Berengaria inclined her head. “As you will, my lord. And I wish you luck of your desire to avoid wedded bliss.”
Colin assessed her sincerity with a single piercing glance, and found it to be sadly lacking. He scowled at her, glared at her companions, then politely parted the gaggle of witches and strode to the back of the great hall before they could scatter anything else on him.
It seemed that the beginnings of supper were arriving at the table, so he took his place on the left hand of his former brother-in-law and his dearest friend, Christopher of Blackmour.
“By the saints, Colin,” Christopher said with a grimace, “when was the last time you bathed?”
Colin grunted as he reached for a platter of meat and served himself a hearty portion. “I don’t remember. ‘Tis an unhealthy practice I can’t understand your fondness for. Besides, if I bathed, how would you know ’twas me next to you?” he asked, shoving the platter toward Christopher. “There’s meat there before you.”
Christopher nodded his thanks before reaching for his goblet of wine.
“Here you are, my lord,” said his wife, putting it into his hand. “I poured it for you, of course, because I know you like that sort of thing.”
“And you do your best to humor me at all times,” Christopher agreed with a small smile.
“I daren’t do anything else,” Gillian said pleasantly.
Colin snorted over that. It wasn’t just one of them humored, it was Christopher and Gillian both, and so often that it fair turned his stomach to watch them at it. He applied himself industriously to his supper, but found that he was drawn continually to the spectacle of watching Christopher with his wife. They seemed to find themselves in an endless contest to love and care for the other. ’Twas exhausting and Colin often wondered how they kept it up.
He had to admit, though, that they were well suited to that task, and to each other. Christopher was happier than Colin had ever known him to be, and Gillian likewise. And Gillian was certainly a far better woman for Blackmour’s lord than his first wife had been—never mind that that first wife had been Colin’s younger sister, Magdalina.
Apparently, there was no accounting for lack of character in one’s siblings.
Nay, Gillian loved Christopher, and he her, and the arrangement suited them well enough to have produced two sons. Colin scratched his chin thoughtfully with the edge of his knife as he contemplated the potential for such a thing in his own life. A pity Gillian had no sister, for Colin supposed he could have wed that sister and been happy enough.
But would she have been happy with such a one as he? He gave that some thought and decided that she wouldn’t have been. He had no chivalry where women were concerned, and surely no woman would be willing to settle for a lack of it. Perhaps ’twas best that he discourage whoever had come to wed him. It was the least he could do for her.
“So,” Christopher said around a mouthful of supper, “you’ve a bride arriving soon.”
“Do the walls have ears?” Colin asked in astonishment. “I vow I just received the missive but a handful of moments ago!”
“It was but a matter of time,” Christopher said sagely. “How long has it been since the last wench your sire tried to foist off upon you—a year?”
“Two years,” Colin said absently. “She was of Solonge. Ali-something. I scarce remember what it was.”
Actually, that wasn’t exactly true, for he’d thought the name Aliénore to be quite lovely—or as lovely as a warrior would allow himself to think a name. That she’d disappeared without a trace had led him to wonder what had truly befallen her. Perhaps she’d taken the veil, though how any priory would have accepted her without her dowry, he didn’t know.
Her sire, the lord Denis, had offered Colin the dowry just the same, plus a goodly bit more, if Colin would but go and search for the girl. Colin had declined. ’Twas pitiful enough that he couldn’t get a bride to come to him freely. That he should have to track one down like a hapless rabbit was more than he’d been able to stomach. There were some things his pride simply would not allow.
And, of course, after his vow to slay her had been made, it had seemed a pity to find her only to have to do her in.
“Aliénore is a fair name,” offered Gillian. “And I heard she was quite beautiful.”
“And clever,” Christopher said. “Managed to avoid facing the altar with you.”
“Like as not, she met an unwholesome end,” Colin said, ready to not think on her any longer. “Why else would my sire be sending me a replacement?” He downed a goblet of wine and looked about him for more. Perhaps if he ingested enough drink, he might forget about his upcoming nuptials. “The saints only know whence my sire dredged this wench up. At least she won’t arrive for some time.”
