by Lynn Kurland
Who was he, in truth?
Samuel had told her that he wasn’t wed, nor was he a knight, and he most certainly wasn’t a smith. She wondered if he might be a faery. Her uncle Montgomery would have had quite a bit to say about that, but she didn’t suppose she would be seeing him anytime soon if she found herself wed to Styrr, so she wouldn’t have the chance to ask him.
She considered a bit longer. There were several things about Zachary she didn’t understand, such as what had vexed him so thoroughly that morning. She’d assumed he would be irritated at the trouble of taking her with him, but she’d been very surprised at how angry he’d been.
Theo and Samuel wouldn’t have reacted that way. They were quite normal lads of ten-and-six, interested in swordplay, mysteries, and serving wenches, in that order. Thaddeus was obsessed with having his spurs, Connor with finding something useful to do as the fourth son of a very powerful lord, and Parsival was who he was to the fullest: handsome, charming, and French. Truly, there were no worse faults combined in one man, faults that left every maid within the sound of his voice swooning. If she’d inconvenienced any of them, they would have rolled their eyes, grumbled at her loudly, then capitulated without further comment.
Jackson, she suspected, would have been as angry as Zachary had seemed to be—but he often surprised her with his reactions. He had secrets, that lad, secrets that he didn’t share. He could be prickly when pushed in the wrong direction, impossibly stubborn all the rest of the time, and deeply apologetic when he realized he hadn’t been as polite as he should have been. Zachary was that sort of man.
She wondered what sorts of secrets he kept.
She jumped suddenly when she realized he was watching her. She started to back up farther into the shadows only to realize there was no purpose in it. She had been seen and there was no point in trying to hide now.
She waited for him to walk toward her, but he merely stood in the middle of the hall with his hands clasped behind his back, silent and still. She frowned. Did he think she should be the one to cross the distance first? She folded her arms over her chest and stared back. He tilted his head to one side and studied her, as if he realized what she was doing.
She thought he might have smiled.
She watched him for another moment or two, then supposed she wasn’t above giving in a bit. She didn’t like to, for it was a sure sign of weakness, but Zachary was also not a horse. She unfolded her arms and took a step forward in the most commanding way possible.
He did smile then, of that she was certain. He also took a matching step toward her.
By the time she had met him halfway, she couldn’t decide if she felt flushed or weak in the knees. She knew she felt foolish, so she decided to fall back on a bit of bluster.
“You’re making sport of me,” she accused.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said seriously. “I might be teasing you, though. In the most respectful and deferential way possible, of course.”
“If you’d been interested in being deferential, you would have come to escort me to this spot instead of making me cross on my own.”
“Should I have?”
“It would have been the chivalrous thing to do,” she said archly.
He laughed, a brief bit of humor that finished off her knees completely. “Then I apologize for causing you the exertion. I would have been willing to come to fetch you.”
She felt herself smiling a bit in return. “I didn’t truly mind meeting you halfway.”
“I didn’t, either,” he said dryly.
She laughed a little in spite of herself, then felt her smile fade. He was suddenly staring at her so thoughtfully, he made her a bit nervous. “What is it?” she asked.
Zachary clasped his hands behind his back again. “You know,” he began slowly, “it might be interesting to meet as equals for an evening.” He smiled a very small smile. “Daughter of a powerful lord, son of a healer.”
She couldn’t look away from him. A handsome, gallant man unrelated to her who, for even a single day, might look and see her instead of her dowry? She took a deep breath.
“Would it be interesting or foolish?” she managed. Foolish for her, no doubt, given what would be left of her heart afterward.
“Let’s choose interesting.” He took a step backward and nodded toward the fire. “Come sit by the fire, and I’ll go find us something to eat. Then you’ll tell me your tale before we think of other things that we might do as equals.”
He turned, then looked over his shoulder and offered her his arm. She hesitated, then slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow just as she’d watched her mother do hundreds of times with her father. She was fairly certain, though, that her mother’s face never flamed as hers was doing presently.
“You sit,” she said as they reached the hearth on the other side of the hall. She pulled away from him before she embarrassed herself further. “I’ll go to the kitchens.”
“I can—”
“Sit? Aye, I’m sure you can.”
She walked away before she had to see his expression. She made her way without delay to the kitchens, procured things that required servants to aid her in carrying, then made her way back to the great hall. A table was fetched and set between the two chairs there, supper was laid after a fashion, and she soon found herself attempting without success to eat.
Zachary seemed to have no trouble. Then again, he was a man and she had rarely seen a man be put off his supper by anything.
He looked up. “Not good?”
“I’m nervous.”
“With me?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Daft, isn’t it?”
“Completely, so stop it and eat something.”
She was briefly shocked by his words, then realized that had been his intent. She smiled faintly.
“Are you seeking to deliberately provoke me?”
“I’m treating you as an equal.” He filled a cup full of wine and handed it to her. “And I don’t want you to faint, so drink up, then eat something ... Mary.”
