Free My True Love by Karen Ranney

and long-ago laughter.
     
    She was not there when Stephen entered the knot garden. The wind gusted around the topiaries in mad delight, flapped the edges of papers on the table as if summoning his attention. He removed the board she’d placed there and studied her drawings.
    An artist, then. He’d not known she had such talent. But then, he knew few things about her. Only that she’d spoken his name in his fever and lured him close, eased him when he was in pain.
    The first drawing was a caricature of a young maid, but where cruelty might have accentuated her prominent ears and made even more pronounced the shape of her large teeth, she’d been rendered lovely. At her feet, obviously groveling, was William, his aide. The second sketch was of Richard. He was standing at a bedside, a cup in his hand and a medicine chest tucked beneath his arm. There was a look of fondness on Richard’s face and an exasperated look on his patient’s. Stephen suspected the patient was Anne’s companion and that the drawing was less caricature than truth.
    It was something they shared in a way. His drawings were limited to structures, buildings that fascinated him and stirred his imagination. His fingers dealt in sharp angles and lines that followed a mathematical precision. He saw the world as it had been and wished to bring it back to life. She saw the world as it was and parodied it. He could delineate brick and stone and indicate where mortar was chipping, but he did not have the power to summon forth a smile.
    He came to the third drawing. His fingers held it steady against a growing wind. It was Langlinais. Not as it was, but as it might have been. The river acted as a mirror for the towers, the arches of bridge, and the crenellated roofs. A growth of willows, their branches heavy and trailing, marked the path close to the river, the sturdy wooden dock, and the retaining wall. She was not only capable of summoning forth amusement, but of creating pictures of great beauty.
    She’d evidently studied the ruins well, just as she had some grasp of history. Another mystery to layer upon the first. Identity and intent.
    He replaced the drawings where he’d found them, then glanced behind him. He looked up at the window on the second floor. His study sum moned him; his work was not yet done. There were other duties he must perform, provisions he must order, letters to send. Instead, he stepped away from the hedges that lined the garden.
    The hill upon which Harrington Court was perched was higher than the rest of the land around it. From here he could see the ruins of Langlinais. And walking in front of the east tower the figure of a woman.
    Unwisely, perhaps, he followed her.
     
    A doorway led to darkened steps, the interior of the tower made even more dim by the overcast sky. Anne braced her hand against the curved wall as she began her ascent. It seemed as if her feet knew the way, as if she’d seen these sloping steps before, could count their number in her mind. One hundred twenty-eight.
    A handhold was there, finally, and she placed her fingers within its worn groove and wondered how many hands besides hers had sought its safety. It was easy to pull herself up through the opening. Less so to stand upon the windswept tip of the tower and feel part of the oncoming storm.
    She had seen this place before. Had watched that view through Stephen’s eyes.
    She saw now the scene of so many of her visions. Not Harrington Court but this castle. Here he had stood as a boy, as a youth, as a man, looking out over his domain, feeling a pride of place and destiny and heritage. He had planned here, had sat against the curved wall with his legs drawn up and sketched the castle as it should be. She’d wanted to learn to draw the day she’d seen him doing so. And found a love in it. Did he feel the same?
    His life had not been as serene as she would have wished for him. Another vision had placed him within reach of his father’s fists. She had