Everlasting
Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
In everlasting gratitude, this book is dedicated
to all of Kathleen’s beloved readers
CHAPTER 1
AUGUST 24, 1135
She knew his name was Raven Seabern, that he was here at Westminster Castle in the service of his king, and she was aware of something else as well, that the tall, raven-haired Scotsman was staring at her again. But she was the Lady Abrielle of Harrington, daughter of a late Saxon hero of the Crusades, stepdaughter of a Norman knight who had also gained high esteem for his brave years of service in the Holy Land, both to be honored here tonight, and she would give the man’s attention the lack of regard it deserved. For here, at the court of King Henry, she was being paid the admiration of so many men. She turned away quickly and nodded to her mother’s soft-spoken praise of the interior grandeur of the great hall of Westminster Castle. Two massive hearths dominated the room at each end, with flames roaring higher than a man. Tapestries kept out the chill drafts and depicted scenes of men in battle or men at the hunt. The stitches were colored in royal crimson and gold, the deepest blue of a king’s robe, the startling green of dark forest. Never had Abrielle been in a castle so magnificent in its display of wealth and power. And she had been invited by the king himself.
She wanted to savor this happy occasion, as nights such as this had become sadly rare in her life since her father’s death and her stepfather’s recent difficulties. It was hard to be at ease, however, much less concentrate, with the Scotsman’s vivid blue gaze following her with an intensity to which she was not accustomed. And as if his staring were not unsettling enough, the man seemed to possess some mysterious power over her own traitorous gaze, as time and again she found it straying in his direction, despite her resolution not to reward his attention in any way. Thus far, she’d caught herself before indulging in anything more than a swift sideways glance or guarded perusal from beneath the sweep of her long, dark lashes, but in fact she had no need to look his way simply to confirm the fact that he was watching her yet again. It was as if his keen appraisal were tangible; she could feel it, the heat and weight of it, as surely and distractingly as if he were trailing a silken feather over her skin.
He was but one of the many men who had shown interest in her in recent days. Ever since her arrival in London with her mother, Elspeth, and her stepfather, Vachel de Gerard, Abrielle had received the overwhelming regard of noblemen looking for a suitable wife. Though Vachel did not yet have a title, it was assumed that King Henry this night was ready at last to confer such honors on a man known for his heroic deeds on the great Crusade. As a title brought with it lands and income, all knew that afterward, Abrielle’s dowry would increase substantially. During her short stay in London, men had come and gone from her stepfather’s apartments within Westminster Castle, presenting themselves first to her parents, then to her.
Those who had done so were men of honorable intentions, which it would seem the Scotsman was not, as for all his apparent fascination with her, he kept his distance. Even now he stood beside King Henry on the other side of the great hall. Tall and powerful, decked out in bonnet and plaid, he was of an age perhaps a score and ten, mayhap two or three years beyond. But it wasn’t only his height and impressive display of muscle and sinew that caused him to stand out from the rest of the noblemen gathered by the king to converse and await the announcement of dinner. There was about him an air of confidence that he wore as easily as he did his colors.
Or so it seemed to Abrielle, who could hardly judge for certain when she’d never heard him utter a single word or seen him without the distance and clamor of a crowded hall between them. Other men spoke to her of the fine evening air, or pointed out the treasures and paintings displayed beneath the light of thousands of candles, but not the Scotsman. It troubled Abrielle that his reserve caused her even a slight twinge of disappointment. She should not expect more from a stranger, a foreigner born, a man serving as emissary to King David of Scotland, one whose loyalty lay with those who had so often through the centuries ravaged the northern English lands in which she was born and bred.
He was the very last man she should be wasting her time thinking about, especially on a momentous eve such as this. For tonight she was concerned with matters of far more import, as the king’s words would seal her fate, determining whether life held for her despair or joy. Sufficient largesse toward her stepfather would bring the maiden a boon dearly sought but rarely won, gained only with a very large dowry. ’Twas the gift of choosing her husband from among the best of the land.
She turned away and back to her stepfather and mother, whose excitement suffused her with pride. So much would be happening this night—reward for Vachel, a loyal servant of the king, but also a poignant ceremony that evoked a heartrending memory for Abrielle. Recognition for Berwin of Harrington’s efforts in the Crusade was scheduled to take place this very evening, and King Henry was in agreement that some esteem should be shown to her late father as well as others who had fought in that campaign. At the Norman court, many Saxons had gathered, after spending countless months striving to have some homage bestowed upon their friends and kinsmen who had fought in the Holy Land, especially since the death of Lord Berwin of Harrington. It had been their way of throwing their own gauntlet at the feet of the unsavory Norman who had gone out of his way to provoke her parent and then, upon accepting his angry challenge, humiliate him for his lack of skill in defending himself. To their regret, the Norman had deftly delivered a deathblow that had left Berwin’s family and friends grieving over his loss.
