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Forget Me Not-Historical Page 1
I remember the very
things I do not wish to;
I cannot forget the
things I wish to forget.
(Cicero)
Chapter One
Wolfhaven Castle
Northern England
The Year of Our Lord 1170
He was dying.
The man on the bed lay still, the afternoon sun enveloping
his large body in a halo of light. A maidservant moved to close
the shutters, but Lady Anice Vayle shook her head and waved the
woman from the damp chamber. Peter loved the sun. He would
have the sun with him now.

Father William, the parish priest, stepped forward, his
long robes rustling as he placed his hand on the unconscious
man's head. "In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Santi..."
The familiar prayer droned on, doing little to ease the
ache in Anice's soul. She closed her eyes, feeling warm tears
on her cheeks. Her Peter, too beautiful, too good to die, but
dying just the same. Had it really been just this morn that
he'd left on his hunt only to return on a litter with a hole
through his chest from a boar's tusk? Impossible, yet the
blood-stained tunic and bandages proved it was so.
Sir Stephen Sexton, Peter's second-in-command, had said it
was a rare accident. Somehow, Peter had become separated from
the hunting party. By the time the others had found him, a
frenzied boar had brought Peter's destrier down and Peter with
it.
Dear Lord in Heaven, how could this have happened?
"Milady." Father William's voice pulled her from her
thoughts, and she opened her eyes. "Our Peter will be in the
Lord's hands soon. Pray for his everlasting soul."
She nodded her head, the lump in her throat making speech
impossible. Grim faced, Father William left the chamber, the
soft click of the wooden door signaling she was alone with her
husband.
Laying her head on Peter's shoulder, she was careful not to

touch the bandages layering his chest. Breathing deeply, she
caught the scent that was Peter's alone, a familiar scent that
had always soothed her in times of need.
"Anice..."
She snapped her head up, startled to meet Peter's pained
gaze. He was awake, the sleeping draught she'd given him to
ease his last hours no longer working. Clenching her hand
around his, she leaned forward to hear him better. "Aye, Peter,
I'm here."
"I love you," he whispered.
A sob caught in her throat. She couldn't do this. She
couldn't say good-bye to the man who'd been her best, and only,
friend for the past thirteen years. "I love you, too," she
said, reaching out to brush a golden lock from his forehead.
Her hand trembled, and she tucked it beneath her skirt before he
noticed.
He turned his head toward her, a slow, painful movement,
one that cost him in the sweat beading his brow. "He'll come
back now."
She didn't ask who he was; she didn't have to. Gavin,
Peter's twin brother, though one would never know it from
looking at them. They hadn't heard from Gavin in seven years,
and for all she knew Gavin could be dead. Except that wasn't
true. If anything had happened to Gavin, she would have known

it, felt it in the very marrow of her bones. Hadn't it always
been that way between the two of them?
A shiver touched her spine as she recalled the last time
she'd seen him, the hatred burning in his dark gaze, the hatred
directed at her and Peter. She'd never been able to forget that
moment, or what it had cost her heart and soul since.
Peter's gaze singed her with its intensity. "You must
leave here, Anice. Take Niall--" A deep, hacking cough choked
his words as it ripped through his chest. A trickle of blood
slipped past his blue lips, trailing down his chin.
Anice gasped and dipped her hand in the wash basin,
retrieving the linen she'd used to wipe his brow countless times
since the men had brought him back to Wolfhaven this morn. With
a shaking hand, she cleansed his face, noting the grey pallor,
fighting the hysterics that threatened to burst forth as death
drew closer. Peter needed her strength. He'd always needed her
strength, just as she'd always needed his friendship.
She forced a smile, hoping it reached her eyes. "Don't
worry about us, Peter. We'll be fine," she lied.
His lids closed, thick golden lashes shadowing the sunken
lines of his face. "He'll never forgive..."
Anice winced at the reminder, then placed one finger over
his mouth, gently touching the lips that had crossed her
forehead so many times. "Shhhh. It doesn't matter anymore."

