The Legend (3 page)

Alec's gaze was open, steady.
"What you were going to say is that this is my best chance for a powerful
marriage considering no one wants a coward for a groom. Since the de Courtenays
broke my engagement, there hasn't been another offer. No one wants a husband
who refuses to bear arms. Isn't that what you were leading to?"

Brian turned away. "I have
never chastened you your decision, lad."

"But I was a supreme
disappointment," Alec said softly. "I was your shining star, your
proudest achievement until I killed Peter. I have never regretted my decision
not to ever again wield a sword, Da."

"I know," Brian said
softly. "But your brother's death was an accident, Alec. Ali was there;
even he says it was an accident. There was no reason why you should make such a
vow of restraint. 'Tis every man's duty to bear arms to defend what is his, to
protect his interests. Surely you...."

"We have had this discussion
before," Alec said quietly. "I shall never bear a sword again. Ever.
Now, back to Lady Patton...."

"Lady Peyton," Brian
corrected him. "She is twenty one years old, betrothed once before to a
knight who was killed nearly a year ago."

"Peyton, Patton, whatever. I
have no interest in marriage."

"Not even in the wealth of
St. Cloven?" Brian knew that Alec had a mind for money and investments;
surely the thought of wealth could lure him.

Alec stood up, all six and a half
feet of him. He was Brian's largest son, the most powerful man he had ever
seen.  His sheer height was compounded by enormous muscles, the result of years
of physical work and training. When Alec had wielded a sword, there was not a
man who could defeat him. King Edward knew it, else he would not have appointed
Alec as one of his premier warriors.  There was not a man in the civilized
world who could have bested Alec Summerlin in a sword fight. When the man swore
off fighting, it had been a tremendous blow to the Christian army of Edward.

Brian watched his son stroll
leisurely to the window, once so proud of the man. He still loved him dearly;
he was the only normal son he had left. Paul, the eldest, had the mental
capacity of a child. With his second eldest son dead, Alec was his salvation.

"Her wealth is so
great?" Alec asked.

"St. Cloven pulls in nearly
5,000 marks of gold each year for her ale sales. Her coffers are
overloaded."

Alec looked at his father, a
lifted eyebrow indicating interest. "But I have to marry Lady Patton to
obtain this money."

"Aye, you do," his father
said firmly. "We will not bargain over this, Alec. You will do as I ask,
for once. You will marry Lady Peyton and administer St. Cloven's ale
stores."

Alec's pure blue eyes were cool.
Brian gazed back, trying to anticipate the next barrage of refusals, but in
truth, there was nothing more to say. He had been quite plain with his wants;
they both had.

God only knew how stubborn Alec
could be; Brian had never seen a more stubborn man, nor willful, nor
controlled.  All of these things were his son, a man who had once been the
greatest swordsman in the realm.
The Legend
, they had called him.
Legendary skill, strength, size, power.... all of it was his.

Alec was an intellect, but there
were those who were greater tacticians. He could joust and ride and combat with
the very finest in England, as he had proven time and time again. But it was
his swordsmanship that distinguished him from all the rest. Edward once said
Gabriel himself had given Alec his divine gift, so talented with a broadsword
that surely God himself was jealous of the skill. There was no man more known
for his swordsmanship in Edward's realm than Alec.  He was The Legend. And he
had given it all up.

Aye, Brian was disappointed, but
only for Alec's sake. The man could have been the greatest warrior England had
ever seen. Alec's fate was a sad, noble thing indeed.

"If I am to marry Lady
Patton, and I have not yet said that I agree, I would see her first," Alec
finally said. "Give a grand party and invite her. I would look over the
prospective mother of my heirs."

Brian sighed irritably.
"Alec, one does not look over a woman as one would a brood mare, to
determine if she is good breeding stock. There is far more involved, lad.
Bloodlines, heritage, family ties, disposition. All of these things contribute
to a satisfactory marriage."

"And money," Alec's
eyes twinkled slightly, taunting his father. "You yourself have tried to
convince me that I should marry Lady Patton simply because of the wealth of St.
Cloven. And now you tell me that there is more to a marriage than that?"

Brian shrugged, cornered, and
turned away. "Stop being so smart, Alec, I Do not think I like it. You
know very well what I am saying."