Although her stepfather of three years, himself an honorable Norman knight of the realm, had escorted her and her mother to the palace for the event, Abrielle knew the honors that were to be bestowed upon her father’s memory were at first tantamount to a glove being flung across Vachel’s cheeks. For he had been assured by others among the knights that at last it was his turn for recognition from the king. He had spent nearly a decade defending Jerusalem and been deemed a hero by many.
Abrielle knew numerous individuals who were as deserving of the honor that was to be bestowed upon her father’s memory, not just Vachel but also her late betrothed, Weldon de Marlé, another Norman who had proven himself to be among the noblest of heroes during that campaign. Shortly after his return home, he had begun building a keep, during which time he had petitioned her stepfather for her hand in marriage. Sadly, after completing his keep, he had fallen to his death the day before they were to be married, leaving her as bereft as a widow true, but without the sweet memories of love to sustain her.
Dearest Weldon could not be here to see Vachel’s reward for service well done, but sadly, his only kinsman, Desmond de Marlé, had somehow managed to be present. How he had done so was difficult to fathom, as he had a repugnant air, being lecherous in the extreme, with eyes full of greed and lust within his too-round face. She could only believe that he had convinced some errant page or servant to accept a generous sum for allowing him access. Several months before they were to be married, Weldon had introduced her to his only kinsman, and thereafter the most unpleasant Desmond had been inclined to dog her heels. Since Weldon’s death, the ogre’s propensity to intrude into her life had increased by an alarming degree. Little had she imagined after receiving word of Weldon’s accident that she would then find herself contending with his dastardly half brother on a fairly frequent basis. Although Desmond had been in dire financial straits before Weldon’s death, he was now basking in the wealth her betrothed had left behind and obviously using it in order to get close to her. Now in the heat of the king’s great hall, his face glistened with sweat, his overlarge eyes watched Abrielle with a fascination that unnerved her.
She kn
ew she had much to be thankful for in the support of her lifelong friend, Cordelia of Grayson, who with her family was attending the London festivities. Cordelia, a great heiress, received her own share of attention from the men in the hall, and Abrielle hoped that together later this night they would relive the evening and discuss all the men they’d met.
Cordelia watched with great satisfaction as the men of king’s court became enthralled with her truly beautiful best friend, one whose appearance was bested only by the kindness of her nature. Her very favorable translucent blue-green eyes, rosy cheeks, and swirling reddish curls made her irresistible to a goodly number of men. Although Lord Weldon had been nigh to two score and five years of age when he had asked the lady to marry him, he had nevertheless been totally smitten by her beauty and eager to wed her. Having known her friend as long and as well as she had, Cordelia was convinced that Abrielle had been genuinely pleased by their betrothal and been looking forward with eager anticipation to their wedding, only to suffer grievous remorse when news of his death had come. It was encouraging to see evidence that her companion had recovered from the tragedy enough to show some interest in other handsome men.
As a blast from a horn announced the serving of the great feast, Abrielle and her parents and Cordelia and her parents, Lord Reginald Grayson and the Lady Isolde, moved to their table just below the king’s dais. Abrielle, on display to many, felt that she looked her very best for the ceremony honoring her late father. Although the gown had originally been made for Elspeth for her wedding to Vachel a trio of years ago, after that event it had been carefully wrapped and stored in a coffer. The iridescent beads and bejeweled embroidery of deepest blue delicately adorning the gown from ornate collar to hem made no less than a stunning work of art that had taken numerous servants untold weeks to finish.
That had been when coins and servants had been fairly plentiful. However, in the family’s present dire circumstances, it was a rare occasion indeed when mother and daughter could garb themselves in beautiful attire and attend elaborate functions. Prior to his death, Berwin had provided for them very well, and so had Vachel before his father, Willaume de Gerard, had broken a promise he had made to his younger son prior to accepting financial assistance from him in the form of both money and goods. Although Willaume had sworn to return such to his son at the earliest moment possible, he had obviously failed to remember from whom he had received such help, for he had left everything to his elder son, Alain, who had been responsible for his father’s financial straits in the first place.
Before tonight’s recognition, Vachel had been forced to consider just how dire his own family’s future was going to be if he didn’t recover some of the help he had also extended to his knights. Like him, they had returned to England to find many of the nobles refusing to give out honors and titles lest the kingdom be impoverished, yet whenever he saw others basking in the wealth and titles they had managed to glean from frivolous deeds, Vachel was wont to resent their refusal to give him a title. Elspeth was everything he had ever hoped to have in a wife, especially since his first one had been less than pleasant and had died in childbirth cursing his name. In view of their deepening impoverishment, he feared he would eventually lose Elspeth’s love and respect. But at last tonight would come a reckoning, a reward from the king for his years of hazardous service.
Much to Abrielle’s amazement, she recognized the Scotsman among the men talking and laughing with the king, at a place of honor at the head table. As they were awaiting the servant’s approach with a warm bowl to wash their hands, Cordelia nudged her. “Aye, there is a man fine to look at.”