Another spasm shook him. His eyes snapped open, wild and
desperate. "I saw something...someone...in the forest. Gavin.
Promise me. Promise me you won't tell him."
Anice nodded her head, confused by Peter's rambling yet
afraid to question him with his pain wrapped tight around him.
She understood one thing though, Peter had never stopped loving
his brother, never stopped fearing what his twin would think if
he knew the truth. "I...I promise."
"Thank you." His eyes widened, and his hand squeezed hers
so tight she nearly cried out. A final shudder racked his body
and his grip fell slack.
The sobs she'd held spilled forth. Anice pulled Peter into
her arms, holding him like he had held her so long ago when
Gavin had left.
Peter.
Gavin.
The sun and the moon.
She'd loved them both so much, but only Peter had remained.
Until now. Now Gavin would return. And only God in His mercy
could spare her from his wrath.
#
The Sword's Blade boasted good food and good company, but
Gavin Vayle found little truth in either sentiment. The mutton
he'd consumed had settled like a boulder in the pit of his

stomach, and the stench of unwashed bodies in the midsummer's
heat only reinforced the ache in his gut. Shifting in his seat,
he ignored the loud laughter and bawdy calls, keeping his eye
trained on the front door with his back pressed to the
protective wall behind him.
A serving wench, no more than fourteen winters, approached
his table with a pitcher in hand. "More ale, m'lord?"
"Aye," he replied, looking past her as a dark-cloaked man
entered the inn. The older knight scanned the crowd, his gaze
finding and holding Gavin's. With a curt nod, Gavin assured Sir
Roger Gautier that their meeting hadn't been detected by any
King's enemy. The silver-haired man made his way over to
Gavin's table.
"Is there anything else I can do for ye, m'lord?"
The serving wench's voice caught his attention, and Gavin
turned back to her. Flipping some coins onto the table, he
smiled. "Aye, another one for my guest."
Her eyes widened, and she plucked the money from the rough-
hewn wood surface. Dropping into a curtsy, she clutched the
threadbare material of her skirt and stammered, "Of...of course,
m'lord, a clean tankard right away." Leaving the pitcher, she
hurried to the kitchen, most likely, to stash her newly found
wealth before the innkeeper divested her of it.
Sir Roger raised one brow and slipped onto a pine plank

that served as a bench on the other side of the table. "You
gave her enough to keep her family fed this winter and next."
Gavin shrugged. "It'll also tighten her tongue if
questions are ever asked about my presence here."
A wry grin crossed Sir Roger's face. "You never do
anything without a self-motive, do you?"
Gavin had met Sir Roger seven years ago when the kindly
knight had found him beaten and too weak to pull himself from a
muddy ditch. The older man was the closest thing Gavin had ever
had to a father and the only man who knew the truth of Gavin's
past. Smiling, he stretched his legs beneath the trestle table
and said, "Nay, but at least I'm honest about it."
Sir Roger threw his head back and laughed. "Point taken,
my man, though I do believe there's a goodness in you that you'd
prefer the rest of the world not know."
Before Gavin could deny the charge, the girl returned and
placed an empty tankard on the table. Lifting the pitcher, she
poured out the ale. "Anything else, m'lord?" she asked,
glancing nervously over her shoulder at the innkeeper who'd
entered the front room and watched her serving them through the
crowd of people.
"Naught, but this." Gavin tossed another coin down, making
sure the greedy innkeeper noted his actions.
The girl ducked her head, but not before Gavin saw a fine

sheen of tears in her eyes. "Thank ye, m'lord. Thank ye very
much." Without another word, she lifted the coin and brought it
to the innkeeper, who quickly stashed it in his box.
Sir Roger raised both bushy brows. "And what was that for?"
Despite himself, Gavin felt a glimmer of amusement. Only
Sir Roger would insist Gavin still held a spark of good in his
soul. "Why to keep the innkeeper from talking as well," he
answered, lifting his tankard in toast.
Sir Roger grinned and did the same, taking a long draught
of the foamy brew. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with
the back of his sleeve. All humor left his wily blue eyes, and
Gavin knew social pleasantries were past.
"The job?" Sir Roger asked.
"Completed." The one word was enough. Gavin knew Sir
Roger would ask no further questions. Gavin never failed at any
task placed before him, and that made him invaluable to King
Henry II.
Sir Roger nodded his head and glanced out at the crowded
room. Gavin followed his lead, watching a serving wench swat a
leering customer who'd pinched her too hard. Indignant cries
were raised as the battered man protested his guilt. It was
just another night of merrymaking for the Sword's Blade's
inhabitants. Roger turned back to him, the hard line of his
jaw set. "Payment will be found in its usual place."

