by Meg Cabot
Peter affirmed that those were the very Laroches about whom he was concerned. “For,” the boy said, matter-of-factly, “’twould seem to me they’ve been very sadly used by His Lordship.”
Finnula stared at the boy—who, if truth be told, was a year or two older than herself—and cried, “I like that! Sadly used indeed! I suppose ’twas Isabella who came to you with that lament.”
Peter looked surprised, but attempted to hide the emotion. “Nay. Well, and what of it? There is a lady well-used to the finer things in life, suddenly thrown out of the home she has always known, to wend her way as best she can—”
Finnula snorted, though, now that she was the wife of an earl, such behavior really ought to have been below her. “Wend her way as best she can? But that is what Isabella Laroche does best! Never fear for Isabella, sir. She is like a cat. She’ll always land upon her feet.”
Seeing that the boy looked skeptical, Finnula’s brow furrowed. What foolishness was this? Was the boy besotted with the ebony-tressed Isabella? Why did he come to her with his lament? There was naught she could do for Isabella. There was naught she would do for that conceited wench.
But Peter soon made it clear that not only did he think there was something Finnula could do, but something she should do.
“Couldn’t you have a word with His Lordship?” Peter wanted to know.
“A word?” Finnula wished heartily she had remained indoors. Even Jack Mallory was better company than this. “What sort of word?”
“A word on the Laroches’ behalf. A kind word or two from you, my lady, might make all the difference. I realize Lord Hugo is angry for what he perceives as the mismanagement of his estate in his absence, but even he must see that there were circumstances beyond his cousin’s control at play—”
Finnula’s gaze hardened. “Is this what Isabella told you?”
“Aye.” Peter’s throat moved convulsively as he tried to hold back tears. Isabella’s recitation had obviously moved him deeply. “If you could have heard how sweetly she spoke of all the things her father did for His Lordship’s vassals—”
“You forget, Peter,” Finnula said, coldly. “I was one of those vassals. And I don’t recall Monsieur Laroche doing anything for me but accusing me wrongly of murder, a crime for which I might have hanged had not Sheriff de Brissac taken my part.”
That seemed to render Peter speechless for a moment. He stared down at Finnula, his Adam’s apple still bobbing sporadically, and his pale eyes were filled with unshed tears. Though his ignorance was maddening, Finnula could not help feeling sorry for the boy, who was obviously tangled in the throes of first love. Surely she could not blame him for having so imprudently fallen in love with Isabella Laroche. Many a stronger man had done so, as well.
“Peter,” Finnula said, as kindly as she could. She laid a gentle hand upon his arm. “I dare not speak a word of the Laroches to Lord Hugo. The very mention of their name causes his face to darken with rage—”
“But surely he will listen to you, my lady,” Peter cried desperately. “For ’tis obvious he adores you—”
Finnula drew her hand away as if Peter had shocked her. “What say you?” she murmured, in some confusion. “You speak nonsense.”
“Nay, my lady. Any fool can see that His Lordship loves you. His eyes, when they are upon you, are the color of the sun—”
Finnula quickly leaped down from the fence. “Cease your prattle. You know not what you say.”
“I do—” Peter insisted, but something in her expression must have warned him not to proceed. Drawing away from her, the boy muttered, “As you wish, then, my lady.”
Finnula was so flushed with embarrassment that she could feel the heat in her face. How dare that impudent boy spout such outrageous lies? And the fact that for a moment, she’d been fool enough to believe them…Oh, she would not easily forgive herself for that. Lord Hugo, in love with her? He had hardly known her a sennight. Such a thing wasn’t possible…besides, he’d never said a word about harboring any sort of affection for her, not even in their most intimate moments.
The squire, perhaps noting her lack of composure, no longer pursued the subject. Instead, he thanked Finnula for her time and asked, politely enough, if he might trouble one of her sisters for a drop of ale to wet his throat before returning to the manor house, as the sun was high and day warm. Finnula pointed the boy in the appropriate direction, and then returned to the house. It would seem she was destined for bedevilment wherever she roamed, and she thought it safer to remain at her husband’s side for the time being.