Alec moved to a carved pine table
and poured himself a full goblet of liquor. He took a healthy drink, looked at
the cup as if to ponder the contents, and drank again. Brian watched him with a
faint smile.

"St. Cloven Red ale,"
he informed his son. "You have tasted it on many occasions."

Alec studied the red liquid.
"And if I am lord of St. Cloven, I will not have to pay for it any longer.
And neither shall you."

"Ah, so you see? We will
both be gaining much from this union," his father encouraged firmly, still
smiling. His mirth faded after a moment. "I do not want to force you into
this, Alec. I want this to be a mutual agreement. This very well may be your
last chance for a marriage into a decent family."

Alec was still regarding his
chalice, swirling the liquid absently. He was so very unreadable.

"I understand that
perfectly," he said softly. "And in faith, 'tis not that I do not
wish to marry; certainly I want a wife and heirs at some point. But I have
given the matter little thought. Your suggestion comes as somewhat of a
surprise."

Brian meandered over to his son,
putting a gentle hand on his broad back. "All I will ask, then, is that
you consider it. And do not take too long, for I promised Lady Peyton that I
would present a prospective bridegroom before the end of the month."

"You give me a mere two days
to contemplate my future?" Alec lifted an eyebrow at his father.
"Will you then give a party and invite my prospective wife?"

Brian threw up his hands.
"If that is what it will take for you to make up your mind, by all means. I
shall have the steward write the necessary missives and invite all of our local
allies. We will make it a grand social event."

Alec nodded, finishing off the
ale. Brian moved back to his desk, contemplating the two contracts before him.
Alec, meanwhile, poured himself a second cup of ale.

"There are two sisters, you
know," Brian said softly. "Peyton and her sister, Ivy. I must still
find a husband for Ivy."

Alec turned to his father, ale in
hand. "Can I choose between the two? What if Ivy is the more desirable
sister?"

"Then that is your
misfortune. You will not inherit the keep if you marry the youngest
sister."

Alec grinned into his cup.
"Can I have them both, then?"

Brian shot his son an exasperated
look. "Enough, Alec. One woman will be quite sufficient."

Brian turned to his contracts and
Alec hung by the desk, enjoying the fine ale and pondering his apparent
destiny. He glanced over at his father, who was seemingly lost in thought.

"Have you a husband in mind
for the second sister?"

Brian snapped from his thoughts
and picked up a quill. "I was thinking on Ali."

Alec showed more emotion than
Brian had seen in a long while; his eyes widened and his jaw hung slack.
"Ali? Christ, He shall never agree to that. And what of Olphampa? Surely
you must discuss it with his father first."

"Ali's welfare is my
concern, as it has always been," Brian replied steadily, turning to see
his truly astonished son. "He must be wed, Alec. And since there is not a
Nubian princess within ten thousand miles of Blackstone, an English princess
will do quite nicely."

Alec was shocked. Then, the shock
evaporated into anger. "You know how women react to him. They look at Ali
and see a man with black skin, a man who is unlike the conventional norm. Women
have been very cruel to him and I forbid you to...."

"I know, I know," Brian
cut him off quietly but firmly. "But mayhap if I provide him with a
substantial dowry, mayhap if I make him quite appealing financially to a
prospective bride, she will be more willing to.... accept him, as it
were."

Alec's face was like stone; hard
and immobile. He had always been fiercely protective of Ali, ever since he had
been old enough to realize that some people were not inclined to accept him as
a human being. Ali was more a brother to him than his only surviving brother.

However, his father was correct.
There were no black females available for marriage in England. In fact, outside
of the Holy Land, Alec had never even seen a black female. It was only logical
that Ali marry an English girl, someone he could feel affection for and bear
him sons. A woman who could accept him for what he was, but the hope was
unrealistic at best; Alec had never known a woman to approve of Ali's color.
Yet in spite of his obvious difference, why should his dark friend be excluded
from the normal rites of an English male?

Alec sighed, setting down his
chalice. "Say nothing to him for the moment. At the festivity, I shall
make sure to point out the younger sister and see if he expresses any
interest."

"Fair enough," Brian
agreed. "I suppose proceeding on the basis of attraction is acceptable. If
Ali likes what he sees, I shall broach the subject."

Alec moved for the door.
"What about me? What if I Do not like what I see?"

