She smiled up at him, hoping that kindness would gain her some ground. “Welcome back.”
He stood there staring at her for several moments, his brows drawn down in his signature scowl, his long arms at his sides. The fire lit half of his face to golden, flickering brilliance, but even in that glow, Alys thought he looked paler than when he’d left.
“Don’t do that again, Alys.”
Her eyes went wide as she tried to feign innocence, difficult with a monkey huffing little breaths into her ear. “Do what?”
“You know what.” He crouched down by the fire and turned his attention to arranging the wood fuel. He was clearly in no mood at the moment for sport.
“Oh! You mean try to kiss you?”
He threw her a glare from the corner of his eye.
“Why is it so wrong for a woman to be forthright in her desires?” Alys demanded. “The Foxe Ring decreed that we are man and wife, and if you are attracted to me, then I see no reason—”
“Alys, we are not married.”
“That is debatable.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Since we are debating it even now, I would say that it is, in fact, debatable. You are unlike anyone I have ever met, Piers.”
He threw the last chunk of wood into the fire, causing an explosion of sparks. “You’ve never met anyone like me because you don’t spend your social time with the servants!”
“Actually, I do. Quite a lot, really. Drives Sybilla mad.”
He was very obviously unimpressed by her candor. “Here is why I will not kiss you, Alys, and why we will most certainly never—” He broke off and waved one hand between the two of them. “Your entire life, you have gotten everything you want. Me? I get nothing that I want. We are two different animals.”
“I don’t agree with that at all.”
“No?” he challenged. “Look at your gown—even though it looks as though it belongs on a kitchen maid, it is still better than what I now wear. And this is my only suit of clothes, save the ruined monk’s costume that was given me out of charity. You bade me cut up a dress for rags that would support me for five years!”
Alys simply shrugged.
He gaped at her. “See? You care nothing for the ruination of such a costly item.”
“Why should I? I didn’t pay for it or even ask for it—it was all Sybilla’s doing. If you fancy it so much, you may have it.”
“Do you blame everything on your sister?”
That stung. “Go to hell, Piers.”
“Oh, poor Lady Alys,” he mocked. “Forced to live as royalty, her every whim attended to. Who must run away with a commoner to have a bit of excitement. Don’t think for a moment I don’t know what will happen once we reach London.”
“And what exactly is that?” Alys demanded.
“After your little adventure, you’ll beg Edward for haven until you can be carried back to Fallstowe. You’ll recuperate from your time in the wild with such an uncouth commoner and live out the rest of your days as a well tended, married lady in pampered decadence.”
“The only haven the king would likely see me to is a cell should I dare step foot in his court,” Alys argued. “He would hold me ransom in Sybilla’s place.”
“And she would come running to your rescue, no doubt,” Piers sneered.
“Not bloody likely. Sybilla would not give herself up to Edward for the likes of me, I assure you.”
“No? No, of course not,” Piers said sarcastically. “She only sees that you live like a fucking princess. She very clearly hates you.”
“She’s marrying me to Clement Cobb!”
“After she gave you your choice of men and you refused them all! If she hated you, she would have married you to the first one who didn’t run away screaming!”
“Oh! What’s your excuse?” Alys went on the attack. “Why is it that you didn’t claim your rightful place as one of your father’s heirs before now, hmm? It’s not a secret that you’re Warin Mallory’s son, is it?”
“No,” he gritted through his teeth, and Alys suspected she was pushing in just the right area. “But before he died, I was nothing more than an embarrassing mistake to him. Bevan was his sole, legitimate heir. That was made very clear.”
“So why challenge that now? Why not years ago, when you could have avoided such poverty, such humiliation, such cruelty from Bevan and his mother?”
“Because I didn’t know I could!” he shouted. “My own father didn’t even know!”
“He didn’t know for certain that you were his son?”
“He didn’t know that Bevan was not!”