Inside the house, while Mellana looked on with worshipping eyes, Jack Mallory was singing a love ballad, a rather soppy one, to Finnula’s mind. Four of her sisters—Camilla had returned home with her winemaker husband—and Robert’s betrothed, Rosamund, sat at the minstrel’s feet, seemingly enthralled by his performance. Even Patricia, usually so levelheaded, looked up in annoyance when Finnula banged the door, and shushed her.
Stifling an unladylike snort, Finnula tiptoed from the room, and found her husband in the kitchen with Robert, whither the two of them had gone to escape the minstrel’s dulcet tones. There was no sign of Peter, which Finnula hardly thought strange. When the youth heard his master’s voice, he seemed invariably to run in the opposite direction.
“Ah, there you are.” Hugo grinned at Finnula, and slid to make a place for her on the smooth bench he shared with her brother. “A valiant effort, that.”
Finnula sat down, eyeing him uncertainly. “What do you mean?”
“We both saw how close you came to pummeling him at supper,” Robert said, with a fond grin at his youngest sister. “And yet you restrained yourself. I see that marriage has begun to improve your disposition already.”
Finnula stared, thinking they were speaking of Peter, then realized that it was Jack Mallory of whom they spoke. She shrugged uncomfortably. Neither youth was one whom she wouldn’t gladly have pummeled behind her husband’s back, and she wondered guiltily if that sentiment was entirely appropriate for the wife of an earl. Glancing up at Hugo, who was arguing good-naturedly with her brother over the most advantageous time of year to plant wheat, she checked on the color of his eyes. They were green. Peter had, of course, been talking nonsense in the yard, but it didn’t hurt to make sure.
Jack Mallory’s doleful little tune tinkled to its sad denouement—in which the lady fair flung herself into a river rather than live without her love—and Hugo, hearing Finnula’s sister pleading for another love song, rose hastily and announced that they must be off. Robert rose with a shudder, saying he would rather see them to their horses than have to endure another of Jack Mallory’s ballads.
Hugo and Finnula, not having expected to stay long at the millhouse, had tied their mounts near the water trough, and Robert accompanied them to their horses, expounding with great energy upon the changes he intended to make around the house once he was married, the most important of which was the construction of a separate cottage for Mellana and her drowsy-eyed husband, so that Jack Mallory’s mournful tunes could go unheard by all but those who sought him out.
Helping Finnula onto Violet’s back—the samite gown, though lovely, was hardly conducive to swinging in and out of saddles—Hugo grinned at the younger man’s antipathy toward his newest brother-in-law, more pleased than ever that the minstrel had shown up in so timely a manner the day before. All of Robert’s keen resentment was focused upon that unfortunate musician, instead of upon Hugo, who had, in fact, committed the greater sin, by stealing away the most exotic pearl in the Crais household.
That pearl, having whistled for Gros Louis, who came bounding up, was staring down at him, impatient to be away.
“Because,” Finnula said, with uncharacteristic coyness, “I’ve a surprise for you back at the manor house.”
Knowing perfectly well that the girl had no coin and could not, therefore, have purchased anything for him, Hugo assumed the surprise was of a romantic nature. She had, after
all, spent the afternoon with her older sisters, and though he was convinced that what Finnula didn’t know about lovemaking could be contained in a thimble, he supposed Fat Maude had mentioned something or other to one of the girls in the marketplace. Chuckling to himself, Hugo swung eagerly into the saddle, giving Skinner an encouraging kick with his heels.
But Skinner, instead of breaking into a brisk trot, as was his custom, whinnied loudly and, to Hugo’s great surprise, reared with enough force that, had Hugo been a less experienced rider, he would have been sent sprawling to the grass.
“Whoa, boy!” he cried, to the fractious steed. “Easy!”
Skinner had not reared out of fright, however. Hugo had never known the horse to shy, not even from scorpions or raging Saracens bearing down upon them with scimitars drawn. The stallion, still whinnying as loudly as ever Hugo had heard him, bucked his hind legs, trying to pitch Hugo forward. Hugo clung to the horse with his knees, glancing frantically about him to see the source of his normally calm steed’s distress, while Gros Louis barked frantically with alarm. It was Finnula, watching in horror from the placid Violet, who cried, “Hugo, jump! Jump!”
