I am not your father.’
The world folded in. Robbie lifted his cup to his lips, but it was as if someone else was drinking the wine because he tasted nothing. He thought about protesting that his father was jesting, or there was a mistake, but the look in Roger’s eyes told him it was futile.
‘We always wondered if you would remember the time before I met your mother, but you never did.’ Roger twisted his cup between his hands and bowed his head.
‘And now you have told me, you are s-s-sending me away?’
‘You are not an exile,’ Roger said. ‘You want to go.’
Robbie stared around. He could remember nothing before this stone house full of laughter and affection, but now the walls trapped him.
Robbie’s throat seized with an unspeakable pain. It was not in his nature to shout or rant, and experience told him that he stuttered worse when he did.
‘Why are you telling m-me now?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘You have a right to know.’
‘It’s something I should have always known!’
Roger reached out a hand, which Robbie ignored, his heart tearing. The father who had soothed Robbie when he fell, played with him and taught him did nothing to ease the grief and confusion beyond offer a hand.
‘You were too young to understand before and we couldn’t risk you revealing it. There were reputations to consider. But you are almost a man and should know the truth about yourself.’
Robbie balled his hands. Roger’s reputation was the least of his considerations when his world had been shattered. He flung himself from the stool, sending it crashing to the floor. He winced at the noise. The wine made his head spin, adding to the fug of emotions that surged inside him.
‘Sit down and be sensible,’ Roger said.
Robbie glared, bristling at the command in Roger’s voice, and stood his ground.
‘Is Sir John my father?’
Roger shook his head.
‘Who is?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters to me!’
‘It is not my place to tell you.’ Roger looked away. ‘This changes nothing. I have no son of my own.’
Robbie glanced at the closed door to his mother’s room. Acid filled his throat. If the new baby had been a son, Robbie would have been an outcast by now.
‘You’re my only heir. Titles can pass to adopted sons if there is no legitimate heir.’
Roger smiled, as if this negated years of deceit. Robbie had often marvelled at the way his father—no, his stepfather—swept through life with a carefree manner as if nothing had consequence. Did Roger not understand how completely he had destroyed everything Robbie had believed to be true?
‘But you haven’t adopted me. You’ve kept it secret.’ Robbie began to shake.
‘William of Pickering believes only true bloodlines matter. His son, Horace, might see differently when he becomes the Earl, but it is too much of a risk to reveal the truth. Secrecy is better. For now, at least,’ Roger said.
‘Lies are better, you mean?’ Robbie exclaimed. ‘What if I reject your plan and refuse to be your heir?’
‘Then Wharram could pass to a stranger when I die. Everything my family has created will be lost.’ Roger eyed him sharply. ‘Would you do that?’
The portion of land owned by the Danbys, including Rowenna’s village of Ravenscrag, was held in fief from the tenant-in-chief, William of Pickering. Whether or not Robbie cared if the manor passed to another of William’s vassals—and at this point he was not sure he did—there were tenants who relied on the Danbys. Another nobleman who was unfamiliar with the area might be less generous and fair with the serfs and peasants. Robbie couldn’t be responsible for jeopardising so many lives. He shook his head.
‘Does anyone else know?’ he asked.
‘Hal and Joanna, and my parents.’
Which was why Lady Stick had no liking for Robbie. He was not her blood any more than Rowenna was.
‘Your reputation is safe,’ he said stiffly. ‘I shall tell no one and I shall be your heir. I’ll leave for Wentbrig at first light.’
‘There’s no need for that.’
Roger looked distraught. He raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture that Robbie had unconsciously adopted. Robbie stared at the man, who he resembled so closely in manner and looks. No wonder the deception had been so easy.
‘There’s every need. You’ve done your duty and found me a position. I shall take it.’
He had promised to see Rowenna. Though he would break his word, how could he face her knowing what he did now, but unable to share his burden? He did not know what the future held, but it was not in Wharram.
He bowed curtly. ‘Please tell my mother I am sorry not to see her. Farewell, Sir Roger.’
He left the room before he cried.
June 1381
Her name was Mary Scarbrick and he loved her more than life itself. Robbie Danby knew with absolute certainty she was the woman he wanted to marry. She had hair so blond it was almost white and eyes the colour of his mother’s sapphire rings. True, he had only known her a month, but it had been a month filled with the greatest passions and despair he had ever experienced.
Riding towards York in the retinue of his master, Sir John Wallingdon, Robbie passed the time in two ways: he searched as he always did for a hint of the father whose unknown identity plagued him whenever he was in the presence of noblemen and knights, and he dreamed of Mary. There was plenty of time to do both as the procession of entourages all converging on the road to the city stretched seemingly for miles and was making slow progress.
Mary was among them somewhere, though Robbie had lost track of which covered litter she was travelling in. The ladies seemed to move from one to another as they kept each other company. As lady-in-waiting to Lady Isobel, Sir John Wallingdon’s wife, Mary would follow her mistress wherever that woman desired her to go.
Robbie sighed, thinking of the curve of Mary’s lips, the tilt of her nose, the smooth whiteness of her cheeks. No woman in the country could come close to her perfection. He would do great deeds in her honour. He would write poetry that would cause the hardest heart to weep. He would dedicate his life to her happiness if she would let him.
All he had to do was be able to speak to her without his throat seizing and his tongue becoming lead.
As a squire in the service of an elderly
