From This Moment On

  “Wine with a sprinkling of courage atop,” Berengaria said.

  “Courage?”

  Berengaria looked at her and Ali felt as if every secret she called her own was suddenly laid open before the woman’s gaze. Perhaps the old woman had the sight in truth. But, despite herself, she wasn’t afraid. Never mind that there were now three people in this keep—Jason, Gillian, and this woman here—who could betray her to her death.

  “Courage,” Berengaria repeated, “though you’ve more of it in you than you realize.”

  “If I had been courageous, I would have followed the path my father laid out for me,” Ali said with a sigh.

  “I very much suspect,” Berengaria said thoughtfully, “that had you done so, you never would have set foot on the shore of England. Marie wouldn’t have allowed it. There are many places in the sea where a body might sink to his death and no one but the murderer be the wiser.”

  “Think you?” Ali asked in surprise. She could believe many things of Marie, but murder?

  Berengaria rubbed her gnarled hands together. “I daresay she’s not above that. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’d done it before.”

  Ali knew that Marie was feared and hated by many, but to suspect such a thing of her was, well, almost more than she could stomach. Though she certainly could have seen herself coming to a bad end at the woman’s hands.

  Berengaria rose. “We’ll keep you safe whilst we can. But for now, I’ll leave you to my lord Jason’s care whilst I go to forage for herbs.” She smiled. “One can never have too many, you know.”

  Ali watched her pull the alcove’s curtain across and supposed that Berengaria had no need to listen to her sorry tale. Like as not, she knew it all already. But that left Jason to hear it; and there he sat, looking at her as if he’d never seen a woman before.

  “What?” she grumbled.

  He only smiled faintly. “You’re famous here, you know. There was quite a stir when you disappeared.”

  “No doubt,” she said wearily.

  “I am intensely curious about how you came to find yourself with spurs on your heels instead of keys on your belt. Will you not tell me of it?”

  She hesitated.

  “I am a vault,” he added. “A veritable repository of secrets that must be kept upon pain of death.”

  And if any secret fit that description, it was hers.

  “Come, Aliénore, and unburden yourself.”

  The sound of her name caught at her so suddenly and so tightly that she could do nothing but clutch the stone bench with her hands and struggle to breathe normally. And then, of course, she had to weep. Jason shoved a bit of cloth in her hands, patted her head a time or two, then sat back and waited for the deluge to subside. Ali found, eventually, that she had run the well dry for the moment. She leaned back against the wall and dragged her sleeve across her eyes.

  “Womanly weakness,” she said, with another sniff.

  He laughed. “Aye, to be sure. Now, give me the tale of your spurs. I daresay you didn’t kill anyone for them.”

  “I might have, for all you know of it.”

  “How?” he asked. “By breaking a sewing basket over some poor fool’s head?”

  She glared at him. “You are a rude boy.” “I am not a boy, and my mother tells me I am quite polite, but we aren’t discussing my flaws. I daresay you are more skilled at filching than killing. Am I right?”

  “I stole spurs from my brother François,” she admitted reluctantly. “And he deserved to lose them, the drunkard.”

  “His sword too?”

  “He tormented my dolls when I was little.”

  “His mail?”

  “He was senseless. It seemed a just recompense.”

  “The poor lad. What then?”

  There was little point in boring him with the events of the past two years. Indeed, they were memories better left forgotten. So she shrugged, as if neither the time nor the danger had meant anything to her..

  “I fled Solonge,” she said, “found myself at Maignelay-sur-mer as Sybil’s keeper, and now I am here.”

  “Here being the last place you would have chosen,” he said with a dry smile. “Poor girl. But you’ve told me so little. How did you manage the pleasure of being Sybil’s keeper? Were you the most patient of Maignelay’s garrison?”

  She shook her head. “Sybil’s mother, the lady Isabeau, gave me the task. I daresay she knew from the start what I was, else she never would have sheltered me thusly.” She paused. “I owe her much for her protection.”

  “She will be blessed for it. You needn’t fear here, either. We will protect you now, Berengaria and I. I would imagine if Gillian brought you here, she knows as well.”

  “Aye, she does.” She stared down at her cup in her hands. “Though I daresay there is nothing any of you could do.”

  “I can protect you from Sir Etienne.”

  “I wouldn’t refuse that aid, but he isn’t whom I fear the most.”

  “Colin?” he asked in surprise. “Think you that you need protection from him?”

  “He vowed to kill me did he but ever find me.”

  He shrugged. “Idle words, spoken in anger. I doubt he meant them. Besides, your contract with him no longer stands if he’s to wed with Sybil.”

  “He would likely kill me just the same to remain true to his word. And who knows,” she continued, “if he’ll actually succeed in forcing her to the altar? If the wench had any spine, she’d flee for a convent, for I daresay she would prefer that. Especially if she could have the calling of cellarer.”

  “Not something I would choose,” he said with a shudder.

  “I’ve considered it.”

  “You? A nun?” He looked at her, slack-jawed. “Is that what you intend?”

  “I’ve no idea what I intend,” she said. “I have no skills, nothing of value to offer anyone. I am a lord’s daughter, born to be a wife, mother, and chatelaine, but I have no talent for any of those things either.”

