Enduringly Yours (22 page)

“That sounds serious.”

“He does not mind me practicing, but he doesn’t like me wearing a sharp sword on my hip. I argued that I might need it one day. He said that a man who lives by the sword will die by the sword. I reminded him that
he
lives by the sword. He stopped talking to me for three days.” She took the sharp sword from Zipporah, sheathing it. “I just want to show it to Lord John.”

Alana took a leather jerkin out of her trunk. It was light brown, like a hazel nut, and tooled with scrolling leaves. Donning it, she tightened the laces with practiced fingers. Then she braided her hair quickly, fastening it with a strip of matching tan leather. She belted the dull sword around trim hips and picked up the sharp one.

“I am ready.”

And so she was. “I am impressed,” Zipporah said.

Alana’s brow furrowed as if in confusion.

“Never mind. Let’s go.”

They met up with John in the corridor. Zipporah watched him take note of Alana and smiled to herself. She took Alana’s arm, leaving John lagging behind, so he could get a good view.

They made their way outside, then down the path to the lists. The training field was sprinkled with men. Zipporah saw her mother sitting under the pavilion, sewing. The preparations for the funeral were set, and it was going to be harder on her mother now that she had some time on her hands.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she told Alana, going to check on her. “How are you?” she asked, sitting down next to her mother.

“I have to fix this sleeve,” Lady Havendell said, avoiding the question.

It was one of Zipporah’s gowns. “My clothes have arrived?”

“Aye. They just did. I wanted to do some mending. I’ve been meaning to for some time.”

“I can do it myself.”

“I know.” She looked up, blinking into the sun. “Is that Alana?”

“She is going to show us what her brother taught her.”

“With a sword?”

“Well, aye.”

“Ah.” Lady Havendell went back to her sewing.

“Mother?”

“Go on, daughter. Go with your friends.”

Zipporah hesitated, then sighed and stood. “I will be back.” Peter was just joining the others as she neared.

“How is she?” he asked, glancing in her mother’s direction.

“I wish I knew. She will not talk to me.”

“Give her some time. If she is anything like you, then she cannot be forced.”

Zipporah was about to question him about that, then changed her mind.

“Why don’t you and Alana go sit with her while John and I spar.” Peter ducked his head, smiled, then caught her mouth under his for a soft, warm kiss. She found herself leaning into him, not caring that they weren’t exactly alone. He lifted his head. “I could get used to that.”

“And it is definitely better than talking.”

“For us. Aye, it is. But I’m not complaining.”

“Not now anyway.”

His eyes narrowed, but she took hold of his shirtfront and dragged his face to hers, kissing him again. She let him go, then watched him walk away, allowing herself a moment to enjoy the view. His build was what defined him as a warrior. There was no excess on his frame. Every sinew, every hard, honed inch spoke of speed, agility, and strength.

It was enough to make her want to stand there and fan herself for a while.

Then she remembered Alana. Shaking herself free of her
admiration
, she took Alana’s arm. “We will get a nice view from the pavilion.”

Lady Havendell looked up briefly to acknowledge their presence, and then returned to her task.

Alana watched John as if studying his every move. Maybe she could come to admire the man behind the sword? Zipporah knew she was pushing, but Alana was a damsel in need, and truth be told, John could stand for a bit of rescuing too.

Steel clashed, the sharp ringing sound carrying on the air. Other men were training as well, filling the field with a cacophony of tones.

“They can both predict the other’s next move,” Alana explained. “If this were an actual fight, it would go on for a long time.”

“It is a good thing they get along then.”

As it was, it continued until both men were sweaty and out of breath. Eventually, they both stood down, then came off the field smiling.

“Ale,” John croaked.

“Aye.” Zipporah stood. She filled two mugs from the cask and handed them off.

Peter wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “He is all yours, my lady” he said to Alana. He took a drink. “I tried to leave a little fight in him for you, lest you not be sufficiently challenged.”

“Thank you,” she said, seriously.

Zipporah glanced at her mother, who was finally showing some interest in what was going on around her.

“Do be careful,” Lady Havendell said.

Alana stood, unsheathing her practice sword and pointing it at John. “Perhaps I should use my other sword.” She glanced at the sharp blade leaning against a bench.

“I wouldn’t want you to hurt me,” he said with a straight face.

She lowered her sword. “As if I would have a chance at that.”

“Oh, I would not be so sure,” Peter said. “You could use misdirection, you know.”

“Misdirection?”

“Compliment his sword skill and smile,” Zipporah offered.

