Page 45 of The Falcon Laird
“Can he?”
“He can. He is a good man. He and his family were kind to Michaelmas while I was gone.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “You never said you had a daughter.”
She lifted her chin. “I needed to protect her.”
“From me?” That puzzled him. “I understand you would shield your child. I only meant that I was surprised you had a child.”
“I thought you might feel bitter toward her.”
“Why?” he asked, startled.
“She is Scottish.”
“That makes no difference to me. You should know that, but you Scots have odd beliefs about the English, casting us all as villains.” He tipped a brow. “A child is a child. She does not resemble you, though. Perhaps she favors the fair-haired Faulkeners.”
She shook her head. “Michaelmas is not my true daughter, nor Henry’s either.”
He raised a brow. “She is not his by-blow?”
“I asked him once, as I was not sure, to be honest, given where she came from. But he denied it. He allowed me to adopt her when we were first wed. His sister told him of the child and gave us charge of her when I begged. I did not think he would—give me a child,” she added in a murmur.
He frowned at that without comment. “His sister? Cousin Joan was prioress in a small convent in the Borderlands, on the Scottish side. My mother retired there in the years before she died. I am not surprised they took in orphan children there. There may have been an infirmary there as well.”
“Your mother was there? Henry never said he had another cousin there. But—that priory was sacked and burned by English.”
He looked away. “Mother died in that attack. Joan survived.”
She gasped. “I am so sorry. Henry never mentioned her. But he spoke little of his kin.”
“Henry and my father, and my uncle John too—they were all cousins in varying degrees—had been in the Holy Land together. Years later, when she was widowed, my mother decided to take holy vows. I was in France then. She entered that convent because Dame Joan was there. They were close.”
“I met Dame Joan. It was after the convent was burned,” Christian said. “She was frail. But she was determined to find homes for a few orphans. Michaelmas was one of them.”
“So you took her then?”
She nodded. “Dame Joan asked Henry for help. He agreed we could take one orphan. I was surprised by it, but he cared for horses and children. He just did not care for Scottish wives.” She gave a bitter laugh. “She was a beautiful bairn, not yet a year old, with silver-blond hair and big blue eyes. I loved her the first moment I saw her. We hired a wet-nurse, but the woman ran off with a soldier soon after. Moira had given birth to Patrick months earlier, so she nursed her. Michaelmas is milk-sister to Fergus’s lads.”
Gavin listened, arms folded. “Henry sent me only one or two letters in ten years. I heard little other than he had been granted a Scottish holding. Henry mentioned my mother’s death, but I knew that from John already. Yet he never mentioned a wife or a child. We were never close.”
“He was very secretive,” she agreed.
“And our views differed. I never particularly liked him. Cold fellow, I thought. What did Joan tell you about the child’s parents?”
“Very little. Henry spoke with her and said Michaelmas was an orphan born in the convent. Her mother was dead and her father unknown. I do not think he knew more than that. The nuns named her for the feast day on which she was born.”
“Ah, Saint Michael’s day in September.” Gavin frowned, trying to work out the puzzle. Henry Faulkener was not a compassionate soul, likely to adopt out of kindness. And Michaelmas had reminded him of someone from the first. “Could she be Henry’s bastard daughter? He might not have admitted that to you, but his sister might have known, and taken the mother and child under her wing.”
“I wondered about that too, but he never said. He was like that with me.” She shrugged and looked up at the stars. “I never felt like—his wife or his confidante, if that makes sense.”
“It does.” The wind was brisk, and he did not want her to catch a chill, so he continued to lean with her inside the protection of the doorframe. “I noticed a stone inset above this tower door. It has some carving on it, but it was disfigured in the fire. What was it?”
“My parents’ marriage stone, cut with their entwined initials. A beautiful stone, like their marriage. They truly loved each other.”
“Where is your marriage stone?”
“Henry did not want one. Nor did I.”
