He stood, passing her the dull weapon in his hand.
“You did well,” he said, making a clear effort to soften his voice.
“I need to be better.” She gripped her sword until her knuckles turned white from the strain. Sheathing it smoothly, she walked away.
“Excuse me,” John said after a moment, then followed her at a distance.
Chapter Twenty-Three
He was stretched flat out on his back, in full armor and surcoat, clutching his long sword in thin, lifeless hands. That was the way her father was carried by six of his men on a litter from the castle keep to the chapel. Zipporah walked alongside her mother in the funeral procession. Monks in plain brown robes chanted as they swung incense burners on long chains that let off puffs of fragrant smoke.
The colorless gray stone and stained-glass windows of the church she was married in two days before loomed before her. She looked around for Peter, and found him with John, both of them dressed in chainmail and surcoats. His hair was tied back with a strip of cloth cut jestingly from her brown hemp gown. One day, she might find herself walking such a procession while Peter’s body was being carried to the chapel. She hated that.
Even if it were to be forty years away.
He caught her watching him and smiled. Zipporah saw her lost child in his face, she saw her own life . . . and she saw both their deaths.
And she thought, for one brief moment, she saw a place where there was no death, no suffering, and no hate.
John spoke to him, and he broke eye contact. They exchanged words with furrowed brows. John’s hand came to the hilt of his sword. Peter touched his arm, and John reluctantly let his hand drop.
Zipporah glanced around, but saw nothing to alarm. There were many people; their noble guests, knights, villagers, and household servants.
Peter crossed toward her and slipped his hand into hers. “Stay close,” he whispered.
“What’s happening?”
“Just stay close.” Leave it to Peter to bark an order when she was looking for an explanation.
Her father was brought into the chapel, the priest preceding and the monks following. She filed in behind with Peter and her mother. John was with Alana.
Lady Havendell laid flowers from her garden over her husband’s body. The apple blossoms had since wilted and blown away, so she’d cut a bouquet of white and red roses. Their sweet fragrance blended with that of the incense, swirling in the air around Zipporah. It was supposed to elicit feelings of peace, but the scent settled in the pit of her stomach like a painful reminder of moments with her father that she could not reclaim.
She grasped her mother’s hand as they sat together on a bench, Peter close, the heat of his body drawing her closer. She nudged her other hand into his and he took it. The priest recited over her father in Latin, then sprinkled holy water while a monk swirled smoke from a silver plated burner. The air felt heavy and too thick to breathe.
Lord, please let this be over. Please let this be over.
The minutes dragged by. After more recitation, her father’s body was lifted up and brought back outside. They followed into the yard where a grave was already dug for him. Peter’s arm brushed hers as they walked. He was tense beneath his surcoat, ready to spring at any moment.
Sir Mark came forward, removing Lord Havendell’s sword from his hands. It should have gone to Edward, but that was no longer possible. Sir Mark offered it to her hilt first. She wrapped her fingers around the black, leather-bound handle, struggling with the weight as Sir Mark gently released it. Peter made a motion and Sir Justin, one of John’s youngest knights, took it back from her, standing near with it held diagonally across his torso.
Peter took her by the elbow, urging her behind him. A moment later a shout rang out. “Mark!” he called. Her mother’s knight moved into position, a living shield. Sir Justin backed away as if protecting the spirit of her father’s weapon.
Before Zipporah could grasp what was happening, Peter and John had drawn their swords. Zipporah peeked over Peter’s shoulder. Confused people murmured to each other, glancing around.
A man in a peasant’s cloak broke free from the crowd, stumbling toward her father’s body. He fell to his knees, his hood up, and his face down. His shoulders heaved as if in grief.
“Take her,” Peter said, passing her off to John.
“What?” she protested. “Wait. Peter.”
“Stay!”
She let John pull her behind him. Alana took her hand, shielding her as well, her dagger drawn and ready.
* * *
“Give me a reason,” Peter said, his sword held before him, angled downward toward Gilburn.
The cloaked man lifted his head slowly, bringing his chin in line with the tip of Peter’s sword. Gilburn’s dark eyes were rimmed red within the folds of his hood. He hadn’t shaved in days.
“I did not want for this . . .” He broke off, shaking his head.
“Want what?” Peter questioned. “To deceive them? To hurt those you claimed to protect? Didn’t mean to kill your master?”
“I love them both.” His gaze turned toward Zipporah. “I love her.”
“She doesn’t need your kind of love.”
“Just let me say goodbye, and you will never see me again.” He lifted his hand in supplication.
Peter kept his sword trained on Gilburn. “Do it from here.”
“All I ask for is one moment.”
“Is she hard of hearing? Or perhaps you are. Do it from here, and be glad I do not split you open on the spot.”
Gilburn hesitated, then he looked at her father instead of Zipporah. “My lord,” he said, his voice sounding tight. “I wanted to be a son to you. It is all I ever wanted.” He pushed his hood back, revealing tousled black hair, straggly with sweat.
Peter noted the slight shift in Gilburn; the way his face tightened a fraction of a second before he drew his sword, the way his muscles tensed beneath his cloak. He rose and turned toward Peter.