“Then go in for the kill,” Peter finished, positioning his hand as if he still held his sword, then lunging.

John, who was picking out a dull sword from a collection of practice weapons in a bin, looked over his shoulder at Zipporah and Peter with a warning.

Zipporah mouthed, “Just trying to help.”

He ignored her, finished off his ale, and then gestured to Alana. “I believe this is our dance, my lady.”

Alana’s grip tightened on her training sword as she followed him onto the field. Zipporah sat with Peter.

“I wonder if she’s any good,” Peter said. “She is tall. Almost as tall as John.” He cocked his head. “And well built.”

“Stop looking,” Zipporah teased.

“I was not looking.”

“Good.”

Alana faced John with a solid stance, his eyes widening in appreciation. He came at her slowly, testing the waters. She met him head-on, defending every move with a delicate smoothness that made it look as if they really were dancing.

Then Alana turned aggressive.

“First mistake,” Peter noted.

“Why?”

“She’s giving away her hand. Her anger is showing.”

“She has good reason to be angry, what with her upcoming wedding.”

While they sparred, her mother finished one gown and started in on a second. Alana came at John with increasing force. Her brow furrowed in concentration, sweat glistened on her tanned skin. Her breath was ragged.

“She’s going to hurt herself,” Zipporah said.

“Let John deal with it.”

“But . . .”

Peter bumped his shoulder against hers. “Let him.”

She nodded.

John caught Alana by the wrist. She struggled to free herself but he didn’t let go. He tossed his sword down, then removed hers and tossed that aside as well.

They exchanged words. Zipporah couldn’t hear what they were saying. John reached out, gently smoothing back a curl that had fallen into her face.

Alana jerked, then broke away, walking off the field. As she neared, Zipporah saw tears in her eyes. Standing, she went to her. “Are you all right?”

Alana waved her off. “I am fine. I just need a moment.”

“You are not hurt, are you?”

“Only my pride.” She filled a mug with ale and sipped from it.

John came next, Alana’s sword in his hand. He tossed himself at a bench.

“What did John do?” Zipporah said.

“It wasn’t him.” She looked at her cup, then downed the rest of the ale like she didn’t care what anyone thought about her. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth. “I do not want to talk about it.” Alana set the cup aside with a clatter and took up her second sword from where it was leaning on the bench near John.

He stood, passing her the dull weapon in his hand.

“You did well,” he said, making a clear effort to soften his voice.

“I need to be better.” She gripped her sword until her knuckles turned white from the strain. Sheathing it smoothly, she walked away.

“Excuse   me,”   John said after a moment, then followed her at a distance.

Chapter Twenty-Three

He was stretched flat out on his back, in full armor and surcoat, clutching his long sword in thin, lifeless hands. That was the way her father was carried by six of his men on a litter from the castle keep to the chapel. Zipporah walked alongside her mother in the funeral procession. Monks in plain brown robes chanted as they swung incense burners on long chains that let off puffs of fragrant smoke.

The colorless gray stone and stained-glass windows of the church she was married in two days before loomed before her. She looked around for Peter, and found him with John, both of them dressed in chainmail and surcoats. His hair was tied back with a strip of cloth cut jestingly from her brown hemp gown. One day, she might find herself walking such a procession while Peter’s body was being carried to the chapel. She hated that.

Even if it were to be forty years away.

He caught her watching him and smiled. Zipporah saw her lost child in his face, she saw her own life . . . and she saw both their deaths.

And she thought, for one brief moment, she saw a place where there was no death, no suffering, and no hate.

John spoke to him, and he broke eye contact. They exchanged words with furrowed brows. John’s hand came to the hilt of his sword. Peter touched his arm, and John reluctantly let his hand drop.   

Zipporah glanced around, but saw nothing to alarm. There were many people; their noble guests, knights, villagers, and household servants.

Peter crossed toward her and slipped his hand into hers. “Stay close,” he whispered.

“What’s happening?”

“Just stay close.” Leave it to Peter to bark an order when she was looking for an explanation.

Her father was brought into the chapel, the priest preceding and the monks following. She filed in behind with Peter and her mother. John was with Alana.

Lady Havendell laid flowers from her garden over her husband’s body. The apple blossoms had since wilted and blown away, so she’d cut a bouquet of white and red roses. Their sweet fragrance blended with that of the incense, swirling in the air around Zipporah. It was supposed to elicit feelings of peace, but the scent settled in the pit of her stomach like a painful reminder of moments with her father that she could not reclaim.

