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.”
Chapter Eleven
Anna endeavored to make it impossible for Bartholomew to leave.
And indeed, her strategy was a good one. He felt the hope surge through the bedraggled company of villagers, so weakened by their history in this place, and he was not immune to the power of their desire. They looked at him with relief in their eyes, and he knew they had endured much. He knew they deserved to return to their village and live in peace.
Truly, their welfare was his responsibility.
He could not blame her for trying to force his hand. She felt strongly about the future of these people and believed that he erred. She had had no opportunity to learn a respect for justice, not beneath Royce’s hand, but Bartholomew could not undermine the law before he even claimed his holding.
He felt the urge of the entire company to ride forth and claim Haynesdale, to slice down Royce and restore his father’s line to the barony. But it was not that simple. And he feared that these people would face much more hardship if he acted with such folly.
It was his task to act with prudence and protect these people, to uphold the legacy of his forebears.
To convince the villagers of Haynesdale of the merit of justice once more.
Bartholomew had been composing his argument when Anna had reached into her chemise. When she withdrew the lace that had so intrigued him, her hand had been closed over the prize that had been trapped between her breasts. She tugged the lace over her head, holding his gaze. When she opened her hand, he was astonished to see what rested on her palm.
It was his father’s signet ring.
“Praise be that the true son is returned,” she said softly.
Duncan whistled quietly through his teeth.
“So, this was how you knew,” Bartholomew murmured.
“It matches perfectly,” she said with conviction and those attending her words exchanged glances. “The seed of Baron Nicholas is returned.”
The company cheered.
Bartholomew knew what Anna desired of him. He wanted to claim the ring more than anything else in the world, but he knew he could not do it. It looked so small, but the responsibility it carried was a heavier burden than its actual weight.
He stood and took a step back. “Only the king can make a baron of the realm, Anna,” he said with quiet heat.
The villagers stared at him in shocked silence.
“But will you not reclaim your legacy?” demanded a tall man, perhaps the cooper.
“You do not realize what you ask,” Bartholomew said. “I would not imperil you more.”
“We want to go home!” cried the tall man’s wife.
“We want to live in the village and tend our gardens,” insisted Willa.
“And plow the fields as they should be,” declared the alemaker. “Grow grain for bread and for ale.”
