She pursed her lips.
“You look fine,” he continued. “It is not as if you need to impress Gilburn.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“And you already impress me.” Peter offered his arm and she placed her hand on his blue tunic sleeve. They were both in blue today. Like a matched set. Maybe she should spill some wine on him to complete it.
“Figures,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just the ramblings of a madwoman.” They crossed the hall. “Having you and Gilburn together is too much.”
“I know. It is hard enough having to deal with us one at a time.”
“That was not quite what I meant.”
“I had my fun with Gilburn. For the rest of the day I will be on my best behavior. I promise. I might even leave him with a little dignity intact.”
Zipporah blinked into the afternoon sun as they made their way down the front steps and into the bailey. “Please be careful. Even if just for my peace of mind.”
“Aye, my lady.”
Peter led her horse out of the stable and Zipporah sat on the fence just outside, watching him saddle her gelding. The sun was shining down, birds were singing. For a moment, it was as if they were innocent again, exchanging shy smiles over her horse’s back. She longed for those days.
Her mother arrived, bringing along a maidservant. Lady Havendell wanted her mare harnessed to a wagon. Gilburn came last. The afternoon was already waning by the time they reached the road.
Zipporah, wanting nothing to do with Gilburn’s temper, reined her gelding closer to the wagon bringing up the rear of their party.
“Is this better or worse?” her mother asked.
“I have not yet decided.”
Peter glanced over his shoulder at Zipporah, then came around, reining in alongside her. “You are quiet,” he said.
“I am attempting to avoid any crossfire.”
Gilburn slowed until he was on the other side of the wagon. Good thing it was a small wagon, or there wouldn’t be enough room on the road for all of them abreast. Zipporah shifted in the saddle. It was impossible to talk to Peter with Gilburn right there.
“It will be dark before long.” Gilburn peered at the sky through the upper canopy of the forest. “We should have waited until tomorrow.”
“The dark does not bother me,” Zipporah said, then thought better of it, all things considered. “I mean, not when I am with all of you. I would never go out in the dark by myself. Or anywhere, really. Not by myself. Never.”
Peter looked at her sympathetically.
“Still, we had better not stay too long.”
“Afraid of the dark?” Peter asked.
“All that scares me is the lack of intelligent conversation from your mouth.”
“Now, now.” Her mother intervened. “Save it for the lists.”
Even that could get out of hand easily. “Save it for the archery competition,” Zipporah said. “I am looking forward to it.”
“You are?” Gilburn asked.
“You are?” Peter echoed in mock shock.
Peter promised her he would not pester Gilburn for the rest of the day. It seemed he had already forgotten.
“Aye, of course.” Zipporah smiled through her teeth while she searched for benign conversation. “In fact, I think we should have a second competition for the ladies.”
“I do believe that can be arranged.” Gilburn brushed his hair out of his face. “What should the ladies’ prize be?”
“I could offer up some fabric. If you can give up one of your trophies, then I can make a sacrifice as well.”
“But I can win my trophy back, my lady,” he said with a smile
Peter snorted.
Gilburn’s jaw ticked.
“And I can win back my fabric,” she said.
“When was the last time you shot a bow?”
It had been some time.
“I will help her practice,” Peter said seriously. “I would not want the lady to embarrass herself before the other women.”
She narrowed her gaze at him in warning.
“That leaves me with a fortnight to get her up to par.” Peter sighed. “It will require many hours of close concentration.”
She felt her face burning. Peter was asking for it now. “Do not be so sure your student will not use it against you,” she said.
Gilburn laughed.
“I shall place an apple on my head for you.” Peter smiled.
“Give her a better target than that.” Gilburn ran a hand through his hair. “How about we-”
Lady Havendell cleared her throat. Both men were silent for all of four heartbeats.
“You could use Gilburn as your target,” Peter said.
Zipporah’s fingers tightened around the reins. Even her mother could not convince Peter to keep his mouth shut.
“He does not run very fast,” Peter continued.
Gilburn’s jaw worked. When it came to these sorts of verbal volleys, he could only hold his own for so long.
Zipporah reined in closer to Peter, knowing full well that her horse was still anxious around the stallions. Her gelding popped a little buck—his way of refusing her command. When it got Peter’s attention, she gave him her blackest look.
He touched his finger to his mouth, signaling silence.
She could only hope he was referring to his own.
* * *
Zipporah’s mother talked Gilburn into identifying a fish she saw down the shore, leaving Zipporah and Peter conveniently alone. Peter watched her poke at a pasty with her jeweled dagger. She was sitting on a patchwork blanket with her legs tucked under her. A soft, earthy breeze flipped bits of hair around her face and she tucked them behind her ears with her free hand.
“I think it is dead, my lady.”
She frowned at her bludgeoned meal.
Peter urged Zipporah’s dagger out of her hand, then used it to skewer a chunk of roast lamb. “Suddenly, my appetite has grown.”
“Brought on no doubt by all the energy you’re putting into annoying Gilburn.”
“Probably. You still aren’t eating very much.”