She grasped her mother’s hand as they sat together on a bench, Peter close, the heat of his body drawing her closer. She nudged her other hand into his and he took it. The priest recited over her father in Latin, then sprinkled holy water while a monk swirled smoke from a silver plated burner. The air felt heavy and too thick to breathe.

Lord, please let this be over. Please let this be over.

The minutes dragged by. After more recitation, her father’s body was lifted up and brought back outside. They followed into the yard where a grave was already dug for him. Peter’s arm brushed hers as they walked. He was tense beneath his surcoat, ready to spring at any moment.

Sir Mark came forward, removing Lord Havendell’s sword from his hands. It should have gone to Edward, but that was no longer possible. Sir Mark offered it to her hilt first. She wrapped her fingers around the black, leather-bound handle, struggling with the weight as Sir Mark gently released it. Peter made a motion and Sir Justin, one of John’s youngest knights, took it back from her, standing near with it held diagonally across his torso. 

Peter took her by the elbow, urging her behind him. A moment later a shout rang out. “Mark!” he called. Her mother’s knight moved into position, a living shield. Sir Justin backed away as if protecting the spirit of her father’s weapon.

Before Zipporah could grasp what was happening, Peter and John had drawn their swords. Zipporah peeked over Peter’s shoulder. Confused people murmured to each other, glancing around.

A man in a peasant’s cloak broke free from the crowd, stumbling toward her father’s body. He fell to his knees, his hood up, and his face down. His shoulders heaved as if in grief.

“Take her,” Peter said, passing her off to John.

“What?” she protested. “Wait. Peter.”

“Stay!”

She let John pull her behind him. Alana took her hand, shielding her as well, her dagger drawn and ready.

* * *

“Give me a reason,” Peter said, his sword held before him, angled downward toward Gilburn.

The cloaked man lifted his head slowly, bringing his chin in line with the tip of Peter’s sword. Gilburn’s dark eyes were rimmed red within the folds of his hood. He hadn’t shaved in days.

“I did not want for this . . .” He broke off, shaking his head.

“Want what?” Peter questioned. “To deceive them? To hurt those you claimed to protect? Didn’t mean to kill your master?”

“I love them both.” His gaze turned toward Zipporah. “I love her.”

“She doesn’t need your kind of love.” 

“Just let me say goodbye, and you will never see me again.” He lifted his hand in supplication.

Peter kept his sword trained on Gilburn. “Do it from here.”

“All I ask for is one moment.”

“Is she hard of hearing? Or perhaps you are. Do it from here, and be glad I do not split you open on the spot.”

Gilburn hesitated, then he looked at her father instead of Zipporah. “My lord,” he said, his voice sounding tight. “I wanted to be a son to you. It is all I ever wanted.” He pushed his hood back, revealing tousled black hair, straggly with sweat.

Peter noted the slight shift in Gilburn; the way his face tightened a fraction of a second before he drew his sword, the way his muscles tensed beneath his cloak. He rose and turned toward Peter.

“For Zipporah, and for the land,” he said, sword poised before him.

“Peter,” he heard Zipporah, but ignored her. He had to, otherwise she would distract him.

Gilburn attacked, his offence firm but desperate. Peter held him off, allowing him to wear himself down. Let him have his fight, Peter thought, seeing as it would be his last. Peter had to trust John to keep Zipporah back.

He heard the zip of an arrow in flight, turned in reaction, but was a second too slow. Peter felt the bite of metal as it broke through his chainmail, tearing into his right shoulder from the back. He wasn’t feeling pain yet, just a ripping sensation. He saw the tip of the arrow sticking out the front of his shoulder.

They must have missed one of Gilburn’s men the other day. Zipporah screamed. John barked out orders, and Peter was vaguely aware of knights and guardsmen leaving to secure the grounds.

Peter reached back, wincing as pain began to overcome shock. He broke the feathered end of the shaft off with a grunt. He couldn’t fight with it sticking out of him. John would have to push what remained through his shoulder later in order to remove it.

Zipporah was crying. John called for someone to hold her back.

“I have her,” Alana answered.

Gilburn attacked again, hard, threatening to loosen Peter’s sword from his hand. Gilburn used his greater size to his advantage. Peter’s arm was starting to give. He blinked back stars, aware he was losing too much blood.

John appeared. He pressed the tip of his sword against Gilburn’s back. “Drop it,” he said.

“Back down, John.” Peter shook the fog from his head.

“Nay.” His expression was firm.
I am not leaving you, brother.

“John, this is my fight.”

“Peter back down,” Zipporah cried.

Gilburn’s gaze shifted, his eyes taking on a possessive gleam.