There it was—the truth, at last. The crackle of the fire and the shush of the river were the only sounds filling the rock overhang. The air seemed to tremble in the wake of Piers’s announcement.
He walked to the edge of the shelter and stared into the night, his back to Alys.
“Judith Angwedd cuckolded your father?” she asked quietly.
He nodded jerkily, but did not turn.
“Then who is Bevan’s sire?”
“My father didn’t know to tell me. He only overheard Judith Angwedd and Bevan talking when the pair of them thought him asleep. The day he died. He had just enough time to send for me, and give me his ring. He told me to carry it to the king, and to ‘seek my blood’ on my journey. He said that would lead me to the answer that would save Gillwick and myself. I still do not know what he meant. Perhaps the king will.” Piers paused. “Once Bevan inherits Gillwick, he and Judith Angwedd plan for his true father to also claim him as heir.”
“Uniting the lands for Bevan,” Alys surmised.
“More likely for that greedy viper Judith Angwedd. She’s always aspired to a greater station than she’s ever deserved. Gillwick—and my father—were naught but stepping stones to her. And Bevan has never cared about more than his drink and his cruel perversions.”
“What of your own mother? Other family members? Did they not know?”
“My mother died when I was six years old. I have no idea what she knew or didn’t know. Her father—my grandfather—abandoned her in shame, shortly before I was born. He never returned to Gillwick, and my mother never spoke of him. I presume he is dead. Anyone I ever had blood ties to is dead. That is why my father’s final words to me are such a riddle.”
Alys’s heart clenched. “And up until the day he died, your father never acknowledged you.”
Piers was quiet for a long time. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore Alys. It … it’s in the past now. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I correct this mistake with the king. Judith Angwedd will not dishonor my father’s memory with this treachery—announcing to all the land that she deceived him so when he is unable to accuse her of wrong.”
“You’re going to Edward to defend his honor?” Alys said, shocked. “What of your own honor, Piers? Of what they have stolen from you—Judith Angwedd and Bevan and—yes—your own father?”
“I will have my justice,” Piers said quietly. “And it is naught that Gillwick’s lands or the title of its lord can gain me.”
“What better revenge could there be?” Alys asked.
But Piers never answered the question. Instead he began banking the fire, piling up the sandy soil in a ridge, causing the flames to hiss petulantly.
“So now you see how we are so different.”
Alys nodded slowly. “Yes, we are different, but we are also very much alike.”
He looked to her, the question clear in his expression. Alys obliged him.
“We are both on this journey to gain what we desire. You are going to gain Gillwick.”
“And you are going to escape marriage to Clement Cobb.” Piers shook his head at the fire.
“That was my intent the night I left Fallstowe, yes. But now my desire has changed. Grown bigger than I ever could have dreamed.” He looked at her and she swallowed, gathered her courage. “I go to London with you, for you. For you, Piers. You are my desire.�
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“Stop,” he said curtly and turned his gaze back to the flames.
This time it was Alys who shook her head. “No. Piers, I can help you in London, I feel it.”
He sighed and sat down near her, his arms wrapped around one wide, drawn-up knee. “How? By getting yourself thrown in the dungeon? I don’t even know myself how I will convince Edward of the truth—all I have is hearsay from a dying man, told by his common bastard son, and a ring my father never wore, which Judith Angwedd will surely say that I stole, any matter.”
“That is a problem,” Alys admitted. “But I know that we are stronger together than apart. Our unlikely union has—” She broke off as the answer came to her with such blinding surety that for a moment, Alys’s head throbbed.
“Has …?” Piers prompted, a trace of humor in his voice. “Words failing you for once?”
“Piers,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “You are not common any longer.”
“I am until Edward decrees otherwise,” Piers said ruefully.
“No. No, that is not true.” Alys couldn’t help the stunned huff of laughter that came from her throat. “You are actually … quite wealthy, right at this very moment.”
He turned to her, his face a mask of forced impatience. “What are you talking about?”
