“He won’t live long enough to rescue you. We have men out searching for him now.” Peter looked Fredrick over. “I doubt he planned to rescue you anyway. Your choices are limited. You can talk, and I will be as lenient with you as is reasonable. Or you can continue to have faith in your cousin, who we both know cares only for his own arse.”
“He paid me,” Fredrick said.
“Go on.”
“Paid me to produce a blend of herbs that would keep Lord Havendell incoherent, but alive.”
“Didn’t work quite like you expected, did it?”
“There must have been some other complication.”
“Aside from a failing heart?” Peter lifted his brows.
“His heart was failing him, aye, but there was a very good chance he would have recovered, at least this time. I have seen it before. He survived the first attack, but it weakened him. It was only a matter of time.”
“Would a toxin be enough to tip the balance?”
“It would.
“Your herbs build up in the system, eventually killing the recipient.”
“I . . .”
Judging by Gilburn’s reaction the day before, and Fredrick’s now, Peter assumed they’d had no idea what they’d been getting themselves into.
“It was just until the Lady Zipporah agreed to marry him,” Fredrick said. “If anything, it is her fault.”
Peter shook his head.
“My apologies, my lord. My cousin feared Lord Havendell would change his mind. Especially when we learned that you had returned to England.”
I was the catalyst? Peter kept a straight face.
“Gilburn knew you might win both the lady and her father over.”
“So you started administering the herbs after I came home.”
“The very next day.”
Peter stood, his mind onto other things.
“What will you do with me?” Fredrick called.
Peter opened the barred door and went into the corridor. He would deal with Fredrick later. Maybe stash him somewhere where he would not harm himself or others. He could clean privies at a monastery in France.
“Have a meal brought to him,” Peter told a guard. “Cold, but relatively free of maggots will do.”
Fredrick’s questioning voice followed him down the corridor, disappearing behind the tower door. Peter met up with John and Zipporah on the battlements just outside. This high off the ground, the wind was whipping. The obscenely long sleeves of his wife’s burgundy gown were trying her patience. After several attempts to gather them in, she finally gave up with a sigh and let her clothing do as it willed.
“Gilburn paid Fredrick off,” Peter said. “He did not know the herbs would become toxic.”
“So he says,” John added.
“I have no reason to believe otherwise. He began administering them the day after I came home. Gilburn was afraid I would win you and your father over.”
Zipporah turned away, her hand on the wooden railing, fingers tightening on it. He slipped his arm around her waist from behind, her temple against his chin. “Please talk to me.”
“I didn’t know how obvious we were. I wonder what my father would have done if he had known you were back.” She turned to look at him, then brushed his hair off his face. “Let’s get out of here.”
Peter took her hand, walking with her in silence. He never liked silence between them and had the urge to fill it. His wagging tongue was rarely what she needed though.
They met up with Alana. John seemed grateful that he was no longer odd man out. The four of them sat, John discussing interrogation skills with Alana. Peter wasn’t sure why his brother was attempting to woo a lady in quite that way.
Then again, John had never tried to woo a lady before.
Or any woman for that matter. As lord, all he had to do was smile and nod and he had all the companionship he needed. And he usually did, have plenty of companionship, but his nightmares had started right after news of their mother’s death had reached them. He slept alone after that.
Zipporah scooted closer to Peter. “When I was a little girl I thought my bridal period would be a more festive occasion.” She rested her cheek on his shoulder.
“Oh, I don’t know. Lord Edmund was festive last night.”
“I could draw and quarter him for it too.” John laughed at something and she lifted her head. “Your brother is attempting to impress Alana.”
“So I noticed.”
She frowned to herself. “Take me for a walk outside. I need to do something other than sit here.”
“Aye, my lady.” They made their way out the door and into the garden.
Peter felt like he really should be in the forest looking for Gilburn. He wasn’t accustomed to letting other men do his dirty work. It was something he would have to get used to, now that he was lord. The wind blew, sprinkling the occasional green leaf down on them. John’s voice carried on the breeze.
“I think we’re being followed,” Peter said. “We cannot seem to get rid of them.”
Peter heard the zip of a drawn sword. Without thought, he pushed Zipporah behind him.
“What?” she squeaked.
“It’s lovely.” Alana appeared with John from behind a row of juniper bushes.
“It’s just John showing Alana his sword,” Zipporah said. “A little tense are we?” She came out from behind his shoulder.
“You could say so, aye.” He smiled. “Well, John said he wanted a woman who could appreciate his sword.”
“The two of them are going to need some help if this is ever going to work.”
Peter lifted his brows.
“Wouldn’t she be better off with John than Besville?”
“Of course she would. And her brother’s debt?”
“John will think of something. He is good for that.”
“Mine is in my chamber,” Alana said. “If you would like to see it. My brother taught me to fight. I’m really not very good, but he humors me. And I enjoy the exercise. May I?” Alana reached toward John’s sword and he passed it to her.
Which was phenomenal.
He never let anyone touch his sword.