Which was a good two day's ride from the Sword's Blade.
"Fine," Gavin replied, rising. Though he'd said he'd completed
his last assignment, all had not gone well. Upon making his
escape from Lord de Burgh's fortress, Gavin had been forced to
jump the remaining twenty feet from the garderobe chute and had
landed in a heap on his side. His ribs had suffered the
consequences, though, of course, he'd fared better than Lord de
Burgh, who'd never awakened to see the morning light.
Sir Roger placed his hand on Gavin's arm. "Wait." He
lowered his voice. "I've a message from the King."
Gavin reseated himself, the plank creaking beneath him
uneasily. He'd hoped for a reprieve, at least until his ribs
had healed, but his first and foremost duty was to King Henry.
If the King needed him, he'd not disappoint him. "What is it?"
Shifting his weight on the bench, Sir Roger glanced down at
the tankard in his hand before meeting Gavin's gaze. "'Tis of a
more personal nature." He paused, his mouth turning down at the
corners. "Your brother is dead."
Peter? Dead? Pain, like a killing blow from a lance,
pierced Gavin's chest. Though he and his brother had been
estranged, his love for his twin had not abated. Peter would
never know that now. Regret seared Gavin's soul, regret at the
time lost, never to be returned. Schooling his features into a
blank board, he asked, "How?"

Sir Roger stared at him, hard. "'Twas reported as a
hunting accident."
Gavin clamped his jaw shut and fought for control over the
rage threatening to rise. Peter had never liked hunting; he'd
never liked any kind of killing. "Are you certain 'twas an
accident?" he questioned through clenched teeth.
Sir Roger shrugged his shoulders. "No cry of foul play has
been brought to Henry's attention, but with Henry's recent truce
with Beckett, supporters of the archbishop are becoming bolder
by the hour. I cannot say for certain that your brother's death
was an accident, nor can I prove otherwise."
Gavin reached for his tankard and gripped the metal
container tight. Lifting it to his mouth, he drained the
contents, the watered-down ale doing little to ease the burning
in his heart. Even though Peter had betrayed him, Gavin would
not allow anyone to harm what was his. Peter was family. Peter
was his. If someone had murdered him, they'd soon find
themselves at the mercy of the King's Curse, only there would be
no mercy.
Dropping the tankard to the table, he replied, "When you
learn the truth, let me know."
"'Tis more likely you'll learn of something sooner than I."
Surprised, Gavin cocked one brow. "How so?"
"The King has assured that guardianship of Wolfhaven, your

nephew, and your brother's widow falls to you. A visit to
Wolfhaven seems appropriate considering the circumstances."
Gavin had no intention of returning to Wolfhaven again.
Back to the place where he'd last had a heart. Or seeing the
woman who'd broken it. The woman who'd driven a stake between
two brothers. Anice.
Warring emotions raged inside him as he thought of
returning, of seeing her again - grief, bitterness and anger -
but above all, loyalty to his King and to Sir Roger. "Why the
concern from Henry?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral.
Sir Roger smiled, his appearance relaxed, though Gavin knew
better. Sir Roger had not risen in King Henry's ranks through a
light-hearted attitude. The older knight was ruthless, and all
too deceptive for his enemies to recognize the danger he
represented until it was too late. "Your brother's widow has
dower lands in Brittany that border Flanders. Henry wants you
to secure the future safety of those lands by finding a suitable
husband for her."
Tension knotted Gavin's shoulders. Sir Roger's explanation
was too simple. King Henry himself could arrange a marriage for
Anice, which meant his real reason for going to Wolfhaven had
naught to do with Anice's next husband.
Lowering his voice, Sir Roger continued, "But most
important of all, he wants your assurance that your brother's

death is not connected to the King's Curse."
Gavin held himself still, refusing to allow the impact of
Sir Roger's words to show on his face. The implication of what
this could mean didn't escape him. If Beckett or one of his
supporters had found proof that the King's Curse was _a man_ not
God's hand striking down men who opposed the throne, then
Beckett's stand against canon law over civil would weaken the
King's position. After six years of political strife, Henry
could not afford to lose now. Neither could Gavin. Not when
his anonymity was what kept him alive.
"Why does he think there might be a connection?"
Frowning, Sir Roger shook his head. "We never found the
third cleric. As long as he's free there's always the chance of
his coming forward and making the connection between your scar
and the symbol you chose for the King's Curse. Henry does not
want his role in the death of Beckett's English supporters
discovered."
Gavin clenched his fist, his fury rising at the mention of
the three clerics who'd left him for dead so many years ago.
He'd already avenged himself on the other two, but the third's
face had been concealed deep within the shadows of his hood. If
Gavin ever learned who he was...
"I think there's little chance of a connection being made,
but, if it'll make Henry rest easier, I'll go. When does the