Her smile was slow, sly, and carried the weight of her imminent triumph. “You are related to the most powerful house in all of England … husband.”
His frown deepened, and then realization dawned on his face. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.
Then Alys leaned so close to him that Piers had to draw his head back to look down at her upturned face. Her eyes played over his face, his lips.
“Now will you kiss me?”
Piers had not kissed her. Instead he’d sent her to sleep like a troublesome child, which had stung her pride and hurt her feelings, Piers knew. But he needed time alone, to think without her constant chatter and questioning. Once he was certain she was occupied by her dreams, he sat at the edge of the overhang, one knee drawn up, one foot dangling into the blackness of the ravine.
Alys Foxe, Alys Foxe. She was either the greatest blessing or the greatest curse to ever have come into his life. Since the fateful night they had met at the old ring, he had been denying her superstitious claim to him, thinking to protect both of their interests. Certainly, what man in possession of good sense would refuse any one of the Foxe ladies? Not simply the wealthiest women in all of England, but ruling the most powerful house beyond the throne? Even the king himself seemed unable to command them.
Piers knew that no matter how flattering it was for a woman such as Alys Foxe to chase him, any attraction she felt for him was likely only novelty. Once she came to realize the simplicity of him, the humbleness of his birth and life and home—even should he be successful in his endeavor to claim Gillwick—she would tire of him. She would long once more for the riches of her family, the wealth and luxury. Even though she only spoke of her sisters as a burden to her, Piers guessed that the women shared a close bond. Piers had no love to show her, give her. He doubted he even knew what the emotion meant.
Perhaps his mother had loved him. His memories of her—old and gray and fleeting—were warm and smiling. But he did wonder if that was naught but a sad little boy’s longing, to remember his mother as a loving protector. Had he ever been truly happy in his life? Piers could not say that he had. But he had known sadness. And loss, and anger and resentment and hate and jealousy. He had nothing to offer Alys Foxe but those things, and when she wearied of playing with him—as she undoubtedly would—his life would only be that much more miserable.
He had heard melancholy old women say that it is better to have a fleeting love than no love at all. But Piers did not agree. Having the love of his mother for those few years had only brought into stark relief the lack of tenderness and care in his life once she was gone. It had made him bitter, yes. But strong. He was strong. That was the only reason he was still alive.
Piers could not allow himself to love Alys Foxe, or to let her even think for a moment that him loving her was possible. But the opportunity she presented him now was almost too tempting to refuse. They had been completely alone together now for days, a fact that could be easily verified by her family. They had known Alys was running away to the Foxe Ring, and Sybilla herself had given her blessing upon any man Alys met at the ring who would have her. It was no secret that many in the land used the old stones to find a mate, and the superstition was so highly regarded that most of the time a formal ceremony was not even held.
Yea, ‘twas likely that a professed union between him and Alys Foxe would stand before the king. And how much more weight would his accusation of treachery against Bevan and Judith Angwedd—not to mention his claim to Gillwick—then carry? Edward wanted Sybilla Foxe, and to have her brother-in-law in his court, claiming lands that would then be connected by marriage to the grand Fallstowe’s, might be too beneficial to the king’s own interests to deny.
Perhaps Alys Foxe was in some way the answer to his father’s riddle. Piers hadn’t sought out the tenacious little blonde—indeed, he had done all in his power to escape her. And yet as her husband, perhaps it was her own powerful blood ties that would save Gillwick and himself.
But if he used her so to gain what he wanted, what would happen to Alys in the aftermath? How would they ever disentangle their lives from each other’s? Would Edward indeed take Alys for ransom, reining her powerful sister to him?
What would you care if he did? a nasty part of him argued. She will leave you any matter, deny you. Have you not kept her safe in this reckless petulance she has carried out by running away from her family? Have you not potentially saved her from a marriage she did not want? Should you not be rewarded for choosing not to leave her alone to die in the wood with her damned monkey, which nearly took your fingers off? She would not die at Edward’s hands—the king is not stupid. And her sisters would surely save her, any matter. Let Alys Foxe for once pay the consequences of her actions. She will then be free to again do as she pleases, and you will have Gillwick. And your revenge.