Peter wrapped both hands firmly around the hilt of his sword. His arms were shaking, and his right hand sticky with his own blood.

John hesitated. He had to know Peter would never forgive him if he interfered.

“Back away, John.”

“Peter.” Green eyes, so much like his own, were pained. Arms trembled with indecision.

“You can have him when I am through.”

“There had better be nothing left of him when you are done.” John pressed the tip of his sword into Gilburn’s back, forcing him to draw up straight. “And if there is, then I will personally make sure you are no longer recognizable as a man.”

“If I win,” Gilburn said, careful not to move and force John’s sword past the first layer of his flesh, “I will be lord.”

“If you win, I you will feed you to the buzzards.” John stepped away, lowering his sword.

Peter blocked out Zipporah’s protests as he attacked Gilburn again. Oddly confident, in light of John’s threat, Gilburn kicked out Peter’s knee. Peter stumbled, landing on his right shoulder. His vision dimmed and narrowed. The next thing he knew, Gilburn’s sword was arcing toward his head. Peter rolled, feeling the air part around Gilburn’s blade. His sword tip stuck in the turf and Gilburn wrenched it free.

Peter peeled himself off the ground. He looked at Zipporah. Alana was holding her by the upper arms, straining to keep her back.

“Live or die, my lady,” Peter rasped.

Zipporah stopped struggling. Tears streaked her face, and her hair was sticking to them. “What?”

“Does he live or die?”

She glanced at Gilburn, and then back to Peter. “Die. Kill him, Peter, please.”

Gilburn shook his head. “Zipporah,” he mouthed.

“I could never love you,” she called. “I pity you.”

Peter knew he had only moments to take advantage of the distraction.

“I pity you!” she screamed.

Gilburn took a step back. Peter closed in on him. Gilburn lifted his sword to defend himself and Peter knocked it away. Without hesitation, he slid his sword into Gilburn, under the ribs, pushing it all the way to the hilt.

They were face to face now, Peter’s blood running down his arm and mingling with Gilburn’s. Soil-brown eyes widened in a brief moment of denial.

“You leave me no choice. I cannot let you live,” Peter breathed, knowing he was only seconds away from losing consciousness. He yanked his sword free and Gilburn fell backward, the ground shuddering on impact. His eyes dimmed and clouded over. Peter collapsed to his knees. His sword slipped from his hand with a dull thump. Alana must have released Zipporah, because she came to him.

“I had to do it,” he said. She helped him onto his left side.

“I know, Sir Knight.” She kissed his face. “I know.”

* * *

Zipporah cringed as Peter’s sword fell from his weakened grasp. She wished he would give himself more time to heal.

Six weeks had passed since his fight with Gilburn. Alana was at Ravenmore. John had been preoccupied with her, yet made training with Peter a priority. Lady Havendell had been quiet since the funeral, but she seemed to be coming around. Zipporah had some news for her that would give her plenty to think about over the next several months. She would probably spend the majority of it choosing the perfect location for the nursery, as well as furnishing it.  

John picked up Peter’s sword. “That’s enough for today.”

“Again,” Peter gritted, flexing his hand.

“That’s enough.” John clasped his left shoulder. “Take a break. We will try again tomorrow.”

Peter came off the field like an angry bull. He ran his hands through his hair and thumped onto the bench near her. Zipporah didn’t touch him. He didn’t want her sympathy at times like that.

He was the first to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Peter had tried fighting with his left arm instead of his right, but he had once broken all four fingers on that hand, and found the loss of dexterity disappointing. He was lord now, and did not have to fight his own battles. He had knights for that. But Peter had been raised a warrior, and this irked him in ways Zipporah couldn’t begin to understand.

“Please don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “You have not disappointed me.” When he didn’t say anything she continued. “There are many things you do well. Some of them you do exceedingly well.” She lifted her brows.

“You said that yesterday. And the day before.”

“And I will say it tomorrow too.” She stood, then took his hand and tugged until he came to his feet. Zipporah urged his face toward hers. He hesitated before kissing her. She wished to God she knew how to restore his faith in himself.

She hadn’t had any stomachaches, like the last time, but her courses were very late, her breasts were tender, and she was sure now that she was with child.

“Peter?” she said, curling her fingers in his hair. “About your being good at . . . other things.”

His arms finally slid around her waist. “Aye,” he said, then kissed her neck.

“You are, or rather, I should say
we
are, particularly good at making things.”

“Mmm . . .” he sounded, definitely more interested in her shoulder now than anything else.

“We are good at
making
things.” She waited for him to take the hint.