“For Zipporah, and for the land,” he said, sword poised before him.
“Peter,” he heard Zipporah, but ignored her. He had to, otherwise she would distract him.
Gilburn attacked, his offence firm but desperate. Peter held him off, allowing him to wear himself down. Let him have his fight, Peter thought, seeing as it would be his last. Peter had to trust John to keep Zipporah back.
He heard the zip of an arrow in flight, turned in reaction, but was a second too slow. Peter felt the bite of metal as it broke through his chainmail, tearing into his right shoulder from the back. He wasn’t feeling pain yet, just a ripping sensation. He saw the tip of the arrow sticking out the front of his shoulder.
They must have missed one of Gilburn’s men the other day. Zipporah screamed. John barked out orders, and Peter was vaguely aware of knights and guardsmen leaving to secure the grounds.
Peter reached back, wincing as pain began to overcome shock. He broke the feathered end of the shaft off with a grunt. He couldn’t fight with it sticking out of him. John would have to push what remained through his shoulder later in order to remove it.
Zipporah was crying. John called for someone to hold her back.
“I have her,” Alana answered.
Gilburn attacked again, hard, threatening to loosen Peter’s sword from his hand. Gilburn used his greater size to his advantage. Peter’s arm was starting to give. He blinked back stars, aware he was losing too much blood.
John appeared. He pressed the tip of his sword against Gilburn’s back. “Drop it,” he said.
“Back down, John.” Peter shook the fog from his head.
“Nay.” His expression was firm. I am not leaving you, brother.
“John, this is my fight.”
“Peter back down,” Zipporah cried.
Gilburn’s gaze shifted, his eyes taking on a possessive gleam.
Peter wrapped both hands firmly around the hilt of his sword. His arms were shaking, and his right hand sticky with his ow
n blood.
John hesitated. He had to know Peter would never forgive him if he interfered.
“Back away, John.”
“Peter.” Green eyes, so much like his own, were pained. Arms trembled with indecision.
“You can have him when I am through.”
“There had better be nothing left of him when you are done.” John pressed the tip of his sword into Gilburn’s back, forcing him to draw up straight. “And if there is, then I will personally make sure you are no longer recognizable as a man.”
“If I win,” Gilburn said, careful not to move and force John’s sword past the first layer of his flesh, “I will be lord.”
“If you win, I you will feed you to the buzzards.” John stepped away, lowering his sword.
Peter blocked out Zipporah’s protests as he attacked Gilburn again. Oddly confident, in light of John’s threat, Gilburn kicked out Peter’s knee. Peter stumbled, landing on his right shoulder. His vision dimmed and narrowed. The next thing he knew, Gilburn’s sword was arcing toward his head. Peter rolled, feeling the air part around Gilburn’s blade. His sword tip stuck in the turf and Gilburn wrenched it free.
Peter peeled himself off the ground. He looked at Zipporah. Alana was holding her by the upper arms, straining to keep her back.
“Live or die, my lady,” Peter rasped.
Zipporah stopped struggling. Tears streaked her face, and her hair was sticking to them. “What?”
“Does he live or die?”
She glanced at Gilburn, and then back to Peter. “Die. Kill him, Peter, please.”
Gilburn shook his head. “Zipporah,” he mouthed.
“I could never love you,” she called. “I pity you.”
Peter knew he had only moments to take advantage of the distraction.
“I pity you!” she screamed.
Gilburn took a step back. Peter closed in on him. Gilburn lifted his sword to defend himself and Peter knocked it away. Without hesitation, he slid his sword into Gilburn, under the ribs, pushing it all the way to the hilt.
They were face to face now, Peter’s blood running down his arm and mingling with Gilburn’s. Soil-brown eyes widened in a brief moment of denial.
“You leave me no choice. I cannot let you live,” Peter breathed, knowing he was only seconds away from losing consciousness. He yanked his sword free and Gilburn fell backward, the ground shuddering on impact. His eyes dimmed and clouded over. Peter collapsed to his knees. His sword slipped from his hand with a dull thump. Alana must have released Zipporah, because she came to him.
“I had to do it,” he said. She helped him onto his left side.
“I know, Sir Knight.” She kissed his face. “I know.”
* * *
Zipporah cringed as Peter’s sword fell from his weakened grasp. She wished he would give himself more time to heal.
Six weeks had passed since his fight with Gilburn. Alana was at Ravenmore. John had been preoccupied with her, yet made training with Peter a priority. Lady Havendell had been quiet since the funeral, but she seemed to be coming around. Zipporah had some news for her that would give her plenty to think about over the next several months. She would probably spend the majority of it choosing the perfect location for the nursery, as well as furnishing it.
John picked up Peter’s sword. “That’s enough for today.”
“Again,” Peter gritted, flexing his hand.
“That’s enough.” John clasped his left shoulder. “Take a break. We will try again tomorrow.”
Peter came off the field like an angry bull. He ran his hands through his hair and thumped onto the bench near her. Zipporah didn’t touch him. He didn’t want her sympathy at times like that.