Piers sat for a long time, staring into the blackness over the river and listening to that voice, while the fire faded and then died quietly behind him. His fingers throbbed, his stomach roiled, his head pounded. The night seemed to have become inexplicably warmer to him, so much so that his face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He told himself it was naught but the excitement of having his victory only as far away as the king’s court.
Some time before dawn, he sought a cool, smooth stone for a pillow and lay down to sleep.
Chapter 12
Although he was indeed even more handsome in the daylight, sporting his new hairstyle and clean jaw, Alys thought Piers looked unwell the next day. She knew he had likely stayed up long after she was asleep, considering his newly arrived at decision to let her accompany him all the way to London and perhaps aid his plight with the king, so perhaps it was only fatigue that she saw. She hoped so. But it had been she who needed remind him of eating the last of their food before they started out once again on their long journey, and Piers had done little more than nibble at a small piece of apple before shoving the uneaten portion into his pack.
She felt a strange coolness from him, and it didn’t stem from his lack of conversation. She could feel him, in the way she’d felt Etheldred Cobb’s shame, the way she sensed that she must rescue Layla. Alys’s mother had once told her long ago that there was a way in her family blood, of sensing certain things other people could not discern. Some might call it witchcraft, Amicia had warned her, and advised that it was best not to announce her talent. But Alys’s mother had also instructed her to heed these feelings, and cultivate a notice of them. Alys had never given the idea much thought.
But as she now trudged along the forest floor behind Piers, she tried to sharpen her awareness of him—something she’d not done before in more than a purely superficial manner. Her steps fell in rhyth
m, the crunching leaves became a sort of heartbeat, her breath like ocean waves, rising and falling, rising and falling. He was clear in her sight—his broad back swaying with his steps, his pack bouncing, his head performing a choreographed dance of looking in turn down at the way before him and then left and right, always alert for anyone following them.
And as she stared at him, although his form was crisp and clear, the areas of her peripheral vision began to blur out. She stared for a long, long time, until at last she saw a light around him—yellow, but not the sweet gold of sunlight. It was more akin to smear of old mustard, and where it lined his body, it darkened to a fungus green. And instead of radiating from him in sharp, brilliant points, the light was rippled, like heat.
Alys blinked, and her vision cleared, although now her heart beat faster and her stomach clenched.
Was he ill? She wasn’t certain.
“Piers,” she called, her voice high-pitched and breaking from fear and disuse.
He glanced over his shoulder at her in answer.
“Could we stop for a moment, please?”
He kept walking. “Do you need the bushes?”
“No. I need to talk to you.”
“Walking has never prevented you from doing that before.”
“Yes, but I need to look at you while I do it,” she insisted. “It’s important.”
“You can look at me when we stop. Perhaps another hour. It looks to rain soon any matter, and we’ll need make camp early.” She could hear the frustration in his voice and something else, a weariness, perhaps.
And Alys was bone-cold—the air she breathed into her lungs felt loaded with ice crystals. The day was frigid. If any precipitation fell on them, it could be nothing other than snow—being a man of a farm, surely he of all people realized that.
She frowned. “Alright, Piers. In an hour then.”
He walked on without reply.
She needed to look at him, yes, but perhaps it was better that they make camp first. The farther along they were, the better chance they had of coming across a village of some sort for supplies. Her knowledge of the countryside surrounding Fallstowe had run out just past the little village of Pilings, and she had no idea now where they were or how far away London lay. She did know that they would be needing more food, of course, and if Piers was ill as she suspected, perhaps herbs, a potion—she didn’t know. Cecily was the sister learned in the healing arts. Alys knew little about caring for the sick, save that they needed a soft bed and a warm hearth and Cecily Foxe—none of which were at her disposal, or even within reach.
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