Abrielle quickly looked away from the head table, feeling a flush bloom in her cheeks. “The king is too old for me to even—”
But Cordelia only laughed and slyly whispered, “You cannot fool me, my dear Abrielle. You are not the only woman looking at that handsome Scotsman, for every last one of us here by now knows that his name is Raven Seabern, and he is an emissary for his majesty, King David of Scotland, an ambassador for his country to this Norman court.”
“There is a Scotsman at the head table?” Abrielle asked innocently, then gave a faint smile when Cordelia only rolled her eyes and covered her mouth against escaping mirth. “Cordelia, if there is any man not even worth thinking about, it is one such as he. King Henry may have married King David’s sister, and given rise to the peace between our two kingdoms, but you and I both know the deep resentment experienced by our own kinsman in the north. Terrible deeds have been done in the name of both countries on the borderlands, and both you and I are well aware that people do not easily forget.”
Cordelia cocked her head, her eyes impish with delight. “Oh, I don’t know, Abrielle. Can a woman not look at a handsome man and forget where he comes from? Do not a pleasant brogue and a masculine smile make for a warm summer’s evening?”
Abrielle sighed at her friend’s playfulness, but inside she experienced a feeling of unease that would not go away. Would tonight’s festivities be interrupted by the arguing of prideful men? She saw more than one of her father’s neighbors here to honor him, yet giving the head table narrow-eyed looks of anger that could be directed only at the Scotsman.
“Cordelia, I cannot even imagine taking such light pleasure in something so serious,” Abrielle said, leaning into her friend so that their parents could not hear. “Even looking at him makes me feel disloyal. There is strife enough in our land betwixt Saxon and Norman; I need not marry someone who might well add to the tension felt by many.”
“Did I say anything about marriage?” Cordelia asked.
Abrielle frowned at her, then reluctantly began to laugh. “Nay, you did not. And this only goes to show you that I have been too deep in my cares. Tonight is for enjoyment.”
“Then enjoy it, Abrielle,” Cordelia replied softly, touching her friend’s arm. “You of all women deserve it.”
As the dinner was served, the two young women gaped in awe at the stuffed peacocks carried over the servants’ heads as they paraded about the hall, still looking like live birds floating in a river. Every course of the meal brought such satisfaction to their mouths and stomachs. They ate more than they spoke, and Abrielle felt a nervous tension thrum through her for the rest of the evening’s ceremonies. They could not be certain what would happen, and for the first time since Weldon’s death, she felt full of possibilities. She glanced at her mother and stepfather, saw their own hope in the loving looks they gave each other. If Norman and Saxon could come together as they had, then she had to believe that there was a chance for her own happiness.
To her surprise, she could hear much of what went on at the high table, and Cordelia nudged her when a nobleman asked Raven Seabern how he had come by his given name. The deep, gravelly tones of the Scot’s voice caused the strangest of shivers across Abrielle’s flesh. She knew she should not listen in on the conversation of others, but he so openly played to the crowd that he obviously meant his story to be heard. His voice was sonorous, its rough burr evoking the fierce, wild land from which he’d sprung. She had no choice but to listen.
“When my mother was expecting me, she awoke in the middle of the night ta the sound of pecking on her window. It persisted, it did, until she got out of bed and opened the shutters. In came a raven, as bold as ye please, and cocked his head at my mother.” Slipping into a deep brogue, he quoted her. “‘Saints alive,’ said she, ‘ye act as if ye belong here,’ whereupon the bird flew out and returned a moment later with a tiny branch he had plucked from my mother’s rosebush. Considering that my da hadn’t returned home, she was a-frettin’ he may’ve been thrown from his horse or waylaid by brigands. She had a servant hitch up a cart and drive her along the lane that my da usually took upon his return home. The raven flew ahead, he did, and ta my mother’s surprise, he led them straight ta my da, who’d been crossing the river when the planks fell through the bridge, dropping his steed inta the chilly water and himself firmly betwixt two rocks. My da was nearly f
rozen from the crisp winds, but our servant pulled him free and started rubbing some life back into his limbs. Thereafter, my mother found good reason ta be thankful for ravens, and decided when I was born ta name me Raven in appreciation.”
Everyone within hearing chuckled, including Abrielle, but her soft laugh caught in her throat when, as though hearing her laugh through the chorus of others, Raven suddenly swung his gaze to her and held her in its dark blue depths. Suddenly she was the captive of those fathomless midnight eyes, and while doubtless those around them went on breathing and speaking normally, Abrielle felt as if she and the Scot were alone in the world. Though ’twas most definitely not a feeling to which she was accustomed, some burgeoning feminine instinct deep within her recognized the fiery gleam in his eyes and understood that he felt the same.
“So what happened to the raven in the story?” someone called out, as from a great distance it seemed to Abrielle. Still, it was enough to break the spell.
“Oh, my mother had him cooked for her vittles the very next day,” Raven replied, still holding her gaze.
Abrielle’s jaw dropped in astonishment, causing Henry’s hearty laughter to reverberate throughout the room. The king could not have helped noticing where Raven had been looking and she found herself the object of the royal stare. His Majesty slapped a hand upon the planks of the table. “The lad’s teasing you, my lady, never fear.”