It was enough to make her want to seek out her bed and never rise again from it.
She blinked, startled, to find that Isabeau had pressed something into her hand. Ali could feel without fingering it overmuch that it was a bag of coins.
“Go to England,” Isabeau said softly, “and buy yourself a new life, far from France, far from where Sybil will come to rest. I wish I had more to give you, but Humbert would notice otherwise.”
Ali felt her jaw slide down of its own accord. “My lady?”
“Go,” Isabeau said, motioning toward the door. “Seek your bed in the stables, where ’tis safe.”
“But—”
“The lady Marie might rise from her bed during the night, as we all do from time to time, and I daresay you wouldn’t want to encounter her,” Isabeau continued. “Such an unpleasant woman, don’t you agree?”
Ali could only shut her mouth and endeavor to swallow in something akin to a normal fashion. But before she could comment further, she had been turned around and pushed out of the solar. The door was shut firmly behind her, leaving her no choice but to do as the lady Isabeau had bid her.
She fetched a small bundle of belongings from her spot outside the girls’ chamber, then made her way to the stables. The lads there were used enough to seeing her, given that ’twas in the stables she loitered if Sybil had no need of her. The stable master only grinned at her.
“Out of favor with the gel, eh?”
“You could say that,” Ali agreed.
“Up there you go, then,” the man said, pointing to the hayloft. “You could wish for a poorer bed, no doubt.”
Ali could have wished for much poorer indeed, but she didn’t say the like. She crawled up into the hay and made a place inside her clothes for the little pouch of coins she’d been given. As she put it away, she realized there was more than coins inside.
The note was difficult to read in the gloom, but she managed. For that gift of knowing how she could thank her sire, for, despite Marie’s protests, he’d insisted she be educated along with her brothers. Of course, she’d paid for the privilege with Marie’s displeasure, but those were memories better left unexamined at present.
My dearest Aliénore,
Take this gold and find yourself a place far from those who would see you harmed. Would that I could have aided you more, for your mother was my dear friend and it has been my joy to have the keeping of her daughter for this too short time.
I have told no one of your secret. Be well, my girl, and may God grant you peace and safety.
Isabeau
Ali found the last words hard to read, mostly because the tears had blurred everything before her. By the saints, how had Isabeau known? Then again, Isabeau had been the one to find her after she’d fled Solonge, half-dead from exhaustion and hunger, sporting her brother’s gear and pretending to be a knight. Perhaps being surprised by the woman’s clarity of vision was foolish, given the circumstances.
But if Isabeau had recognized her, who else had?
She forced herself to breathe normally. If anyone else had known, they would have exposed her long before now. She knew she could trust Isabeau. Indeed, hadn’t she unknowingly done so for the past two years?
Ali tucked everything back into the pouch. On the morrow, she would hide herself in the crowd as well as she could, pray she could avoid Marie’s assessing gaze, then ride off calmly in Sybil’s company. She would travel to England and see Sybil safely delivered to her new husband. Then, her duty done, she would make a new life for herself, just as Isabeau had said. Aye, a new life, one where she could move about freely, without fear of discovery, without fear of a knife between her ribs, far from France. A life of peace and safety.
Any kind of life, actually, would be far better a life than the one she would have had as the bride of the most feared man in England.
Chapter 2
Colin of Berkhamshire, surely the most feared man in England and France alike, moved stealthily across the bridge that spanned from the mainland to the island that was Blackmour’s foundations. Stealth was never a problem for him. Despite his height and his strength, he was lithe and graceful.
Even he was driven to admit the like, though the only pride he took in it was that such grace gave him the advantage of sneaking up on an enemy and clouting him into insensibility before the man was the wiser—though he did that very seldom indeed. He was more inclined to announce his presence and demand a fair fight where he could see the terror in his foes’ eyes before he sent them on their way out of this world. Few even heard his name but they didn’t find their legs unsteady beneath them and their lips inclined to babble out the most heartfelt and sincere prayers of their life.
Unfortunately, at present even his own hard-won reputation did nothing for him. His current dilemma demanded nothing but stealth.
He was, and it galled him to admit it, being stalked.
For the first time in his life he had a small bit of sympathy for foxes, deer, and the like who found themselves being chased down and slain for the amusement of others. It was not a pleasant feeling and he suspected he might be hard-pressed to ever hunt again for the sheer sport of it.
Having gained an appreciation for the perils of being the prey, as it were.
He looked up at the barbican before attempting to creep through its gate. The parapet sported only the reassuring glint of steel and men wearing surcoats adorned with the blood-red dragons of Blackmour.
Colin moved through the barbican gate with care, looking before him into any nook that could have hidden an assailant. He would have drawn his sword as well to test the shadows, but that might have made him look weak. Better that he use his bare hands to torment his adversaries until other measures were called for.
He paused at the other end of the tunnel and eased his head out, his sharp eyes missing no detail. Nothing seemed out of place. Men worked in the lists. Peasants went about their labors. Servants did what they were supposed to be doing. Indeed, it looked like a score of other keeps in England might have looked at any given moment.
