home.” Deborah had reentered the kitchen unnoticed and stood in the shadows. She heard the unspoken end to the sentence: and take you for mine, as well.
Thor’s servant, the servant of war, had returned in another guise to Anne. Her daughter had better be careful or she would unleash a mighty force in her life. No fight between nations, no difference in class could ever be as strong as overwhelming love. The love this man felt for Anne de Bohun.