by Stuart, Anne
“Miraculous,” Alys muttered.
“You must face the truth, my child,” Brother Jerome said solemnly. “He’s well and truly gone.”
She wanted to scream her denial. She wanted to fling herself on the ground and kick in rage and fury. They watched her, all of them, with wary eyes, as if they feared the dreaded sorceror had bewitched her as well.
He was no sorceror. He was a man, with all the strengths and frailties of the beast. She loved him beyond reason, and he was gone.
She summoned up her Good Alys smile, the gentle, obedient expression that had served her well for her twenty years. She could become Good Alys again. Sister Mary Alys, the good nun, the perfect aunt. The lost soul.
She stood silent by her bathed and beautiful sister as Brother Jerome read the marriage vows over Claire and Sir Thomas. She kissed Sir Thomas on his cleanly shaven cheek, hugged Claire, and smiled her Good Alys smile.
They put Thomas and Claire in the room the sisters used to share. They put Alys in the adjoining room, and there was much merriment from the celibate religious as the bridal couple closed the door.
Alys sat by the window, staring out into the moonlit night. Her body ached, but her heart was ripped in half. There was no way she could deny the truth of Brother Jerome’s words. Simon had saved her.
Simon had left her.
She looked down at her flat stomach. Was a child already started? She sensed that it was so, but she was afraid it was merely a vain hope. She wanted his child. Most of all she wanted him.
She heard a crash from the room next door, and the muffled sound of laughter. “Yes, Thomas,” her sister whispered in a husky voice. “There.”
She rose abruptly. There was no way she would sit in that barren room and listen to the sounds of her sister’s joy. She wished them love and happiness and pleasure beyond knowing. She just didn’t want to have to hear it.
The wind had picked up, scudding the dry leaves along the empty courtyard. The good nuns were already asleep in their cells. Brother Jerome was likely resting as well. There were only three people awake in the entire convent, and Thomas and Claire were fully occupied.
A stray, sensual laugh drifted out over the night air, and she moved more swiftly, following the moonlit path to the small clearing by the stream. It had been one of her favorite places to walk to when she was a child, a place of peace and comfort, things she always longed for. Perhaps if she curled up next to the icy stream, her borrowed mantel wrapped tight around her, she could find some sort of peace. Or at least she could give way to the kind of grief that tore her heart apart. There would be no one to see Good Alys weep.
She sat on a fallen log, huddled against the cold, and tried to summon forth tears. They refused to come. She thought of Simon, with his golden eyes and his scarred body, his clever mouth and his wicked ways.
There were no tears.
She thought of the years ahead of her, stretching out, alone. If she had a babe they would take it away from her, but Claire would raise it as her own, and she would have nieces and nephews as well as her own child to comfort her empty, worthless life.
There were no tears.
She thought of marriage to a goodly knight. Brother Jerome had assured her that her marriage to the sorcerer would be declared invalid, and she would be free to find a new life. She could marry a good man and forget Simon of Navarre had ever touched her.
There were no tears.
She thought of rising to her feet and wandering ever deeper into the woods, never to be seen again. By far the most pleasant of all the futures that lay before her, but a sin nonetheless, and she should get down on her knees and beg God’s forgiveness for even thinking of such a thing.
There were no tears.
She heard the faint chink of a horse’s bridle, and her life-long panic reasserted itself. She rose, ready to run at a moment’s notice, when the horse appeared in the clearing.
She knew him. Huge and black, more terrifying than even Claire’s wild mare, the horse halted, snorting. She didn’t need to look up, way up, to see Simon of Navarre watching her.
“Why did you lie to your brother?” The words were unexpected, and she stared up at him like a lackwit.
“I never lied.”
“You told him that I hadn’t taken you as an ordinary man would.”
She could feel the blush mount on her cheeks. It was a glorious feeling. “I didn’t lie,” she said again. “You didn’t.”
“How so?”
“I could hardly speak from experience, but I decided you must be far better at it than any ordinary man.”
In the moonlight she could see the smile touch his eyes as it curved his mouth. “You’re pert. Someone will have to beat you.”
“I hear my brother is dead. The sad duty of instructing me will have to fall to you.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then he spoke. “Will you come away with me?”
She looked warily at the horse. “Where?”
“To the far reaches of the world. To the isles of the north, where the wind is like ice. To the heat of the desert, to the mountains of Switzerland. Come away with me and you may never see England again.”
It was a warning. She squared her shoulders, looking up at him. “Would I have to ride a horse?”
“Yes.”
She tilted her head to one side, considering him. “Do you love me?”
“Love is a trick and a sham. A foolish plague and a lie and a torment.”
“Do you love me?” she repeated, quite calmly. Knowing the answer.
“Yes, may it curse my soul.”
“May it save your soul,” she said. The horse moved, and she knew she could be trampled beneath his huge sharp hooves.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“Take me,” she said, holding up her arms. And he pulled her up in front of him, onto the huge warm back of the horse.
The creature reared slightly, but Alys simply leaned back against Simon as his arms came around her. And they rode off into the moonlit night, the dry leaves rustling beneath the horse’s hooves.