He had just settled down to truly making deep inroads into the dishes before him when the hall door burst open and a weary messenger stumbled across the rushes and up to the high table.
“Colin of Berkhamshire?” He panted.
Christopher pointed to his left. “In all his glory.”
Colin scowled at the man before him, a nicely cooked thigh of fowl grasped in his hand and halfway to his mouth. “Aye?”
“Tidings from your sire,” the messenger gasped out. “Your bride has left France and will arrive within the se’nnight. Perhaps even as soon as three days’ hence.”
Christopher smothered a laugh in his cup. Colin didn’t spare Christopher a glare that he wouldn’t have seen anyway. Instead, he turned the full force of his displeasure on the hapless fool before him.
“So soon?” he demanded.
“Apparently the company is, um, eager to be here,” the messenger said faintly. “In truth.”
Christopher’s laugh wouldn’t have been smothered by half a dozen goosefeather pillows held over his face. Colin cursed and waved the man away to seek his meal at the lower table. And he cursed some more as he looked at the leg he’d been contemplating with such relish not a handful of moments before and now found completely unappetizing.
“Poor Colin,” Christopher said, between snorts of laughter. “You’ll not escape your fate so easily this time.”
Gillian looked around her husband. “Perhaps,” she said kindly, “the lass will be a good one.”
Colin pursed his lips in answer.
“One never knows,” she said.
“What?” Colin asked. “That my sire picked a decent woman for me despite his best intentions? Nay, lady, that he should find me a wife to make me happy would only be the worst of misfortunes in his eyes.”
“Well, mayhap the worst will come about,” she said firmly.
“Not without help from us,” Christopher said, slapping his hands on the table. “The lad needs a bath, clean clothes, and a bit of tidying. Surely Berengaria would have something to freshen up his aspect—”
“I’ve already been assaulted by those three practitioners of shady arts,” Colin said grimly. “I’ll not be tortured by them again.”
“Perfumes,” Christopher continued, as if he hadn’t heard Colin. “Aye, sweet oils for his smell, herbs to improve his visage, and a comb to his locks. And the sooner the better, don’t you think, Gillian?”
Colin thought many things, but chose not to give voice to any of them. He might submit to a bath, aye, for ’twas only a fool who didn’t take advantage of whatever positive impression he might leave—and if there was one thing he certainly had experience with, it was preparing to meet future brides—but that would be all. He had his own labors to see to and they weren’t going to be interrupted by something as foolish as the arrival of a wench. Let her seek him out in the lists when she came. He certainly didn’t intend to be languishing about the hall, waiting for her to arrive and bestow her no doubt very witless and likely very insincere smile on him.
And whilst he was out in the lists, perhaps he could think of a fitting revenge to wreak on his sire for all the anguish of soul the man had caused him over the years.
Marriage? Ha! ’Twas a waste of a man’s strength, a dagger plunged into the tenderest place of his heart, a burden heavy enough to crush him to the ground with the bearing of it. He would avoid it at all costs for as long as he could, despite whatever plans his father might have for him.
“We should be about this fine, matrimonial alchemy,” Christopher began. “And as soon as possible—”
Colin shoved back from the table and leaped to his feet.
Christopher didn’t spare him a look. “Run if you like. We’ll find you and have you washed just the same.”
Colin favored his former brother-in-law with a snort, then fled from the hall with as much dignity as possible.
A bride?
Not if he could help it. There was a good reason he was the fiercest warrior in England and France and ’twas far past the time when his father became familiar with it.