“Very well ... Zachary.”
He smiled. “This shouldn’t be difficult. You have cousins.”
“You aren’t my cousin.”
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said wryly. “And while you’re feeling so comfortable with me, why don’t you tell me what you don’t like about that dolt from Styrr?”
She drank, then she set her empty cup aside and looked at him. “I fear he plans to kill me.”
Zachary choked. She rose and thumped him on the back until he held up his hand in surrender.
“I didn’t expect that,” he gasped.
She sat down with a sigh. “Nay, neither did I.”
He refilled her cup and handed it back to her. “Start from the beginning. How long have you known him?”
“Almost four years. I met him when his older brother came to court me.” She smiled briefly. “I was betrothed to Roger shortly thereafter.”
“Were you?” he asked in surprise. “He must have been quite something for your father to have agreed to it.”
“Roger had a fondness for the lists and treated his horses well.”
He smiled. “Your father’s sort of man.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” she said. “He did frequent the lists often enough, but his swordplay never impressed my sire.”
He propped his ankle up on his opposite knee. “Does anyone’s swordplay impress your sire, Mary?”
“Rarely,” she said, “though Roger did make a valiant effort.” She shrugged. “I didn’t love him, but I had long since given up on that sort of romantic foolishness.”
She said it all in as offhanded a manner as she could manage, though it wasn’t easily done. There was no point in telling him just how many foolish hours she had spent in the hayloft after that fateful sighting of Blackmour and his lady, dreaming of a handsome, chivalrous man who would come to her father’s hall, take her by the hand, and demand that h
er father give him what he wanted most—which would have been her own poor self, of course. Roger hadn’t done any demanding, but he had been kind in a distracted sort of way. At the time, she hadn’t hoped for anything better.
“And then?”
Mary dragged herself away from her unproductive thoughts. “My father wanted to see Roger’s hall before he agreed to have any banns read, on the off chance that he might find anything untoward there. We were traveling north when we were caught out in a terrible storm. When the storm passed and my sire left his tent, he found half the company dead, including Roger.”
Zachary’s foot hit the floor with a thump. He leaned forward and looked at her in surprise. “Was your company attacked?”
“Nay,” she said. “There was just death there, with no sign of its passing. My maid woke the next morning to find me senseless beside her. My parents brought me home immediately, where I lay abed for a month, half dead. It took me several fortnights before I could ride again.”
His mouth fell open. “From what you caught on that night?”
“Aye. My father insisted it was the ague, but no one else had it. Indeed, no one who had lived endured what I did.”
“Was it poison?”
She shrugged helplessly. “What else am I to think?”
He didn’t answer. He merely studied her thoughtfully for a moment or two, then looked out into the gloom of the hall. He was silent for several minutes, but he gave no sign that he was thinking she had lost all her wits. He finally turned back to her.
“Do you believe Geoffrey was responsible?”
“’Tis a mad thought, isn’t it? He comes as close to perfection as a man might dare without sinning. He dances flawlessly, he dresses at the height of fashion, and, well, you have seen his face—”
“His eyes are crossed.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “They are not.”
“You obviously haven’t spent enough time looking in them to know,” he said, “but I have. When I was trying not to get in the way of his sword thrusting forward by accident, I had ample time to see those eyes. Very crossed. I’m sure that’s a flaw.”
She felt her smile fade. “I wish my father would dismiss him for something so simple.”
“Oh, I imagine your father could find a dozen things wrong with his swordplay before he even looked in his eyes.” He looked down at his hands for a moment or two, then back up at her. “I can understand why he might want to kill his brother—a title would be a powerful temptation for a younger son—but why would he want to kill you?”
“What use has he for me once he has my gold?”
“He might want the pleasure of looking at your beautiful face each day,” Zachary said.
She would have blushed if she’d been at ease to do so. Unfortunately, her fears exacted too terrible a price for that. She took a deep breath.
“He views me, I assure you, as a necessary evil to endure—and rid himself of with as little trouble as possible.” She shrugged. “Poison administered over the course of months, or in a large dose immediately after childbirth—”
Zachary stood up suddenly, then held down his hand for her. “I want to dance.”
She looked up at him in surprise.
“What?”
“Let’s dance.”
“Why?”
“Because your paragon of perfection doesn’t deserve you and I can’t think about it anymore. Were the musicians left behind, do you think?”
“The question is, would I dance with you even if they were?” she asked with a shiver. “And the answer is I think not, what with your current humors obviously so vile.”
He dragged his hands through his hair, then smiled. Or attempted to, rather. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I’ll stop thinking about it while we’re dancing. Your toes are safe.”
“Can you dance?”
“Nay, but you’re going to teach me something simple.” He reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I see that a rather well-fed viol player has arrived, eager to do our bidding. And a man with something to blow on. Who knows who else might show up with enough time? You’re going to have to tell them what to play, though. I wouldn’t know what to ask for.”
