Suzanne Robinson (10 page)

She rolled and maneuvered to one knee, lifted her head—and saw a blank expanse of polished metal. A breastplate and plackart, raised gauntlets. The tip of a sword hurtled at her and rammed into the eye slit. Excruciating pain. Blood that gushed from her eye socket. It spilled over her face and filled her helmet. She was drowning in her own blood.…

Pen remembered this vision today as clearly as the first time. After it was over, she awoke to find her parents hovering over her, frightened and confused. When she described her experience, her father told her that the sword had been taken in one of the battles during the Wars of the Roses. From that day, he’d never looked upon her in the same way. From that day, she knew her father’s feelings for her changed. They became tainted with apprehension, a little distrust and wariness, and, mayhap, fear.

It was this breach that taught her to conceal her gift, that and the terror of the experience. From then on she took care not to touch swords or daggers, for they seemed to be the greatest threat. And now Tristan wanted a sword. Sooner or later he would remember the dagger—the dagger with the hilt of ruby enamel that seemed ready to melt and drip like blood, and its writhing snakes of gold. Then what would happen? Would the dagger bring with it the terror she feared? Would it transform Tristan into one of those violent young men she found so intolerable?

Pen trod back and forth before the chapel threshold, muttering to herself and wringing her hands. “Saints, saints, saints, saints. I must find a way to avoid him tonight. I’ll not dine in the hall. No, he’d come to my
chamber. Why must he be so forceful? Mayhap I can distract him.” She stopped in mid-stride.

“A feast! I’ll stuff him so full of meat and drink he’ll be too surfeited to want a sword. His belly will be so full he won’t be able to get out of his chair. And if he does, I’ll tell Dibbler to rouse everyone for a game of foot ball in the bailey. I can rely upon Dibbler’s foot ball to cause a noisy fray.”

Delighted with her solution, Pen set off for the inner bailey and the kitchens. As she hurried through the gate of the inner wall, the weakness of her plan dawned upon her.

“But what about tomorrow and the next day, and the next? I can’t keep him distracted from his purpose forever.”

Or mayhap she could. Pen’s steps faltered in the castle yard. Would he forget about swords if she stopped refusing him her body? Holy Mother, what a sinful thought, made more sinful by that part of her that responded with anticipation at the thought of what he might do. God, she hadn’t realized how much she wanted him. She had to think clearly, and with logic, not with desire.

Would he forget? Aye, he’d forget. But not for long. For if she’d learned anything about Tristan, it was that once he decided he wanted something, he didn’t stop until he obtained it. And now she was beginning to understand that, in his pursuit of her, she didn’t want him to stop.

Pen began tapping her teeth with her fingernail. Best not put herself in the path of temptation. Inhaling a ragged breath, she resumed her progress across the castle yard. No, she must thwart him some other, safer way.

The kitchen was in a separate building beside the
keep. She stopped at the open door and muttered to herself. “What to do, what to do … ah!” She smiled and rubbed her hands together. Why hadn’t she seen it? Tristan couldn’t find a sword if there were no swords to find. Tonight, when everyone else was abed, she would have Dibbler, Erbut, and Sniggs throw all the swords and daggers in the moat. No, not the moat, in the sea. Aye, the sea was much better. Less chance that Tristan could fish them out again.

Pen chuckled and stepped into the kitchen. “Twistle, Nany, hark you. We’re to have a feast tonight.”

From his hiding place in the shadow of a cliff, Christian de Rivers watched the ship master sitting on a horse at the edge of the shore. The man shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. It was dark, and no doubt he hated being alone on this stretch of wild shore. Smugglers and rogues prowled the cliffs and crags along the beach at this hour. The sound of the surf thundered in Christian’s ears. As he gazed at his quarry, the ship master’s horse sidestepped the wet fingers of foam that clawed at the sand.

What was he going to tell Derry? Greetings, my friend, I’ve lost your younger brother and I think he’s drowned? He never should have allowed Morgan to pursue that pestilence of a priest alone. But he’d been afraid that Jean-Paul had discovered the English queen’s involvement in sending that drunken fool Darnley to marry the Scottish Mary Stuart. And now Morgan had vanished.