Hugo sent his wife a withering glance. All of her sisters, as well as Rosamund, the mayor’s daughter, had hurried outdoors at Skinner’s first shriek. He would be damned if he was going to make a fool of himself jumping from his own mount in front of half the village.
But Robert, scurrying out from under Skinner’s flying hooves, seconded his sister’s cry. “Jump, my lord! He wants you off, that’s clear!”
Skinner, whom Hugo had long imagined to understand human language, seemed to second this statement by rearing even more violently than before, and Hugo, with resignation, slid from the saddle. He landed on his feet in the grass, but was forced to roll out from beneath the horse’s flailing legs, and so when he rose, he was covered, for a second time that day, with bits of grass and dirt.
No sooner had Hugo slid from his back than Skinner calmed, and, looking a bit sheepish, trotted about the yard, snorting indignantly and tossing his noble head. Gros Louis, too, immediately quieted, and turned his attention on a tree, which he lifted a leg to water.
Hugo, his eyes on his horse, didn’t see the slim projectile that hurled itself at him the moment he was on his feet once more.
“Oh!” Finnula cried, colliding into him with nearly as much force as the sheriff had earlier that day, only Finnula was a much lighter, much more welcome armful. “Oh, Hugo, are you all right?”
Surprised at the emotion trembling in the girl’s voice, Hugo chuckled, smoothing back some flyaway strands of her bright hair. “Right enough.” He winked. “’Twould take more than one of Skinner’s temper to kill me, love.”
Finnula’s face had gone pale, despite the sunshine above. “Whatever was the matter with him? It was like he went mad!”
Robert had hurried over to the shaking destrier, and despite Rosamund’s fearful plea for him to stay away from the awful beast, was running knowledgeable hands up and down Skinner’s twitching legs.
“I can’t find aught wrong with him, my lord,” the miller said, straightening and shaking his head. “Nothing. It truly is as if the animal went mad.”
“Not mad,” Hugo said grimly. “Not Skinner. A saner mount I’ve never had.”
“Then what?” Finnula’s gray eyes, as they searched his face, were troubled. “Then what could have ailed him?”
Hugo tore his glance from his wife’s concerned face, though he tightened his grip on her slim waist. “Look beneath the saddle blanket, if you would, Robert, and tell me what you find there.”
Robert did as he was bid, and his sharp intake of breath was audible to all. “God’s teeth!” he cried, plucking something from the stallion’s back. “Look at that!”
Hugo’s expression went even grimmer. Finnula, gazing up at her husband’s face, felt a chill pass through her. She was very glad that look wasn’t directed at her.
“A burr, is it, then?” he demanded.
“Indeed,” Robert cried, in wonder, holding up a small, bloodied thistle. “’Twas slipped beneath the saddle blanket and your poor mount’s back. Bit into him something fierce, my lord, when you sat on him—”
Finnula withdrew her arms from her husband’s neck and placed her fists on her hips. She was beginning to understand why her husband looked so grim. “But how did a burr work its way ’neath that saddle whilst we were dining? The horses never stirred from the fence post where we tied them, and there aren’t any thistles growing there—”
“Someone put it there apurpose!”
The hoarse voice sounded from the tight cluster of onlookers in the millhouse door, and Christina shifted her pregnant belly to allow Peter to pass out into the yard. Seeing the young man’s expression, Finnula felt her heart sink. Surely the squire would end up with Hugo’s boot upon his backside before the end of the day.
“Someone put it there apurpose, I say,” Peter bellowed, when everyone only blinked at him. “’Tis like this morning, my lord, with the merlon. Someone is trying to kill you!”
Finnula stared up incredulously at Hugo. “What merlon? What is he talking about?”
Hugo said nothing, but if ever his eyes had burned the color of the sun, they did so then. Finnula had never seen so murderous a gaze, and was glad it was directed at the squire and not at her.