“You have your own sword?” he said, looking at her like she had a halo over her head and a choir of angels singing around her.
She lifted his weapon, tilting it into the sun. The ruby in the crosspiece winked. “I have two, actually. One is dull for practice, and the other sharp.”
“But are they weighted the same?” John asked. “If not, then you could find yourself at a disadvantage in an actual fight.” He paused, looking her over. “Not that you should ever find yourself in combat, but it is always best to be prepared.”
“They are exact replicas of each other. I brought both of them with me.”
Peter watched Zipporah’s brow knit. Then her eyes lit up and she went to Alana. “Why do we not go get your sword?”
Alana turned to John. “Would you like to . . .”
“I would be honored to see it, my lady.”
Peter was sure he would.
“How about we all meet up in the lists?” Zipporah looked at Peter. “You and John could use the diversion. And maybe, once you’ve worn John down a bit . . .”
John snorted.
“He can give Alana a lesson,” she finished.
Alana’s eyes lit with a brilliance that had nothing to do with the sun shining down on them.
John was staring again.
“Truly, would you teach me?” She brushed her hair back with one hand, his sword in the other. “You are the best in all of England.”
“Well, I do not know about that,” John said.
“Aye, he does,” Peter added.
John glared at him.
“But would you be willing to teach a woman?” she asked.
“I never thought about it before. It would depend on the woman.”
“Right.” She smiled tightly. “I probably shouldn’t have asked.”
Zipporah bumped Alana with he
r shoulder. “He means you,” she whispered.
“Oh.”
“I will teach you,” John said, his voice husky. Alana blushed, then looked away, playing with her hair.
“Why do we not get your sword,” Zipporah said.
“Your dull sword,” John noted.
“Aye, of course.” Belatedly, she passed John back his weapon. “Thank you.”
He sheathed it as they walked off. “They really shouldn’t be left unguarded, should they?” he said a moment later.
“Nay, they shouldn’t,” Peter agreed.
“I better watch them.”
“Aye, you had better.”
John walked off.
* * *
“Thank you for the diversion,” Alana said. “I’m sure the last thing you want right now is to humor me.”
“I am not humoring you. Besides, Peter and John need this. And I need something to think about besides Gilburn.”
“You mean Peter needs something to think about besides Gilburn.”
“I know it probably sounds strange, but I feel safe, now that I have Peter with me.”
Alana sighed. “That does not sound strange. It sounds nice.”
They ascended the stairs to Alana’s chamber. John waited for them outside. Alana took her sword out of her trunk, laying it on the bed. Zipporah picked it up, still in its sheath. It was light-weight, so to speak. All swords were heavy, but this one seemed designed for a woman. It was about the same length as John’s, which made sense, seeing as Alana had long arms. The button on the end of the grip was set with a blue opal.
“My brother had it made for me,” Alana said. “Before we knew we shouldn’t be wasting our gold on such frivolities.”
Zipporah pulled the sword free from its sheath, surprised to see that is was honed to a deadly edge. “Alana?”
“I know. I have my practice sword here.” She took it out, placing it on the bed. They looked alike.
“How can you tell the difference?”
“Here.” She took up the dull weapon, pointing to the blade. “This one has my initials on it. My brother said he would allow my initials on the sharp one only over-his-dead-and-rotting-corpse.”
“That sounds serious.”
“He does not mind me practicing, but he doesn’t like me wearing a sharp sword on my hip. I argued that I might need it one day. He said that a man who lives by the sword will die by the sword. I reminded him that he lives by the sword. He stopped talking to me for three days.” She took the sharp sword from Zipporah, sheathing it. “I just want to show it to Lord John.”
Alana took a leather jerkin out of her trunk. It was light brown, like a hazel nut, and tooled with scrolling leaves. Donning it, she tightened the laces with practiced fingers. Then she braided her hair quickly, fastening it with a strip of matching tan leather. She belted the dull sword around trim hips and picked up the sharp one.
“I am ready.”
And so she was. “I am impressed,” Zipporah said.
Alana’s brow furrowed as if in confusion.
“Never mind. Let’s go.”
They met up with John in the corridor. Zipporah watched him take note of Alana and smiled to herself. She took Alana’s arm, leaving John lagging behind, so he could get a good view.
They made their way outside, then down the path to the lists. The training field was sprinkled with men. Zipporah saw her mother sitting under the pavilion, sewing. The preparations for the funeral were set, and it was going to be harder on her mother now that she had some time on her hands.
“Excuse me for a moment,” she told Alana, going to check on her. “How are you?” she asked, sitting down next to her mother.
“I have to fix this sleeve,” Lady Havendell said, avoiding the question.
It was one of Zipporah’s gowns. “My clothes have arrived?”
“Aye. They just did. I wanted to do some mending. I’ve been meaning to for some time.”
“I can do it myself.”
“I know.” She looked up, blinking into the sun. “Is that Alana?”
“She is going to show us what her brother taught her.”
“With a sword?”
“Well, aye.”
“Ah.” Lady Havendell went back to her sewing.
“Mother?”