Without warning, a cloud that had shrouded the full moon drifted away. Christian motioned to the men
at his back. He nudged his mount, slithered out of hiding, and approached the waiting ship master. The silver moonglow illuminated him as he came to a halt. The ship master turned and started as he beheld a rider who hadn’t been on the beach when he’d last looked. He touched his sword, but Christian nudged his mount again and the animal walked forward. The master squinted at him as he drew alongside and threw back the hood of his cloak.

Scrabbling on the rocks that lay between the beach and the cliffs signaled the arrival of hunched figures bearing torches. Soon they were bathed in golden light. The ship master peered at the rider next to him and furrowed his brow. Christian nearly sneered, for he could imagine what the man was thinking—too young. This man was too young. A pretty gentle used to pomanders and galliards.

Christian leaned closer to allow a glimpse of fine lines about his eyes, the faint gossamer strands of silver in his hair. Then he spoke to dispel all thoughts of prancing gallants.

“You’re the sod who lost my Morgan to the sea?”

“God save you, my lord Montfort. It was a black squall.”

“Belabor me not with excuses!”

The ship master winced. Christian’s stallion danced and chewed his bit at the violence in his rider’s voice.

“I beg you, my lord, don’t blame me for the storm. It came from nothing and returned there. I wanted to turn back, but Lord Morgan wouldn’t have it. He said good Englishmen would die if we didn’t catch the priest.”

His voice rose. “A pox take you and your ship. Lord Morgan was like a younger brother to me, and you’ve killed him.”

The ship master heard the sliding of metal on metal and found himself looking at the tip of a dagger.

“How do I know,” asked Christian, “that you aren’t in the pay of the priest and have murdered my friend?”

“Oh, no, no—no—no. No, my lord. Why would I do that and risk my own ship? It will be months before I can afford to repair her.”

The dagger vanished, but Christian grabbed the ship master by the neck of his cloak and nearly lifted him out of his saddle. He dearly wanted to commit murder.

“Tell me, ship master. Could Lord Morgan have survived the squall?”

Sweating, his mouth dry, the master shook his head. “I doubt it, my lord. If he clung to a spar or a barrel, mayhap. But the sea was so rough, I fear he couldn’t have stayed afloat. And we were blown so far off course, I vow there was nowhere for him to take refuge.”

“And the priest’s ship?”

“I know not, my lord.”

“You know damned little.”

Christian thrust the ship master away. “If I find out you’ve been lying, I’ll make you eat your own entrails.”

“Before God, my lord, I tell the truth.”

“Did Lord Morgan say more about the priest and his designs?”

“No, my lord. Only that if the priest escaped, he’d cause the death of good Englishmen.”

“How?”

“I know not, my lord. He didn’t tell me more.”

Christian wasn’t looking at the master. He gazed out at the dark sea and pearly foam. “I’ll wait until I myself have searched before I tell his family.” He glanced back at the ship master. “Get you gone from
my sight, and pray that I never have cause to doubt your veracity.”

The ship master turned his horse awkwardly and rode down the beach. Christian forgot the man. Soon he must give up his search and meet with master secretary Cecil, the queen’s closest adviser.

The torchbearers had crowded around their leader. In the dancing light of the flames, every one of them was looking out to sea. Then Christian faded into the cliff shadows once again. His men followed, leaving nothing but sand, rocks, and sea foam.

Tristan looked down at his wooden trencher and knew that it should be pewter, or even silver plate. How did he know this? He shook his head and speared a piece of roasted and spiced rabbit. He glanced aside at Pen, who was biting into a slice of roast suckling. Pigs again.

She was trying to distract him with this feast. The more she avoided the subject of swords, the more amused he became. She had an aversion to hand weapons. A squeamishness he could understand. Most women shrank from violence, and Pen was so good-hearted, so gentle—most of the time.

Indeed, sometimes she was wise. He wouldn’t put swords in the hands of Erbut and Dibbler and the other madmen she allowed to serve her. She stole a look at him from behind the glistening screen of her hair. He gave her a smile of such contentment and sweetness that she wrinkled her brow.

He couldn’t resist confusing her. She’d snarled him in the woolly yarn of her antics for days now, beset and confounded him by provoking this nagging, unquenchable urge to conquer her. It was time for her
to be tormented instead of him. When this mock feast ended, he’d insist upon visiting the armory.