Chapter 3
Ali put her hand over her belly, fingered her coins through her tunic, and contemplated the possibilities for her future. It was the first chance she’d had for any such thought. She’d spent the whole of the shipboard journey leaning over the railing, heaving into the heaving sea. She hadn’t even had the strength to wonder how it was that seamen bore such a life. Rolling, heaving, bucking—just the thought of the ocean was enough to bring back very foul memories she sincerely hoped she would never have to make any more of. And she wouldn’t, if she could help it. She was now on England’s pleasant soil and had no intentions of ever leaving it again.
England being, of course, so comfortably far from France, Solonge, and Marie.
And England would be even a more pleasant place when Sybil’s little company had been deposited at their destination and their escort, Sir Etienne of Maignelay-sur-mer, had been sent back to France.
He was, to put it mildly, a complete arse.
She watched as he sauntered over to where Sybil and her maids sat huddled near their gear in a little glade, then backed away from them as inconspicuously as possible. No sense in being too close. Sir Etienne was as free with his slaps as he was with his orders and she had no desire to elicit any more of either than necessary. Now that she was under his command, she realized how completely she had been shielded from him and those like him at Maignelay-sur-mer. Apparently Isabeau had tried to keep her safe in England as well, for Isabeau had commanded that Ali was to answer only to Sybil. Those were instructions that Sir Etienne had, of course, ignored immediately and fully. As far as he was concerned, she was his to torment.
He cleared his throat imperiously. “We will arrive at our destination on the morrow,” he announced in the booming tones of one who relished the power of having kept them ignorant of that destination for well over a se’nnight. “Ready yourselves. And you, Henri,” he said, with an unfriendly look thrown her way, “stop hiding in the shadows and see to their gear.”
Ali nodded quickly, so that she might not draw his ire.
“Your husband awaits, my lady Sybil,” he continued crisply. “Pray, manage to brush the crumbs from your gown and tidy your hair on the day we arrive. Those at Blackmour will expect a more worthy emissary from Maignelay-sur-mer than gaping half-wit wearing the remains of her last score of meals on her front.”
Ali felt her jaw slide down at the insult and she continued to watch, open-mouthed, as the offensive oaf swept them all with a final glance of disgust, then stomped away.
She looked to see how Sybil was reacting, only to find her charge staring after Sir Etienne with the same slack-jawed expression.
And then it occurred to her just what Sir Etienne had said.
Blackmour?
Sybil’s husband was to be found at Blackmour?
Sybil’s maids had ceased to gape after Sir Etienne and were now blathering on in their usual witless fashion. Ali listened to them only because the shock she’d just had was so great, she could do nothing else. And why was it, she wondered absently, that serving wenches seemed to congregate in threes? It boded ill, every time.
“Blackmour,” one of the girls whispered, crossing herself. “We’re going to Blackmour!”
“He’s a warlock,” another whispered, her knuckles white as she clutched her hands together.
“But there is no one of marriageable age there,” said the third, looking suddenly rather relieved. “Blackmour’s eldest son is not yet four.”
Sybil sighed in relief and plopped a hefty chunk of cheese in her mouth. Ali felt a wave of relief as well. Whatever Sybil’s faults might have been, she surely didn’t deserve a warlock for a husband. Ali wondered briefly how these wenches knew so much about Blackmour’s lord, then dismissed the thought. Everyone knew of him, for his foul reputation stretched over the whole of England and much of France. The only person she knew of with a more widespread reputation than the Dragon of Blackmour was his closest friend, Colin of Berkhamshire. Well, at least Blackmour was safely wed and his sons far too young to be taken as serious matrimonial prospects.
But if not Blackmour and his spawn, then who?
“But wait,” insisted the first, “he said we were going to Blackmour. Why there?”
There was silence in the little clearing. Well, silence except for Sybil chewing.
The second wench snapped her fingers. “I know! It isn’t to Blackmour’s lord, but someone else there!”
Well, surely no one could fault her wit.
As if they’d planned it, all three girls clapped hands over mouths, then crossed themselves as if against the Devil himself.
“Not Blackmour.”
“Nay, not him.”
“That leaves only his blood-brother.”