“Go on, daughter. Go with your friends.”
Zipporah hesitated, then sighed and stood. “I will be back.” Peter was just joining the others as she neared.
“How is she?” he asked, glancing in her mother’s direction.
“I wish I knew. She will not talk to me.”
“Give her some time. If she is anything like you, then she cannot be forced.”
Zipporah was about to question him about that, then changed her mind.
“Why don’t you and Alana go sit with her while John and I spar.” Peter ducked his head, smiled, then caught her mouth under his for a soft, warm kiss. She found herself leaning into him, not caring that they weren’t exactly alone. He lifted his head. “I could get used to that.”
“And it is definitely better than talking.”
“For us. Aye, it is. But I’m not complaining.”
“Not now anyway.”
His eyes narrowed, but she took hold of his shirtfront and dragged his face to hers, kissing him again. She let him go, then watched him walk away, allowing herself a moment to enjoy the view. His build was what defined him as a warrior. There was no excess on his frame. Every sinew, every hard, honed inch spoke of speed, agility, and strength.
It was enough to make her want to stand there and fan herself for a while.
Then she remembered Alana. Shaking herself free of her admiration, she took Alana’s arm. “We will get a nice view from the pavilion.”
Lady Havendell looked up briefly to acknowledge their presence, and then returned to her task.
Alana watched John as if studying his every move. Maybe she could come to admire the man behind the sword? Zipporah knew she was pushing, but Alana was a damsel in need, and truth be told, John could stand for a bit of rescuing too.
Steel clashed, the sharp ringing sound carrying on the air. Other men were training as well, filling the field with a cacophony of tones.
“They can both predict the other’s next move,” Alana explained. “If this were an actual fight, it would go on for a long time.”
“It is a good thing they get along then.”
As it was, it continued until both men were sweaty and out of breath. Eventually, they both stood down, then came off the field smiling.
“Ale,” John croaked.
“Aye.” Zipporah stood. She filled two mugs from the cask and handed them off.
Peter wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “He is all yours, my lady” he said to Alana. He took a drink. “I tried to leave a little fight in him for you, lest you not be sufficiently challenged.”
“Thank you,” she said, seriously.
Zipporah glanced at her mother, who was finally showing some interest in what was going on around her.
“Do be careful,” Lady Havendell said.
Alana stood, unsheathing her practice sword and pointing it at John. “Perhaps I should use my other sword.” She glanced at the sharp blade leaning against a bench.
“I wouldn’t want you to hurt me,” he said with a straight face.
She lowered her sword. “As if I would have a chance at that.”
“Oh, I would not be so sure,” Peter said. “You could use misdirection, you know.”
“Misdirection?”
“Compliment his sword skill and smile,” Zipporah offered.
“Then go in for the kill,” Peter finished, positioning his hand as if he still held his sword, then lunging.
John, who was picking out a dull sword from a collection of practice weapons in a bin, looked over his shoulder at Zipporah and Peter with a warning.
Zipporah mouthed, “Just trying to help.”
He ignored her, finished off his al
e, and then gestured to Alana. “I believe this is our dance, my lady.”
Alana’s grip tightened on her training sword as she followed him onto the field. Zipporah sat with Peter.
“I wonder if she’s any good,” Peter said. “She is tall. Almost as tall as John.” He cocked his head. “And well built.”
“Stop looking,” Zipporah teased.
“I was not looking.”
“Good.”
Alana faced John with a solid stance, his eyes widening in appreciation. He came at her slowly, testing the waters. She met him head-on, defending every move with a delicate smoothness that made it look as if they really were dancing.
Then Alana turned aggressive.
“First mistake,” Peter noted.
“Why?”
“She’s giving away her hand. Her anger is showing.”
“She has good reason to be angry, what with her upcoming wedding.”
While they sparred, her mother finished one gown and started in on a second. Alana came at John with increasing force. Her brow furrowed in concentration, sweat glistened on her tanned skin. Her breath was ragged.
“She’s going to hurt herself,” Zipporah said.
“Let John deal with it.”
“But . . .”
Peter bumped his shoulder against hers. “Let him.”
She nodded.
John caught Alana by the wrist. She struggled to free herself but he didn’t let go. He tossed his sword down, then removed hers and tossed that aside as well.
They exchanged words. Zipporah couldn’t hear what they were saying. John reached out, gently smoothing back a curl that had fallen into her face.
Alana jerked, then broke away, walking off the field. As she neared, Zipporah saw tears in her eyes. Standing, she went to her. “Are you all right?”
Alana waved her off. “I am fine. I just need a moment.”
“You are not hurt, are you?”
“Only my pride.” She filled a mug with ale and sipped from it.
John came next, Alana’s sword in his hand. He tossed himself at a bench.
“What did John do?” Zipporah said.
“It wasn’t him.” She looked at her cup, then downed the rest of the ale like she didn’t care what anyone thought about her. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth. “I do not want to talk about it.” Alana set the cup aside with a clatter and took up her second sword from where it was leaning on the bench near John.
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