He was the first to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Peter had tried fighting with his left arm instead of his right, but he had once broken all four fingers on that hand, and found the loss of dexterity disappointing. He was lord now, and did not have to fight his own battles. He had knights for that. But Peter had been raised a warrior, and this irked him in ways Zipporah couldn’t begin to understand.
“Please don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “You have not disappointed me.” When he didn’t say anything she continued. “There are many things you do well. Some of them you do exceedingly well.” She lifted her brows.
“You said that yesterday. And the day before.”
“And I will say it tomorrow too.” She stood, then took his hand and tugged until he came to his feet. Zipporah urged his face toward hers. He hesitated before kissing her. She wished to God she knew how to restore his faith in himself.
She hadn’t had any stomachaches, like the last time, but her courses were very late, her breasts were tender, and she was sure now that she was with child.
“Peter?” she said, curling her fingers in his hair. “About your being good at . . . other things.”
His arms finally slid around her waist. “Aye,” he said, then kissed her neck.
“You are, or rather, I should say we are, particularly good at making things.”
“Mmm . . .” he sounded, definitely more interested in her shoulder now than anything else.
“We are good at making things.” She waited for him to take the hint.
He lifted his head, his brow creasing.
“Peter!”
“Oh.” He stared at her for a moment, blinking, then smiled. “Oh . . .”
Zipporah pulled his face to hers and kissed him.
It would be a lie to say that she wasn’t worried about losing another child, but she had to try again, or she would never know what it would be like. To have and to hold.
“I want you to be happy,” she said.
“I am happy.” He held her tighter.
“I mean with yourself. But please consider this.” She waited until he nodded before continuing. “You are lord, and you are going to be a father. Train, recondition yourself, do whatever you need. But do not risk your life like you used to. We need you too much for that.”
“It is not as simple as that.”
Of course he would say as much.
John walked off the field carrying Peter’s sword. Peter urged her back, and John handed it to him.
“Takes time,” John said. Then he walked away.
Zipporah closed her hand over Peter’s, on the sword hilt. “Do what you need to, to have faith in yourself,” she said. “But know that you have already won mine.”
He lifted the weapon, her hand still over his. “Zipporah.”
She leaned up, pressed the length of her body against his, and whispered, “Do not make me lose you.”
“I . . .” He looked at his sword. “I love you.” He tossed his weapon aside and wrapped both arms around her.
She was glad he didn’t say anything after that, because talking too much always got them in trouble. Kissing was better. Much better.
“I love you too.”
THE END
A Worthy Opponent
(Excerpt)
Ravenmore, England
The Year of Our Lord, 1192
Chapter One
Lady Alana of Berkley slid off her dapple-gray stallion, her legs stiff from an entire day spent in the saddle. She was an accomplished horsewoman, but unaccustomed to sitting in one position for so long. She looked around her new surroundings; Ravenmore, where she and her brother, Matthew, would be spending the summer season with a good friend of his, Lord John. Ravenmore looked little different than her home, Berkley. It consisted of a village lined with thatch roofed cottages, a stone chapel with small stained-glass windows, a kitchen outbuilding, the garrison, and the castle keep.
But there was one major difference, one that could not be seen with a quick sweep of the eye.
Lord John of Ravenmore.
She should be damned for what she had done. She likely would yet. Fantasizing about one’s new sword master was no doubt a sin of the flesh. Especially when one was engaged to another man.
Ala
na slipped the reins over her horse’s head, then turned to look at the stable boy waiting for her. He was no more than two and ten—she assessed him—possibly younger. He held out a dusty hand, waiting for her to put the reins into it. His homespun wool tunic was too big. He hitched it up his shoulder with the other hand.
“On second thought, little lad,” Alana said with a smile, “perhaps I should stable him myself.”
His blond brows furrowed.
“He,” she patted the stallion’s side, “is temperamental.”
As if on cue her stallion, Chester, swung his head around and bared large, grass-stained teeth at the lad. Alana nudged him with her elbow and the horse jerked his head up.
The boy looked cautiously at her brother. Alana was a conundrum. She knew it. Strange looks and whispers behind her back were common, and didn’t shock her. But she had to admit that having it pointed out by a boy still years away from his first acquaintance with a razor blade smarted. That she happened to be dressed like a lad and wearing a sword on her hip did not help her plight any. Alana flexed her jaw.
“Show my sister where she can put her horse,” Matthew said without missing a beat.
The boy dipped his head. “Aye, my lord.”
Matthew passed off the reins to his bay stallion. “You will find that my horse is an angel by comparison.”
Alana held Chester in check as the boy led her brother’s horse into the stable.
“You have to expect it,” Matthew said softly, before she could turn to follow. Both she and Matthew had inherited their mother’s hazel eyes. She had her father’s ginger-brown hair, he their mother’s chestnut. There was no malice in either Matthew’s expression or tone of voice. He was stating a fact.
“I know,” she said, lifting her chin. “What does it matter anyway? My life is . . .” She stopped.
“I will do something before then.”
She waved him off. How many times would they have this conversation? “What is there to do?” Alana gave the reins a tug and Chester followed her beneath the arched entrance of the stone stable.
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