But Colin knew better.
Herein lurked his attackers.
Their number was three, that much he knew, and their work was foul. Their fate for him was fouler still, and ’twas a fate he was just as certain he could avoid—with enough stealth.
He had taken but one step into the inner bailey when he saw a page come racing across the lists toward him.
“Sir Colin! Sir Colin!” said the lad, waving what looked to be a rolled missive over his head.
Colin folded his arms over his chest and waited with an impatient frown. This distraction would do him no good. He had need of keeping his wits about him, not deciphering a message that would no doubt do nothing to improve his mood. No missive ever contained anything worthwhile, to his mind. Either they were calls to arms or messages from his sire telling Colin another of his intended brides had begged off.
It was tempting to run a hand over his face and examine it yet again for fatal flaws, but he was nothing if not disciplined when it came to that sort of thing. His visage was what it was, flaws and all, and no amount of examination would alter it.
Oddly enough, only a handful of his intended brides had ever seen that face, so he couldn’t help but wonder if the others had fled for other reasons.
Of course, he knew what their given reasons had been. Brush with death, pox, plague, unstaunchable wounds. Aye, they’d all come up with something plausible for why they could not, in the end, attend their own marriage ceremonies with him as bridegroom.
Well, all except that wench from Solonge who hadn’t even possessed the imagination to invent a decently clever reason to avoid him. Nay, she’d merely fled, leaving him humiliated.
Not that as pitiful a thing as an errant bride would humiliate such a one as he.
Or so he told himself.
Of course, he’d vowed to slay her should she ever dare show her face to him, but that had been, to his mind, the least he cou
ld have said under the circumstances. It had been a far sight more palatable than admitting she’d bruised his tender feelings.
He sighed, wondering not for the first time just what might be the true reasons a woman would find him a less than pleasing marital prospect. His fiercesome reputation, perhaps? That was nothing he could change. He was what he was and his reputation served him well on the battlefield.
Perhaps ’twas rumors of his unyielding sense of justice or tales of his skills in the hunt. He couldn’t understand what was amiss there. What wench could fail to be moved by such fine, manly qualities? Unless, of course, the wench in question wanted a man who was soft, foolish, and willing to be controlled.
Which Colin most definitely was not.
Nay, there was no point in trying to divine the reasons a woman would avoid the pleasant state of matrimony—unless she had the same good sense Colin had, a good sense that had kept him his own man for nigh onto a score and twelve years. And, the saints willing, he would manage to hold on to that precious freedom a bit longer.
Unless, of course, the missive was from his sire. Then who knew what tortures might await him?
He waited until the page had come to a skidding halt before him and proffered the missive. With a sigh, he took it, broke the seal, and unrolled it.
To Colin of Berkhamshire from his loving sire, Reginald of Berkhamshire.
Colin snorted. Loving? Nay, his sire’s self-stated mission was to make Colin’s life as miserable as possible. Loving had merely been inserted to impress anyone who might have intercepted the missive and passed judgment on Colin’s sire. Colin pursed his lips and read on.
After such troubles in finding you a wife to thereby assure myself of heirs to carry on my illustrious name, I have finally found a solution even you cannot befoul. A bride will be arriving at Blackmour shortly. You will bring her to Harrowden where I will give you further instructions regarding her fate. Do not fail to see to this, else you will leave me no choice but to take drastic measures.
I remain your patient and loving father, Reginald.
Colin cursed fluently and at great length, dismissing the page with the frown he normally used for that purpose. He rolled the missive up and wondered if it might be possible to escape Blackmour before his bride arrived. He could imagine quite well just what kind of wench his father had found for him this time and could only speculate how far afield his father had had to go in order to procure her. She was likely cross-eyed, palsied, and of so little wit that she wouldn’t know him from a post shoved into the earth.
His father’s preference in brides for him had become markedly less particular as time had marched doggedly on.
One could hardly lay the blame for that at his own feet, though. He’d done nothing but be what he was—arguably the fiercest warrior in the realm and certainly the warrior with the fiercest reputation. Not even Artane on his best day could inspire an immediate drop to the knees and a spewing forth of pleas for mercy that Colin could just by making his presence known. Was it any wonder no woman ever found herself equal to him, either in wit or in courage?
Nay, he didn’t want to think about what poor child his father had found for him this time. That she stood to arrive at Blackmour soon was proof enough that she was either from a far distant land where his reputation did not extend— and was there really such a place? he couldn’t help but wonder—or she was, as he’d first suspected, completely witless.
That he was required to bring her to the monastery at Harrowden was no less a foul portent of things to come. No doubt his father wished both Colin and his bride to come to his brother’s monkish home where they could be wed as quickly and as easily as possible.
He sighed and marched across the bailey toward the great hall. Had he been a lesser man, such desperation on the part of his sire to find him a bride might have wounded his feelings. Of course, he was not a lesser man, and his father’s search for a bride was merely an annoyance to be endured every so often and then forgotten when the wench begged off.