  “Oh, Aliénore,” he said, shaking his head with a sad smile, “surely you undervalue yourself.”

  “You aren’t familiar with my lack of skills—especially my stitching. I am as inept at that as I am at swordplay.”

  “Think you that is all a man wants?” he asked. “A woman who can sew a straight seam?”

  Ali sighed. “I don’t know what a man wants, and it hardly matters anyway as I now have no man to want me. I have coin, at least some, but no idea what to do with it.”

  He stroked the rim of his cup for several moments in silence, staring down at it, then he raised his head and looked at her. “You know,” he said carefully, “I would trust Colin of Berkhamshire with my life.”

  “You didn’t flee a betrothal from him.”

  “True enough.” He looked at her and laughed suddenly. “But now look at you. First his bride, now his liege-man. I daresay, Aliénore, that you have traded downward in your choice of obligations to our lord from Berkhamshire.”

  “I’ll judge that later.”

  “I can judge it now. You’ve never seen Sir Colin in full flush in the lists. I don’t envy you the pleasure.”

  She scowled at him as he rose. “Have you anything else cheery to add, my lord, or will that suffice you for the day?”

  “Give me time,” he said, holding out his hand and pulling her to her feet. “Let us find some way to amuse ourselves today. I’ve no doubt Colin will have you at your labors at first light tomorrow.” He pulled back the curtain, then paused. “Did you hear the door close just now?”

  “Nay, I did not.”

  He hesitated, then shrugged and looked down at her with a smile. “I was mistaken. Let us be about your final day of leisure. You’ll think back on it fondly when Colin has left you in the dirt continually for a fortnight or two before he announces that you may someday learn which end of the sword points away from yourself.”

  “Do you intend by that to buoy me up, or convince me that the life of a nun is the
one for me?”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the door. “Learning a bit of swordplay is always a very useful thing, even for a nun. Besides, it will give us ample time to discover what it is you would truly care to do with your life. A pity, though, that Colin can’t know you. He would admire your courage.”

  “What there is of it.”

  He paused at the door and looked down at her seriously. “I know of few men who would have the courage, the determination, or the wit to hide for as long as you have. Can you see Colin in skirts for that long?”

  “Subterfuge can hardly be a life’s work,” she said.

  He smiled down at her. “You would be surprised. I should tell you of my father’s grandfather, a spy for the French king. Do you know that he hid for several decades in the guise of a nun? With his lady wife as his abbess? Indeed, there would be many in my family who would be offended did you tell them that subterfuge is a small thing.”

  She swallowed with difficulty. “I don’t think I could spend the rest of my life spying.”

  “’Tis but one thing to consider, and it is something you’re quite good at, apparently. We’ll put it at the top of our list. Whilst Colin has at you in the lists, I’ll give your life’s work a bit more thought. Perhaps at the end of each day, we’ll review the possibilities and see if any suit you. You’ll be wanting to lie down on the floor and rest anyway, and no doubt listening will be all you’re capable of.”

  He was taller than she, but not so tall that he couldn’t be flicked on the ear, which she saw to without hesitation. She received nothing but a grin and wink in return, and somehow that cheered her. Ah, that she might have had a brother such as this. Perhaps if she’d had, she would have found herself wed to a man who would have cared for her.

  Not facing the prospect of being the garrison knight of someone who would surely hate her did he but know who she was.

  “Come, my friend,” Jason said, pulling her out of the chamber. “To the battlements. ’Twill likely be the last day you’ll have the strength to get yourself up to them.”

  “You, my lord, have a passing unpleasant sense of the jest.”

  “I wasn’t jesting.”

  Which was exactly what she feared. But as she walked with Jason of Artane up to the roof, she found that her heart was, for the first time in months, almost light. So she would find herself facing Colin of Berkhamshire in the lists quite soon. It could have been worse. She could have been facing him in front of a priest. She could have been facing Marie over a sharp blade. She could have been facing Sir Etienne over his fists.

  “Alewife,” Jason muttered to himself. “Midwife. Pig-herder’s wife.”

  Pig-herder’s wife?

  Being Colin’s garrison knight was beginning to sound almost appealing.

  She studiously avoided thinking about the truth of it. She was going to soon be facing over blades the most feared man in England, and likely France, and to take that lightly was sheer folly. She would have to be careful, watch every step, consider every word.

  And pray that she could survive the encounters.

  Chapter 10

  Sir Etienne pulled the healer’s door carefully to, then drew himself back into an alcove. He stood silently in the shadows and watched as a man and a woman left said healer’s quarters and made their way to other amusements. He would have stroked his chin thoughtfully, but his entire face hurt like a company of demons had been using it to dance upon for a fortnight. And he knew just whom to blame for that.

  Sir Henri.

  Or, as he might be more commonly known, the lady Aliénore of Solonge.

  Smiling hurt his face as well, so Sir Etienne settled for a snort of pleasure. To think all this had come about thanks to the ministrations of the Butcher of Berkhamshire. Sir Etienne enjoyed the irony of that for a moment, then relived the delicious moments that had led up to his standing where he was at present.

