“Of course, but it was only entrusted to me after his death. My mother saved it for me.” Anna shrugged. “There was little time for questions, for she granted it to me just before her labor began.”
“Your mother.” Esme nodded. “I might have said that you had your boldness from her blood, but that is not possible.”
Anna frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It never mattered, Anna, which was why you were not told the truth.”
“What truth?”
“But now I hear your admiration for that knight, and I fear it does matter. Does he have any regard for you?”
“Esme, you speak in riddles, and this day, I cannot bear it.”
“Does he?” the older woman repeated.
“It does not matter. He is a knight and may claim the title of Haynesdale. I am but the daughter of the village smith.”
The older woman leaned closer. “But you are not the smith’s daughter.”
Anna’s heart clenched.
“Your father was the Captain of the Guard at Haynesdale, and that crossbow was his own. He was the youngest son of the Duke of Arsent, with no birthright save his lineage and his spurs.”
Anna shook her head, unable to accept this tale. “My mother would never have been so disloyal to my father…”
“Nay, she would not and she was not. She was, however, loyal to the lady of Haynesdale.”
“I do not understand.”
Esme tapped Anna’s arm. “Your mother served the lady who was Royce’s first wife. She labored in the hall as a chambermaid in those days and she knew the lady’s secrets. She knew, for example, that the lady trysted with the Captain of the Guard.”
Anna caught her breath.
“Someone else knew, as well, for they were betrayed. The lady was confined to her chambers and the Captain of the Guard was executed.”
Anna raised her hand to her lips.
“The lady relied greatly upon your mother and they found much conviviality when they both rounded with child at the same time. A first child for both of them. They even labored on the same night, under the same full moon. Your mother’s labor was troubled from the outset. I remember it well, as well as the smith’s agitation.” Esme paused for a moment. “The smith’s daughter died without making a first cry.”
Anna shook her head. “But I am here.”
Esme smiled. “The lady of Haynesdale bore a girl, as well, a child who showed her determination early. She was a robust babe and one who yelled mightily to announce her arrival. She was her father’s daughter, for the Captain of the Guard had been both bold and valiant, if not fearless.”
Anna gasped.
“And so it was that the lady of Haynesdale feared for her daughter’s life, guessing that Royce would not tolerate a bastard in his abode. She no longer trusted her husband, and when your mother confessed her loss, they two concocted a scheme. They traded their children in the night, the lady claiming the corpse as her own and the smith telling all that his wife had born a robust girl.”
“Nay,” Anna whispered, her heart thundering.
“The lady gave the crossbow to the smith, that you might know your legacy. None knew what would happen later, and once the smith and his wife died, there seemed little merit in telling you the tale.”
“Does anyone else know it?”
“I do,” Father Ignatius said from behind Anna. “And others suspect it. You have your father’s air of command and his audacity.”
Esme leaned closer to whisper. “You are nobly born, Anna, the daughter of a duke’s youngest son and a baroness.”
Anna looked between the two of them with astonishment, then spun to her feet. She could wed Bartholomew. Perhaps they could triumph together.