Of course, none of his irritation over his father’s fruitless searches meant that he was completely opposed to marriage. Even a man such as he couldn’t help but have a foolish wish for home and hearth cross his mind now and again.
Occasionally.
During the odd, maudlin moment.
He gave himself a good mental shake to rid himself of his foolish thoughts, then continued on his way. He stepped inside the great hall, but hadn’t taken two paces forward before he found himself meeting the fate he had so carefully tried to avoid.
One vile practitioner of even viler arts stood before him with a smile on her face that fooled him not at all.
“My lord Berkhamshire,” she said pleasantly.
He hadn’t opened his mouth to speak before he was flanked by her accomplices. The attack came without hesitation and he found himself facing the calamity he had so strenuously tried to avoid.
Dust floated up in the air and descended upon him with a heavy weight of doom.
“That ought to do it,” said the old woman on his right with a grumble. “If he won’t drink it down, sprinkling will have to do.”
Colin scowled at her, then turned to look at the woman on his left only to find her rearing back for another fling of foul matter his way. Before he could command her to stop, she’d finished her business and he found himself with a face full of some foul substance. He sneezed heartily.
“Forgive me, my lord,” the woman said contritely. “My aim needs improvement.”
“Ha,” said the one on his left. “What needs improving is more than your aim.”
“I did my best, Nemain.”
“Magda, your best would be dangerous in an empty field!”
Fierce bickering began. Colin felt the overwhelming urge to step out of the fray so he could cease being argued around, but that might have suggested to any of the three women surrounding him that he conceded them any kind of power at all.
Which, of course, he did not.
He frowned at the woman before him. “Might I ask what I am covered with now, Mistress Berengaria?”
Berengaria only smiled pleasantly. “Husband dust, my lord.”
Colin felt one eyebrow go up of its own accord. “Husband dust?” he mouthed, finding quite suddenly that he had no voice.
“I put a pinch of handsomeness in it,” Magda added brightly.
“Like as not, ’twas a bit of pox you added,” Nemain countered.
Colin felt alarm sweep through him. His poor visage was hard enough to look at without marks from the pox adorning it.
“With any luck, my additions will outweigh any foul effects from her mistakes,” Nemain said heavily. “Never worry, my lord Berkhamshire. I am your ally in this.”
The saints pity him if she ever chose to be his enemy. Colin dragged his scattered thoughts back to the forefront of his mind and stared down at the harmless-looking old woman before him.
“Tell me again what that was, Mistress Berengaria,” he commanded. “And pray make it something other than the foolishness you just spewed forth.”
“’Twas husband dust,” Berengaria said, sounding neither afeared of him, nor remorseful over what she’d just commanded be flung in his face. “We thought it needful.”
“I don’t need a wife!” he exclaimed.
She looked unconvinced.
“I don’t want a wife,” Colin amended. “They’re naught but a burden and a worry. I’ve enough of both without the affliction of a woman in the bargain.”
Berengaria looked at him skeptically. “You need a son, my lord, and I know only one way to get yourself a proper one. Isn’t that what your father just told you?”
He felt his jaw slide down of its own accord. “Did you read that missive?” But nay, that was impossible. The seal had been intact. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “I vow, lady, that you’ve some powerful unwholesome skills that I’ve no desire to acquaint myself with further.”
“Your father’s d
esires are no secret,” she said mildly. “I’m merely trying to make the fulfilling of them less fraught with anguish than they might be otherwise.”
“Humoring my sire is hardly my fondest wish.”
“But a son, my lord,” Berengaria said. “Surely that is a thing to be wished for.”
Colin spared a brief thought for Blackmour’s two sons, one almost three years and one not even a year, and the simple pleasure of holding them both in his arms from time to time. Young Robin was more inclined to pat Colin’s person for potentially hidden sweets than he was to agree to a bit of mild swordplay, but perhaps a young lad of three summers couldn’t be blamed for that.
The wee babe, William, however, indulged in no such pleasantries. His main purpose seemed to be inserting his fingers into whatever opening he could find on Colin’s head as often as possible. Nose, ears, mouth—the lad was not choosy. Colin found himself unable to deny the lad his curiosity, though he was the first to admit that it was difficult to intimidate any of Blackmour’s men whilst he had a babe’s finger delving into the depths of his ear or trying to scratch the back of his head by means of a passage up one of his nostrils.
A son?
By the saints, the thought was almost enough to bring him to his knees, faint with the responsibility and the joy of it.
But a son would entail a wife, and that was a thought he could not bear. Nay, rather he should find himself rotting in an enemy’s dungeon and die a manly death full of courage. Far better that than a slow death of matrimonially induced boredom.
“Could I sire myself a legitimate babe without a wife,” Colin answered finally, “then a son I would be happy to have. Find an answer to that riddle, mistress, then I will subject myself to whatever substance you wish to fling upon me.”