“A merlon from one of the watchtowers was toppled down upon Lord Hugo just this morning,” Peter declared. “Would have killed him, too, had not the shire reeve shoved him out of the—”
“Silence, you bloody mongrel,” Hugo roared, and in the millhouse doorway, Rosamund gasped, being unused to rough language. In just two strides, Hugo had the boy’s head locked in a powerful arm, rendering further speech impossible. “You will shut your mouth and keep it shut until I get you back to Stephensgate Manor, where I intend to wear a hole in your insolent hide!”
“Hugo!” Finnula was furious. She darted forward, unconscious of her long hem dragging in the dirt, and faced her enraged husband squarely. “You release that boy at once! I want to hear what he has to say.”
“He has naught to say,” Hugo declared, not loosening his hold on the choking lad. “He is an impudent cuss who needs to be taught a lesson as to how comport himself around ladies—”
“Release him at once!” Finnula flew at her husband like a discontented sparrow. “What can you be thinking? How could you keep such a thing from me? Is someone trying to kill you? Is that what he said?”
Hugo, attempting to alleviate some of his wife’s distress, loosened his headlock on the youth. Peter, in consequence, went stumbling away, clutching his aching throat and croaking piteously until he fell in a heap at the feet of a very surprised Rosamund.
“No one,” Hugo panted, brushing his hands on his braies, “is trying to kill me, Finnula. Rest easy. I assure you that I intend to live long indeed, to torment you with reminders of the happiness you might have had with your Sir Hugh.”
Finnula did not think this joke in very good taste, and she tossed her head and strode stiffly back to Violet, where she waited, impatiently, to be helped into the saddle once more, unable to mount unaided thanks to the tightness of her skirt. Hugo, chuckling at her indignation, followed her, and received, for his efforts at chivalry, a rather sharp kick to the solar plexus once his wife was seated. This only caused him to chuckle harder and wonder at the surprise that awaited him at home. He somehow thought it would be rather anticlimactic, considering the day he’d had.
Lord Hugo and his new lady were well out of earshot when Peter finally sat up, and, rubbing resentfully at his wounded throat, stared after them with an expression that would certainly have alarmed Finnula, had she seen it. Her brother, Robert, in a fit of foul temper, had hauled Jack Mallory down to the mill, saying that his new brother-in-law could sing just as easily carrying flour sacks as he could lounging upon the hearth. Mellana took bitter umbrage at this, and her sisters had hurried inside to comfort her. Only R
osamund, staring down at the suffering squire, remained, and her tenderhearted distress at seeing the poor boy so ill-used was touching.
“Oh, sir,” she whispered, bending down to lay a slim white hand upon the youth’s shoulder. “Is there aught I can do for you?”
“’Tis not I you need worry for, mistress,” Peter said, bravely.
Rosamund looked perplexed. “I beg your pardon?”
“’Tis my lord who is in danger, not I. And he stubbornly refuses to see it!”
Rosamund bit her lush lower lip. “Sir? What say you?”
“You saw the attempt that was just made upon His Lordship’s life, did you not?”
“You mean…” Rosamund’s slender brows constricted. “You mean the burr beneath his saddle?”
“Someone laid that thistle there, just as someone, earlier today, tried to push a heavy stone upon His Lordship’s head. Someone is trying to kill Lord Hugo.”
“But who would want to kill His Lordship?” wondered Rosamund breathlessly. “Such an honorable and handsome man surely hasn’t enemies—”
“Aye, but this enemy is the last, I fear, His Lordship would ever suspect.”
Rosamund, looking down into the squire’s face, read something in his expression that caused her to remove her hand from his shoulder and straighten.
“Oh, no,” she gasped. “Surely not!”
“I fear ’tis so,” Peter fretted. “Verily, I wish it were otherwise, but she has both motive and opportunity—”
“I cannot believe of it her! That is what they said when Lord Geoffrey—” At Peter’s knowing look, Rosamund gasped again. “No! You think…You think she really did kill Lord Geoffrey, and that now she is trying to murder his son, as well?”
Peter looked mournful. “Would that it were not the case, Mistress Rosamund, but I very greatly fear—”
“But why?” Rosamund was clearly horrified. “Why would she want to kill Lord Hugo?”
“She is not like other women, mistress,” Peter said, slowly. “Why, I saw her brandish a knife at His Lordship. I saw her truss him up as easily as if he were a pig—”