King want me to leave?"
Leaning forward, Sir Roger placed both elbows on the table.
"Immediately. I've already allotted ten knights for your use.
Not only will they help to serve as a distraction while you
search for answers, but their leader, Sir Thomas FitzPatrick, is
one of my best men. You can trust him with your life. And,
remember, when you arrive at Wolfhaven, you'll be returning as
the second son who's done well for himself in the King's
service. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Gavin wished it were that simple, but as a fleeting image
of auburn hair and sparkling grey eyes flashed in his mind, he
knew it never would be for him.
#
The summer breeze whispered through trees and scattered
white clouds lacing the afternoon sky. Kneeling on the soft
ground, Anice placed fresh cut flowers on Peter's grave and
breathed in the scent of primrose and lavender. She made the
sign of the Cross. Her son, Niall, did the same, brushing away
his tears with the back of his sleeve. At the age of six, he'd
already decided tears were unmanly.
She reached for his small hand and held it tight. Nothing
had seemed as it should these past sennights without Peter's
gentle presence, and Niall suffered the most. Where laughter
had once filled the boy's heart, only sorrow echoed. His midday

meals were picked over, the hounds growing fat on what he
couldn't stomach. He'd buried the only father he'd ever known,
and now waited for his true father to take his place.
Gavin.
Guardian of Wolfhaven.
Guardian of Niall.
Though not if she had her way. Immediately after Peter's
death, she'd petitioned King Henry for guardianship of Niall and
Wolfhaven, but to this date she'd not heard a word from the
King. The decision wasn't hers; it had never been hers. She
had no more control over her fate now than when she'd first come
to Wolfhaven as a ten year old child. Yet, that wouldn't keep
her from trying.
Frustration rose swift and hard. By what right did a King,
or any man for that matter, have the power to decide the life of
a woman and her child? She'd been mere chattel since her
parents' death, but no longer would she accept the will of
another as her own. Niall would not be a pawn in another man's
game, nor would he be used as a political checkmate. She would
do whatever necessary to keep her son safe - no matter the cost
to herself.
Sir Stephen, their escort, stepped forward, his smooth brow
marred with concern. "Milady, the hour grows late and you've
much to attend to on this day."

She knew he spoke the truth. The castle steward had
already advised her that the smith's roof had collapsed and
until repairs were made he'd be unable to forge horseshoes,
nails, wagon fittings or any other item that was necessary to
their daily existence. She nodded. "Aye, just one more moment
please."
Bowing her head, she closed her eyes and prayed to St.
Paula, patron saint to widows. If ever a woman needed to be
heard, it was Lady Vayle, widow to Lord Peter Vayle of
Wolfhaven. Niall tugged at her sleeve, dragging her from her
prayer. His large, blue eyes were wide as he looked past her
shoulder. "Mother," he whispered, "who's that?"
Sir Stephen reached for his sword in the same instant, but
his face paled and the steel blade remained sheathed.
Anice turned slowly, uncertain of what she would see. A
gasp left her and she reached up to place her hand on Sir
Stephen's sword arm. A gaze, as black as night, scorched hers.
A gaze she lived and breathed every night in her sleep.
Niall's father's gaze.
Gavin's gaze.
She rose on trembling knees and, against her will, drank in
the sight of him. The strong jawline, high cheekbones, the
noble line of his nose. He'd grown his hair longer, the rich
sable strands brushing shoulders broadened by battle. He wore a

fine linen tunic and skin tight breeches that revealed hard
muscled thighs. Gone was the gangly lad of eighteen. And
before her stood a man.
A longing filled her soul, a longing for what could have
been, should have been if she'd had the courage to defy Lord
Hugh of Wolfhaven, the bastard who'd destroyed their lives with
his hatred. But she hadn't, and now Niall's future was at
stake. Clenching her fists, she dug her nails into her palms
and willed herself to fight any foolish sentiment. What was
past, was past and Gavin could hold no place in her heart now.
As if reading her mind, he cocked one dark brow and stepped
closer to them. "What? No greeting for your long, lost
brother, Sister?" He stretched the title out in a drawl that
made it sound an insult.
Seemingly recovered, Sir Stephen moved forward, his wide
shoulders taut with tension as he reacted to Gavin's taunt.
"Curb your tongue, man, or I'll dice it from your throat."
Gavin's gaze flicked to Sir Stephen's then returned to her.
If he was aware of the seasoned knight's threat, he gave no
indication, for his stance was as casual as a pilgrim on holiday.
Not wishing to see any bloodletting, Anice drew herself up
and faced Sir Stephen. "Thank you, but I'll handle this
myself." When the man made no move to back away, she added, "In
private."