“Cod?” she asked, holding out a plate of the fish.

“My thanks.” He took a piece.

“Poached capon?”

He nodded again. She was trying to stuff him so that he’d be surfeited and fit for nothing but sleep. She didn’t know how much he could eat. He popped a chunk of capon in his mouth. It had been stuffed with bacon and spiced with savory, parsley, hyssop, and sage. He had to admit that the evil-minded wench Twistle could cook.

While he ate, he surveyed the noisy diners below the salt. As usual, Dibbler was arguing with Sniggs. From what he could see, the fools were quarreling over how a carver should rear a goose and whether it was harder than breaking a deer or chining a salmon. Dibbler claimed he’d seen a carver do all three types of carving in “London town” and therefore he was an authority. God’s breath, this castle needed a man’s ordering.

The meal progressed, as did the merrymaking, until the last pasty had been nibbled, the last sip of ale drunk from a leather blackjack. Tristan drained his own pewter cup. As he set it down and prepared to address Pen on the subject of the armory, a pair of arms came down from behind him, bearing a tray. Upon the tray sat a giant pastry. He started upon hearing Twistle’s voice.

“Apple tart,” she said with a grunt. The cook glared at him. “Don’t know why she had me make it for you. Mincemeat’s good enough for the rest of the folk. Ought to be good enough for you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Did you poison it?”

“Not tonight.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Might tomorrow.”

Twistle stalked off to a sideboard without another comment. Pen smiled sweetly at him when Twistle was gone. She cut a piece of tart for him large enough for three men.

“I watched Twistle myself. All day long.”

He offered her a piece of his tart, but she shook her head. “I prefer Warden pie. I love pears.”

“Mayhap because they’re lush and juicy, like you.”

Pen gawked at him. “Me? I’m bony and flat of form. My chin is square and I could pass for a lad if I cut my hair. Nany says I’m a cricket.”

“But you’re pleasing to me. Ha! You’re blushing.”

“Eat your tart, Tristan.”

He put down the pie, leaned closer to her, and gazed into her eyes. “I would love to.”

Her eyes nearly popped from her head when he touched her thigh. She jumped in her chair and gave a little yelp. Slapping his hand away, she picked up the tart and shoved it at him. He was laughing, so he had no chance to close his mouth. The tart jammed between his lips. He chuckled and chewed at the same time while she ducked her head and nibbled on pear pie.

She kept shoving apple tart at him, and he took her challenge. He finished every last dollop of filling and crumb of crust, then demanded another.

“There isn’t another,” she said in awe.

He filched a portion of her Warden pie and washed it down with half a blackjack of ale. Then he grinned at her.

“If you’re imagining that I’ll grow drowsy with the weight of all this food, you’re going to be disappointed, Mistress Fairfax. I’m going to finish your Warden pie, and after that, you and I are going to the armory.”

“Oh, we can’t.”

“Nonsense.”

“We—we can’t until Dibbler performs.”

Dismay flooded him. “Dibbler.”

“Aye, he’s composed a song.”

“Jesu deliver me.”

“Now, Tristan, he’s worked hard on it.”

He sank down in his chair and rested his chin on his chest as Pen signaled to Dibbler. The aspiring captain of the guard strode between the tables of roisterous castle folk and villagers to bow before the dais. He had oiled his fringe of hair so that it appeared to be painted in a half circle on his skull. The aged, shiny velvet of his best doublet did its best to cover his paunch. His yellow hose sagged at the knees and ankles. Dibbler passed a hand over his hair, then glanced down at it and surreptitiously wiped it on the back of his hose. Looking pinker than ever and breathing through his mouth, Erbut joined his superior and began to strum a lute. Dibbler placed a hand over his heart, extended the other and pointed a toe.

Tristan winced and buried his chin in the neck of his doublet. “God’s breath.”

“Hist, Tristan.” Pen dug her elbow into his arm. “You’ll offend Dibbler.”

“How can I offend a churl who simpers and twirls about the place hooting about follies and haystacks in a voice that would offend a deaf adder?”

Mercifully, Dibbler’s fourth verse was interrupted when Sniggs came trotting into the hall, out of breath and perspiring into his patched clothing.