Brian shook his head faintly,
exhausted with the arguing. "We will cross that bridge when we come to it.
Go now, your mother should be serving afternoon refreshments."

Alec quit the room, leaving Brian
drained and thoughtful. Whether or not Alec found his prospective bride
agreeable, Brian's mind was made up. Pleasant or not, Alec would marry the lady
of St. Cloven and reap the rewards of the keep. 

But, of course, there was the
little matter which Brian had neglected to inform him, and that was the
Warrington petition for the lady's hand. He'd never tell Alec, of course; it
would be one more excuse to refuse the betrothal.

Brian was no fool; he knew that
Nigel Warrington had set his sights on obtaining what he believed rightfully
belonged to him, and St. Cloven was an auspicious beginning. He had no
intention of seeing a Warrington as lord of St. Cloven; it would be a
Summerlin, no matter if he had to tie his mulish son to the front gates to keep
him there. Alec would be lord of an ale empire and damn well be pleased about
it.

In faith, he wished he could tell
his son the whole of it. But some things in life were better left unsaid, some
things better left buried.

CHAPTER TWO

Three ladies and seven soldiers
made up the party from St. Cloven. Behind them, a wagon carted six barrels of
their finest dark ale as a gift to their liege, Baron Rothwell. Traveling to a
celebration, the mood should have been light and gay. The weather of late
summer was delightful and the sky bright, but there was little talk and even
less joviality.

To Peyton, it felt like a death
march. A forced trek into the gaping jaws of fate. Lord Brian had summoned her
and Ivy to discuss their betrothals under the guise of inviting them to a grand
party in honor of his wife's birthday. The birthday was a convenient excuse,
Peyton was positive. It was all a ploy to force her into doing what she so desperately
loathed; to accept a husband.

Dressed in a lovely turquoise
blue silk that complimented her golden red tresses perfectly, she looked
entirely delicious seated atop her brown palfrey. But her mood was anything but
delicious; it was bitter and distasteful. She hated that fact that she and Ivy
had been forced to dress like fine horses for the auction block so that Lord
Brian could get a good look at them.  The prettier the girl, the wider range of
suitors there would be.

A thought suddenly struck her as
she mulled over her fine appearance and she turned to catch her sister's
attention. Ivy was mounted astride a dark gray warmblood, a difficult animal
that would have given most men a good deal of trouble. But Ivy rode the beast
effortlessly and Peyton waved her forward.

Ivy reined her horse next to the
delicate brown palfrey. "Let me guess; you have finally come to your
senses. We are going to turn for home and pretend we never received the
invitation."

Peyton gave her an impatient
look. "Be serious. I have a plan."

Ivy grinned with the prospect.
"As I said, you have finally come to your senses. What sort of plan?"

Her impatient expression turned
sly. "Are you a brave girl, Ivy? What I am about to suggest might shock
you."

Ivy snorted very un-ladylike.
"You could never shock me. What is it you have in mind?"

"Bring Jubil forward. She
shall want to help us."

After a brief conference, the
caravan came to a halt as the ladies dismounted and moved to the rear of the
wagon where their baggage was stored. The curious household soldiers tried to
catch a glimpse of the activity but, other than a good deal of giggling and
commotion, were unable to determine what the women were up to. Resigned to an
impatient wait, they busied themselves with such things as picking noses and
chewing fingernails, keeping vigilant watch for any criminal activity that
might prey upon their valuable caravan.

It was an excessive wait; nearly
an hour later, the party resumed their journey. Peyton and Ivy rode at the head
of the column, joking and laughing softly between them. Something seemed to be
quite humorous, but the soldiers were at a loss to understand the cause and
were furthermore concerned with keeping alert for bandits or thieves. The roads
north of London abound with the worse type of element and protecting the de
Fluornoy women was of the utmost priority. With a piqued sense of urgency, the
column proceeded onward to the seat of Baron Rothwell.

Blackstone Castle was a massive
fortress built for protection and strength. Nestled in the serene lands east of
Daventry, the barony encompassed the bustling city and several others lesser
bergs. Peyton had never been to Blackstone, although she had heard tale that
the Summerlins had occupied the bastion since the days of King Harold. They had
been one of the very few noble Saxon families left intact after Duke William's
invasion, wealthy with their ventures in equine and cattle.