Sybil gulped a bit of wine. “And who’s that?” she asked, sucking her teeth, apparently searching for an overlooked tidbit.
The three girls looked at her, their eyes wide, their visages pale.
“The Butcher of Berkhamshire,” they said as one.
Ali watched as Sybil stopped the investigation of her mouth. Her lips twitched. Her fingers fluttered up and pressed against her mouth, as if they sought to stifle a large, endless scream. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped back against the provision sacks she’d been guarding with her very self. She lay sprawled bonelessly over grain and other foodstuffs.
Ali watched all this happen, then felt her knees grow just as unsteady as they always did when faced with that name. Indeed, her legs grew so unstable, she soon found herself on the ground with her legs folded beneath her. She could scarce believe what she’d heard, and she frantically tried to find some other explanation for Sir Etienne’s destination.
Unfortunately, she could find nothing.
In truth, there was likely only one man at Blackmour who was looking for a bride and that man was Colin of Berkhamshire.
Well, at least his bride was apparently no longer to be her own poor self.
A wave of relief washed over her so strongly that she shook. And then she began to laugh. She was free, truly free. Colin of Berkhamshire no longer searched for her, no longer planned to make her his wife, no longer had any hold over her.
Or did he?
Her relief was gone as quickly as it had come. What if she were discovered? If he knew she was alive, would her betrothal to him still stand? If her mail were stripped away and she were revealed to be what and who she was, would that leave her as the pitiable girl standing next to him at the altar instead of Sybil?
She couldn’t go to Blackmour. How could she when Christopher of Blackmour would see through her disguise and know who she was the moment she rode into his courtyard? She had no doubts he could, and would. He was, after all, a warlock. The saints only knew what kinds of powers he had that she couldn’t even imagine.
What would happen to her once he’d discovered her? Would they send her immediately back to her home, back to the keep at Solonge where Marie would be waiting to murder her? Or would Blackmour deliver her into Berkhamshire’s hands for him to dispose of as he would? And based on very reliable rumor, she alread
y knew what he would do the moment he had his hands around her throat.
The panic that swept over her felt altogether too much like what she’d experienced at Solonge. Her instinct, and it was so strong an instinct that she found herself quite suddenly on her feet, was to flee. But even as her feet began to move of their own accord, she remembered the vow she’d made herself after her flight from Solonge, her vow to never again act so impetuously.
But that was before she knew she was heading directly into a Dragon’s nest, especially when within that nest loitered one Colin of Berkhamshire, butcher extraordinaire.
Before she could decide in which direction to bolt, a heavy hand grasped her by the back of the tunic.
“Lazy whelp,” Sir Etienne barked. “Be about your business. The Butcher contracted for a wife, three handmaids and a pitiful excuse for a knight to attend them and I intend to see all of you delivered in goodly time.” He gave Ali a shove toward Sybil. “See to her gear and pray I find nothing more taxing than that for you to do.”
Ali stumbled toward a partially rousing Sybil, then straightened. A look over her shoulder revealed Sir Etienne watching her with his hand on his sword.
No chance of escape there, then.
With a deep sigh, she started to gather up the things Sybil and her maids had scattered about. At least seeing to that simple task gave her something to do besides concentrate on the irony of her life. The two years she’d spent hiding, looking over her shoulder, praying she could succeed with her ruse, all in an effort to avoid being anywhere near the Butcher of Berkhamshire, wasted.
All wasted.
She had escaped the Butcher by becoming Sybil’s keeper—and as her keeper she would now travel with Sybil to meet none other but the very man she’d given up her freedom to avoid.
Who could have possibly imagined such a chain of fiendish events?
“Henri, make haste!” Sir Etienne bellowed. “We’ve a long way to ride this afternoon.”
Ali bent her mind and her shaking hands to her task. She would simply have to think on a plan as she rode. Escape was unlikely, what with Sir Etienne watching as he seemingly was. And where would she escape to, even if she did manage it? She had no idea where she was, nor what was nearby.