She started to protest—until she caught full view of his expression. He looked almost as devastated as she felt.
She understood completely. When she thought of marrying Geoffrey of Styrr, she wanted to think on something else immediately as well. Dancing, however, was generally not what first came to mind.
She walked across the hall just the same and discussed with what had became a trio of players the music she wanted to hear, then turned to find Zachary waiting for her in the middle of the floor. She walked over to stand in front of him.
“You truly know no dances.”
“I know a Scottish sword dance,” he said, “which I learned to humor my brother-in-law. But I’m not sure you want me to dance it for you.”
She smiled at his rueful tone. “We’ll start with something simple, then. A pavane, perhaps. Even Theo and Sam can manage that one.”
“Your confidence in me is staggering.”
She laughed, because she couldn’t help it. She realized that, in spite of everything that had happened that day, she had laughed more since sunrise than she had in months. Even though she knew that her freedom to do so couldn’t last longer than a single evening.
She wished quite desperately that it could.
It was a perfectly pleasant hour. Zachary watched his feet a great deal and frowned quite a bit. She didn’t say anything to distract him. It gave her ample opportunity to watch how the firelight flickered against his dark hair, against his handsome features, against the pale blue green of his eyes. She found herself the recipient of his quick smiles and the beneficiary of his uncomfortable laughter when he ruined yet another set of steps. He stopped at one point and looked at her.
“You don’t have anything where we just hold hands and march about in a circle, do you?”
“We need more players for that.”
He shot her a knowing look. “You’re purposefully trying to humiliate me.”
“You made me walk across the floor to meet you.”
“Halfway.”
“Then I’ll only humiliate you halfway.”
He looked at her with a smile that was full of something she couldn’t identify. She was fully aware, however, of how he took the hand he already held and laced his fingers with hers. Then he reached up slowly and tucked several stray strands of hair behind her ear.
“You are a remarkable woman, Mary de Piaget,” he said, still wearing that same smile.
He opened his mouth to say something else. She didn’t dare hope it would have been something to the effect that he couldn’t bear the thought of her wedding Styrr and he had another plan.
Instead what she heard was a bellow from the other end of the hall.
“What in the hell is going on here?”
The musicians immediately scurried for higher ground. Mary found herself pulled behind Zachary. She peeked around his shoulder.
“Zachary, ’tis only the lads—”
He tightened his hand on her arm. She frowned and tried to pull away. When that didn’t work, she tried to move around him.
“Woman, stay behind me,” he whispered harshly.
“If it eases you any,” she said, fairly reasonably to her mind, “I don’t think ’tis me they want to kill.”
“I’m not going to take that chance.”
“We aren’t going to lay a hand on her,” Jackson snarled. “Now, you, however, I think we’ll lay our hands on repeatedly.”
Zachary squeezed her arm. “Go get out of the way, Mary.”
Mary stepped away, then glared at Jackson. “You stop this right now—”
Jackson snarled another curse at her, which led her to believe he wasn’t in the mood to be reasoned with. Connor didn’t look any less forbidding. Even Thaddeus looked as though the jour
ney had left him with rather unpleasant humors. Only Parsival was standing apart, wearing a particularly Gallic look of long-suffering. He pushed away from where he’d been leaning against the wall and walked over to take her by the arm.
“Come along, chérie, and we will watch the spectacle from the comfort of the fire. A cushion for me? And food? How lovely. It has been a trying journey here and I’m in sore need of a rest.”
“You could instead stir yourself to pay heed to the potential slaughter in the hall,” she said pointedly. “At the very least, you could give Zachary your sword. You’ve done it before.”
Parsival sat down in her chair and looked at sheaves of parchment he seemed to have picked up from somewhere. “Have you seen these, Mary? They’re quite lovely drawings.”
“Parsival!”
He looked up and blinked at her, then looked over to the midst of the hall. “If things become too unbalanced, I’ll see if I feel inspired to aid him.” He turned back to his study of what he’d found. “Zachary doesn’t even seem to feel the need for his knives. Perhaps he thinks Jackson is even less skilled than Styrr.”
“Shut up, Pars,” Jackson bellowed. “I’ll show him how we repay lads who take liberties with our women.”
“I was dancing with him,” Mary said loudly.
“Which you wouldn’t have been if he hadn’t been dancing with you!”
Mary looked at Parsival, who only shrugged.
“Logic is not Jackson’s strength,” he offered.
“After I finish with him, I’ll see to you,” Jackson snarled, pointing his sword at his cousin.
“And find Connor’s father highly irritated with you that you scuffed his lovely floor with your muddy boots,” Parsival said, stretching his legs out and crossing his feet at the ankles. “I’d be careful, were I you.”
Jackson didn’t heed the warning. Mary sank down onto a stool next to Parsival only to realize that she couldn’t sit. She moved to stand behind Parsival’s chair where she could lean on it if necessary.