As the party drew closer to
Blackstone, Peyton could deduce how the bastion acquired its name; it was built
entirely with black stone. The dark aura gave the castle a most sinister
countenance and Peyton felt a sharp discomfort as her sapphire blue eyes
scanned the edifice. She shivered involuntarily, passing a glance at Ivy over
her right shoulder. Ivy, too, looked uncertain of the structure and they passed
uneasy glances.

The party rounded a small crest
and the full impact of Blackstone loomed into view. Huge banners that were
easily ten feet in length streamed from three massive turrets, bright red and
silver with the Summerlin dragon. The gates were extended in a welcoming
gesture and there was quite a bit of activity going on around the place,
although Peyton saw few guests and mostly soldiers.

"Look at all of the
soldiers," Ivy said in awe, as if reading her sister's mind. "Armed
to the teeth."

Peyton swallowed her
apprehension. "Be brave, Ivy. We must not fail."

"We won't."

Ivy suddenly smiled a huge,
gaping smile and Peyton was jolted from her anxiety at the sight; four front
teeth were blacked-out with a paste made of charcoal and beeswax from Jubil's
medicinal stores. She returned her sister's smile, displaying several
blacked-out teeth that gave her own beautiful smile a most snaggle-toothed
appearance.

Upon closer inspection, the women
had smudged great dark circles under their eyes and had taken liberty with
Jubil's arsenic powder, giving them an extremely sickly countenance, at least
enough to deter any prospective husband.

"Thank God for Jubil's
supplies," Ivy said, sticking out her tongue for good measure. It, too,
was black as sin. "The uglier we are, the less likely we will be forced to
wed."

Peyton nodded sincerely. "I
hope so. I only pray that I can keep from laughing when Lord Brian sees what a
treasure he has in the de Fluornoy women. You must stick to the scheme, Ivy.
Follow my lead and do what I do.”

Ivy continued to giggle as they
rode up on the gate. They were met by several soldiers, led by three knights.
One knight on a great brown destrier reached out to halt Peyton's mount.

"Announce yourself, my
lady," he asked politely.

No time like the present to begin
their act. Peyton smiled brightly and was positive she could hear a collective
gasp of horror go up among the men.

"Lady Peyton de Fluornoy and
party,” she said brightly. “We are expected."

"Aye, you are," the
knight replied in a peculiar voice. "Move forward into the bailey and you
shall be met by a steward who will direct you."

She batted her dark-circled eyes
at the knight and spurred her horse forward, followed by the rest of the group.
Ivy made sure to smile at the knight as she rode past. Visor down, she couldn't
see his face but hoped he was disgusted with her appearance.

The knight turned to watch them
as they rode into the open mouth of the courtyard. Ali did not know what to
think.

The bailey was a vast thing,
extremely well kept. It appeared more as a manicured drive than a bailey,
servants with decorated dogs standing at spaced intervals and shaped dogwood
trees flanking the main entrance to the castle. It was a busy courtyard, servants
and residents alike moving about in chaotic order in anticipation of the
impending arrivals. The excitement of a celebration filled the air and it was
difficult not to catch on to the thrill. Even for the most recent reluctant
guests, the excitement was intriguing.

 A brightly colored steward in
the Summerlin colors of red and silver stepped forward to greet them. Dressed
in a satin tunic and hose with a satin cap, he bowed deeply.

"Might I have your house
name, my lady?" he asked politely.

"De Fluornoy," Peyton
handed her reins to a servant and dismounted with help from one of her
soldiers. The St. Cloven man peered at her most strangely and Peyton suspected
that her cover would be blown before she had a chance to complete her
objective. Pursing her lips threateningly at the dense soldier, the man hastily
moved away from her.

"Ah yes! We have prepared a
suite of rooms for you and your sister," he turned sharply and snapped
orders to a group of soldiers hovering a few feet away. Immediately, the men
moved forward to collect the baggage.

As their parcels were efficiently
removed, the steward returned his attention to Peyton. His eyes widening as he
received a second, closer look at the lady; outrageously pale with
black-shadowed eyes, he took an unconscious step away from her as if she
carried the plague.

Peyton played into the man's
shock, beaming foolishly at him. "Thank you, sirrah. Would you be so kind
as to show us to our rooms?"

"Are there going to be lots
o' men at the party?" Ivy chimed in loudly, making sure to exhibit her
disgraceful teeth.