Sir Stephen's jaw clenched tight and his face suffused with
color. Anice felt a slight twinge of remorse, for Sir Stephen
had been a Godsend in his support of her and Niall since Peter's
death, but she wasn't willing to see Gavin skewered on Sir
Stephen's sword.
"Of course, milady," the knight finally replied with one
last heated look at Gavin before crossing the graveyard to halt
at the gate.
Turning back to Gavin, she noticed the victorious glint in
his dark eyes. Of course, she'd expected no less from him, but
that didn't mean she'd tolerate his insolence. Concentrating on
keeping her anger from her voice, she dropped into a half curtsy
and replied, "If you'd wanted a traditional greeting, Brother,
you shouldn't have snuck upon us."
He didn't acknowledge her reply, didn't acknowledge her;
his attention was locked on Niall. Niall clambered to his feet,
pressing his small body against hers as he faced the man he'd
only heard of as uncle. She gripped his thin shoulder and
squeezed lightly, hoping to reassure him that all would be
right. But her own heart thudded with fear. Would Gavin
recognize the son he'd never known? Would he tear Niall from
her in revenge? Tension, too thick to be cut by the deadly
sword hanging at Gavin's hip, held her frozen in place.
Without looking away from Niall, he asked, "Your son?"

She stiffened and wished she hadn't sent Sir Stephen away.
"Aye."
She thought he winced, but before she could be certain the
wind picked up and swept his hair into his face. He pushed it
back, but whatever she might have seen was gone, hidden behind
eyes that revealed nothing of his thoughts.
He stared at Niall for another moment, then his gaze came
back to her. "He has the look of his father." Bitterness laced
his tone and without another word, he stepped past her to stare
down at Peter's grave.
She didn't miss the irony in his statement. Gavin couldn't
see himself in the boy who stood before him, because he had no
sense of self. Lord Hugh, Gavin and Peter's father, had made
certain of that.
She glanced down at her son, not focusing on the shape of
his mouth, nose or jaw that could have come from none other than
Gavin, but seeing instead what Gavin saw - blond hair and blue
eyes that blended so well with Peter's looks. And she was no
better than Lord Hugh, for she wouldn't correct Gavin's
assumption.
Tears pricked her lids, but she blinked them away. Her
course had been set a long time ago and there was naught she
could do to change it. What she needed now was distance from
this man who made her feel things better left alone. There was

no place for pity in her heart when the cost of such an emotion
could be her and her son's future. Before she did or said
something she'd regret, she needed to get away from Gavin.
Clearing her throat, she thought of the perfect excuse.
"I . . . I wasn't expecting anyone, so there's no chamber
prepared for you. I should see to that now."
He turned back to her and smiled, but there was nothing
comforting in his cold gaze. "But you knew I was coming, didn't
you, Anice?"
Aye, she'd known. With the same blind faith she'd had in
him at the age of sixteen, when love and passion were all one
needed for happily ever after, she'd known he would return when
news of Peter's death reached him. Not trusting herself to
speak, she nodded her head.
Seemingly satisfied with her response, he replied, "Then
return to the keep and have a bath prepared for me. I've ridden
long and hard to return home and I'd wash the filth of the road
from my flesh."
She made to move away, then another thought struck her.
"How long will you be staying?"
He said nothing, his dark gaze boring into hers as if he
could read her mind. Then he reached into his tunic and
withdrew two parchments. He tossed one of them to her. She
caught the rolled paper easily, and then she recognized it as

the petition she'd sent to King Henry. Her hands shook as she
opened it. Scanning the contents, her worst fears were
realized. The King had denied her petition.
She raised her head and watched Gavin open the other
parchment. He revealed the King's seal and the order that he
was to be guardian of Wolfhaven, Niall and her. A slow, lazy
smile crossed his face and he shrugged his shoulders. "I don't
believe I'll be leaving anytime soon."
##

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