“I should have had the venison pie.”
“I think Gilburn finished it.” Peter waved the dagger in Gilburn’s direction. He closed one eye, sighting Gilburn on the end of it. “I could find out.”
She took the blade from him, wiping it clean on a napkin and sheathing it on her belt. “No dismemberment today.” She stood, brushing herself off. “Walk with me?”
“Aye.” Peter came to his feet.
Soft waves lapped the shore. Pebbles crunched under foot. Zipporah didn’t take his offered arm. She said nothing, and the silence between them felt like a void he needed to fill.
“It used to be like magic here,” Zipporah said finally. “When we were children.” She glanced over her shoulder. He followed her line of sight. Gilburn had picked up his pace. Her mother was dragging along behind, probably on purpose. Her maid mysteriously began to limp.
“Another time,” she whispered.
“Keep moving.” He took her hand.
“I do not know how to act around you when he is watching.” She pulled away.
“You can act however you want. I will deal with the consequences.”
“That is what frightens me.” Zipporah shivered in the cooling air.
“I would gladly warm you.” He bumped his shoulder against hers. “I could build you a fire instead.”
“Gilburn will want to go home.”
“I assure you, my lady.” Peter heard Gilburn. “That it is a pike.”
“It did not look like one,” Lady Havendell said.
“I know what a pike looks like.”
“But with half its face missing, how can you be so sure?”
“I am sure.”
“I think a bird must have pecked its face away. What do you think?”
“Unless the foxes have suddenly grown beaks, then I would say aye
, my lady.”
“I wonder what kind of bird? Can you tell?”
Zipporah laughed into her sleeve. It was a nice sound. Peter wanted to hear it more often.
“Sometimes I really do love my mother,” she said.
“She has been very tolerant.” Tolerant with him, especially. More than Peter would ever have expected. He couldn’t understand why.
“My lady.” Gilburn nodded to Zipporah. He ignored Peter. “Walk with me before we leave.”
Her smile faded. “Peter said we should build a fire.”
“It is getting late. I need to take you home.”
“She wishes to stay, Gilburn. If you want, you can go on ahead. I will bring the ladies along later.”
Gilburn’s eyes flashed. “We are leaving now.” He offered Zipporah his arm. She hesitated before accepting. Peter wanted to take him by the collar of his black leather jerkin and shake him until all his teeth rattled loose.
“She isn’t afraid of the dark,” Peter called after them.
“I am responsible for her safety.”
“Over my dead body,” Peter said under his breath.
“Come with me.” Lady Havendell touched his arm. “Help me pack up?”
He walked with her, keeping an eye on Zipporah and Gilburn. Watching them side by side was not on his list of favorite ways to spend his time. Lady Havendell handed him a basket, then she and her maid began gathering up used utensils. Peter backed the wagon onto the narrow shore.
“Thank you.” Lady Havendell passed him another basket. “This is all very hard on you. Zipporah will make the right decision, when the time is best for her.”
“And what of you?”
Lady Havendell looked over the lake, her face pained.
“You will have to come with us,” Peter said. “You won’t be safe otherwise.”
“I have not yet decided if I want to leave my home. Too many memories.”
“But is it worth your life?”
“It is my choice to make.”
Lady Havendell was as stubborn as her daughter. “And what about Zipporah? Does she get to choose whether or not she loses you?”
“You sound like your brother, Sir Peter.” She smiled. “Gilburn only wants the land. Once he has it, I will be of no threat whatsoever.”
Maybe. But Zipporah would not want to be parted from her mother, and that only made things harder for him. He took up a third basket, thinking about the missive he’d written King Richard. It would be months before he received a reply. There was no way to know how long her father would linger, but he wouldn’t last that long.
Peter knew what it must feel like to be in limbo.
Caught between Heaven and Hell.
He wondered how long he could go on like this, day after day in self-denial, while Zipporah was so close that he could, and had tasted her. It would be very easy to forget the promise he’d made himself not to make her his mistress before she was his wife. He found himself wondering why it had been so important to wait in the first place.
Like in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep without her.
“Sir Peter, would you mind lighting the torches for us?” Lady Havendell asked.
He tore his eyes away from Zipporah. “Of course not.”
Peter started a small fire from moss and bark, then lit a stick in it and fired up the lanterns, checking periodically to make sure Gilburn was behaving himself. He and Zipporah had turned and were almost back. He was smiling like a satisfied cat. Zipporah looked at Peter and rolled her eyes. She took up her horse’s reins, seeming eager to leave.
“I’ll give you a boost,” Peter said.
“I do not need . . .” Her eyes widened as if she’d just realized why he’d offered in the first place. “Oh, aye. Thank you.”
He closed his palms around her waist. “Tomorrow, we shall work on your bow arm,” he said, lifting her onto her horse. “And maybe a few other things as well.”
She leaned closer, her braid swinging over her shoulder, her scent of juniper following it. “Sir Gilburn told me he plans to spend time with me tomorrow.”
“When is he the most likely to?”