"Indeed! Men!" Peyton
agreed eagerly, and the two of them cackled like witches before a cauldron.

The steward visibly flinched.
"Aye, my ladies. There will be many.... uh, men," he swallowed hard.
"But.... but
married
men. There will be very few single men, or
those who are unbetrothed. In fact,..."

Ivy cut him off. "Who cares
if they are unwed or not. Just give me a good arse to pinch and…."

"Ivy!" Peyton
admonished, half-serious. "Surely you must not think of a man as a
fleeting pinch. After all - 'tis that very attitude that has driven two men to
their grave already."

Ivy sniffed, tossing hair that
she had purposely mussed with leaves for a completely squalid effect. "Old
badgers, both of them, with the potency of custard."

"You made them old before
their time," Peyton retorted, laughing silently at the steward's horrified
expression.

Ivy put her hands on her round
hips. "Do not portray yourself as an innocent, Peyton. Certainly, you are
no saint."

Peyton's mouth opened in outrage
and she shoved her sister boldly. "How dare you intimate that I am a
whore!"

"Your words, darling, not
mine," Ivy advanced on her sister, pleased with the turn the act was
taking.

"Oh!" Peyton shouted,
incensed. "You pox-ridden, self-absorbed wench! How dare you insult
me!"

She charged Ivy, a girl
considerably larger than herself, and the two went tumbling to the ground in a
great pile of silks and satins. The steward, appalled at the turn of events,
loudly demanded for them to cease as the shocking situation exploded before his
disbelieving eyes.

Grunting and screeching, Peyton
and Ivy rolled about in the dusty bailey and slung insults that would have made
a whore blush. Content with their play-acting, they wrapped their hands around
each other's necks and screamed louder. But the more they yelled and insulted
each other, the more laughter threatened to jeopardize their scheme. Over and
over they rolled until Peyton bumped into the wheels of the wagon. Jubil, a
vacant expression on her face, stood by and watched without concern.

"Stick your fingers up her
nose, Peyton," Jubil called helpfully. "She shall stop soon
enough."

Peyton heard the encouragement
and almost dissolved into hysterical giggles. Jubil was quite sane this day, an
unusual state for their aunt, and had meant the comment to enhance their act.
Jubil was most likable when she was rational.

In their struggles they managed
to twist themselves underneath the wagon and Ivy bumped her head to a grunt of
curses. Peyton lost her control and started to giggle until Ivy rubbed dust in
her face and once again the struggle was on, only this time Peyton's irritation
was genuine. She was preparing to grab her own handful of dust when someone
abruptly grabbed hold of her feet and, with a hard tug, unceremoniously yanked
her from underneath the wagon. Emitting a loud yelp, Ivy followed her sister in
the same fashion.

Blinking dirt out of her eyes,
Peyton's gaze met with knees. Clearing her eyes again and refocusing, she found
herself facing the largest legs she had ever seen, bulging with muscles
underneath the black breeches. The circumference of the thighs alone was
substantially larger than her waist. Puzzled, she craned her neck back to look
into the face of the referee as Ivy struggled to stand.

"Why did you do that?"
Ivy demanded loudly, brushing dirt from her skirt irritably. "By what
right do you lay hands upon us?"

Peyton was still sitting on her
bottom, blinking up at the collection of male figures that were surrounding
them. The sun was shining brightly in the noon sky, blinding her to the facial
features of the group. She put up a hand to shield the sun's glare as Ivy
worked herself into a rage.

"By right as lord of
Blackstone," came a deep, booming voice. "Who are you, girl?"

"Lady Ivy de Fluornoy!"
Ivy snapped. Then, the impact of the man's words settled and her pale face
turned a peculiar sickly color. "Lord of Bla.... Baron Rothwell?"

Peyton struggled to stand up,
feeling the least bit apprehensive that the baron himself had broken up their
fight. She did not realize their tussle had gotten out of hand; she'd only
meant to give the gossips something to chew over in the hope that the appalling
rumors would reach Lord Summerlin. It had never been her intention to outright
disturb the man.

"Aye, Baron Rothwell,"
Brian put his hands on his beefy hips, eyeing Ivy. "So you are Lady Ivy,
are you? Well, I must say I expected better behavior from Albert's daughter. Who
is your sparring partner?"