  He’d gone to seek Blackmour’s private healer on the advice of a more disreputable-looking member of the garrison, though he’d been warned in very strong terms that the woman was more than she seemed. Healer, witch, he hadn’t cared what she was. She would have herbs to dull his pain and his wits.

  He’d been prepared to use whatever tactics were necessary to persuade her to give him what was necessary. To his surprise, he’d been making his way down the chamber only to see her leaving ahead of him. How fortunate for him that he would be able to paw through her stores without her in attendance.

  He’d slipped inside the chamber only to hear weeping coming from the curtained alcove. He’d suspected some silly wench was about some sorry tale, and that had concerned him not in the least—especially since such weeping would cover any unplanned noises he might make himself.

  After finding enough willow bark to send himself into oblivion for a se’nnight, he’d listened to the weeping in the alcove cease and more conversings begin.

  And it was then that he realized he would leave the chamber with more than just herbs.

  He’d listened in open-mouthed astonishment as the lady Aliénore of Solonge had laid out her life before that overindulged, pampered brat from Artane. He’d been hard-pressed not to shout with laughter. Two years of hiding, two years of pretending to be a knight wasted, and all because at the moment of crisis, she couldn’t keep her mouth closed.

  So like a woman.

  Well, at least he now understood why she was such a pitiful excuse for a knight.

  He leaned back against the wall and wondered how he might use his newfound knowledge. For gain, surely, but what kind of gain and for how long? She’d said she had coin. Was she wearing it, or had she hidden it? He would have done the latter, but there was no telling what a foolish wench might do. He would just have to follow her closely and watch. No doubt she would either count it on her person or return to its hiding place to make certain it was still there.

  Should he demand her coin and leave her helpless? Or should he just exact other, more personal gifts from her?

  The mind reeled at the possibilities.

  He would bide his time, watch how things progressed, and see what else he could discover, what he could use ruthlessly for his own ends.

  It was almost enough to make up for the condition of his nose.

  Chapter 11

  Colin tested the ground beneath his feet for sturdiness, scanned the surrounding terrain for things that might hamper his morning’s enjoyment, then turned back to the task at hand—namely training the pitiful whelp who stood before him, quaking in his boots and looking as if he prepared to enter Hell itself to be tortured by the most inventive demons there.

  Colin nodded to himself in satisfaction. Now that the boy had the proper attitude, ’twas time to begin what promised to be a wonderful day of work. Such was certainly preferable to anything else he might have been doing—especially if that anything included trying to have speech with his bride, who slipped into senselessness every time he came within ten paces of her.

  And given that she’d only clapped eyes on him twice, he was beginning to wonder if she was pretending the malady merely to avoid him.

  Ah, but never mind that now. He had Henri standing before him looking terrified, and time on his hands to use that terror to his advantage. Really, could any man wish for more?

  “We will begin,” Colin announced, folding his arms over his chest, “with the manner in which you hold your blade.”

  Henri looked as if he would rather have been grasping a fistful of asps.

  Colin felt no impatience. He was determined to teach this lad swordplay, no matter the effort nor the time involved. That such training might happily prevent him from taking his journey south any time soon was something he steadfastly refused to acknowledge, not being one to shrink from the unpleasant, of course.

  The same apparently couldn’t be said for Henri, unfortunately. Colin had been forced to hunt Henri down that morning, then remove him with encouraging words from his hiding place amongst C
ook’s barrels of ale. No doubt the lad feared to disappoint him in the lists. Colin could understand Henri’s apprehension, given his own tremendously intimidating self, but how could the lad disappoint when he had absolutely no skills and there was nothing for him to do but improve?

  And no time better to improve than as quickly as possible. He fixed Henri with a purposeful glance.

  “Draw your blade,” he instructed, “and let us see how it sits in your hand.”

  The boy was nervous, any fool could see that, but Colin did nothing to startle him. He merely watched as Henri struggled to pull forth his blade from its sheath. It was then that Colin realized that much of the lad’s problem came from the fact that the blade was too heavy for him.

  That led him to wonder how Henri had come by it. Surely no lord would have been foolish enough to give a boy a man’s sword such as this. Then again, perhaps his lord had been poor and this the best he’d been able to offer.

  Colin made his decision. There was no use in causing the boy shame over the gear he had. There was also no use in trying to train him with what he possessed at present. Besides, Colin could not only see the bruises on his face, but noted the way he flinched as he tried to do as Colin bid him. ’Twas a certainty that he still suffered after-effects from the thrashing Sir Etienne had given him. Another day or two of rest would likely do him good before the true work of becoming a knight began.

  But first the matter of the blade.

  “How attached,” Colin asked abruptly, “are you to that?”

  Henri’s sword point made abrupt contact with the ground. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That sword. Has it especial meaning for you?” Colin asked. “Would it grieve you to lose it?”

  The boy looked as if he simply couldn’t comprehend what Colin was saying. That gave Colin pause. He couldn’t train the lad if he had so few wits that he couldn’t understand the simplest question. Then again, perhaps terror had rendered him speechless. Hoping that was the case, Colin pointed to the sword.