“In the afternoon.” She pretended to adjust her skirts, even though they were fine. “He is usually very busy in the morning.”
“Then I shall see you first thing tomorrow.”
“Sir Peter, you might as well ride home,” Gilburn said, a little too loudly. “It makes no sense for you to go all the way to Havendell and then back again.”
Peter swung onto his horse. “The sun is setting, and you never know what may prowl the night. One more sword on hand will not hurt.”
Gilburn sat up straighter in the saddle. “I assure you, if trouble should arise, I can defend the ladies myself.”
“Do not be so proud, Gilburn. No man is without his blind side.”
“Some have more than others,” Gilburn muttered
“I wouldn’t be so hard on yourself if I were you.”
Zipporah cleared her throat.
“Tomorrow at noon,” Gilburn gritted. “The lists. For a rematch. And wear your chainmail. I wouldn’t want to send you home in a box.” Gilburn spun his stallion around, dug spurs, and tore away, kicking up moss behind him and disappearing into the twilight.
“He left us?” Zipporah said.
“It would seem his pride is more important to him than your safety.”
“What good will a rematch make between the two of you anyway?”
Peter shrugged. “None, in the end. But at least we can pretend we are killing each other.”
“I do not like it.”
“Neither do I,” Lady Havendell said.
Peter was losing his patience with everything. He needed a decent night’s sleep. Preferably passed out in Zipporah’s arms after a long night of—never mind, it wasn’t worth torturing himself over.
“Some things must be left to men, my ladies.”
Zipporah glared.
Her mother sighed long-sufferingly.
Chapter Twelve
“Why do we not do something different with your hair today,” Lady Havendell said as Zipporah sat down at her dressing table the following morning.
At her mother’s request, she was wearing a new wool kyrtle. Never dyed, it was of the purest ivory. The sleeves of her shift showing beneath the capped kyrtle were embroidered with oak leaves and acorns. She wore her brown leather belt slung low on her hips.
Lady Havendell picked up a comb.
“What are you doing, Mother?”
“Your hair, sweetling.” She divided Zipporah’s waves into sections.
“That is not what I meant.”
“Do something for me?” Her mother reached for a green ribbon.
“Aye . . . ?”
“Say something kind to him today.”
“Peter?”
“Aye, Peter.”
“He is having a rematch with Gilburn, simply because he could not keep his mouth shut.”
“I know. I do not like it either, but do so anyway.” Her mother tied off the first ribbon, then took up another. “He reminds me so much of your father. Just humor me, please.”
Lady Havendell began plaiting a second braid, weaving the ribbon through as she went. Zipporah didn’t know what to say, so she sat silently while her mother finished dressing her hair with three plaits all down the back of her head.
Finished, Lady Havendell laid them over her shoulder. “It is time for Mass,” she said.
Zipporah followed her mother out of the chamber, down the narrow stone staircase, and then outside, wondering how any woman could stay so strong, while the love of her life lay wasting away in a sick chamber.
* * *
Peter surprised her by attending morning Mass. He was in back, with a coarse brown cloak pulled around his shoulders and a hood over his head. Gilburn didn’t seem to notice him. But she did. She dared not look twice lest it cue Gilburn in, so she walked right past. Zipporah and her mothe
r both genuflected in turn, then took their usual places. Gilburn was across the aisle from them.
Zipporah listened to the priest, pretending to ignore Peter’s presence, while being acutely aware of it at the same time. Afterwards, she paid homage to all the saints necessary for the unlikely healing of her father, for the memory of her brother, and all those poor souls still at war.
And then she waited, like she did every morning, for Gilburn to leave. Once he had, she went to the image of Mary Magdalene. Peter had slipped into the shadows so Gilburn wouldn’t see him watching and was still there. Zipporah was even more aware of his presence, but it could not be helped. She never missed her ritual, and wasn’t about to start now. Kneeling, she mouthed her prayer of penance, then crossed herself, stood self-consciously, and met her mother by the door. They left the sanctuary. Peter followed after, minus the cloak. He was uncharacteristically quiet as he walked with her, dressed in a tunic the same color as her kyrtle.
“We need to stop doing this.”
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. I do not have a bow anymore.”
“I brought a few with me.”
Lady Havendell touched Zipporah’s arm. “I am going to check on your father.” She dismissed herself before Zipporah could say a word, leaving them alone.
“Have you eaten anything?” Peter asked.
“Nay.”
“Then that is what we should do first.” He looked her over, generating a confusing mix of emotions. Guilt, pain, pleasure . . . “You look good,” he said.
“Thank you. It is new.” She smoothed her hands over her kyrtle. “It is nice out this morning. We could break our fast in the garden. I will go ahead and tell the kitchen maids.” She moved around him, but he stopped her.
“Why did you dress like this today?”
“It was my mother’s idea.”
“Not yours?”
She shrugged, remembering what her mother had said about being nice to Peter. “It seems there is to be a duel in the lists. Maybe I thought I should dress for the occasion.”
He ducked his head, looking her face to face. “Still mad at me about that?”
“I could be.”
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