Never Kiss A Stranger (15 page)

At this, Clement gasped and looked to Sybilla. “Mother’s pet?”

Sybilla did not bother to look at the despicable weakling, only nodded to the soldier. “Go on.”

“Several miles farther, the tracks crossed the road and went down a ravine and to a riverbank. The trail was fresh, we could not have been more than a quarter hour behind them, the daylight still plentiful. But at the river, the footsteps diverged, the man heading away down stream. The smaller footprints backtracked up the ravine and then disappeared.”

Sybilla raised an eyebrow. “Disappeared?”

“The tracks were difficult to follow through the forest without the larger set to mark them,” the soldier explained without apology. “She did not take to the road. But we continued on to the most likely destination for a young woman traveling alone, with night swiftly approaching.”

“And that would be?”

“The village of Pilings, milady. We saw no sign of her, but there was this.” He took a single step forward, deposited
the pouch on Sybilla’s table, and then returned to his previous stance.

Sybilla picked up the cloth bag—it felt largely empty. She pulled open the drawstring and upended the pouch into her palm. She looked down.

A gold coin, a stylized image of the king on one side. Sybilla turned it over, and her blood ran cold at the sight of the large, scripted F.

Fallstowe.

She looked up at the soldier, and he had her answer ready before she could voice the question.

“A village woman offered it, reluctantly. Said a young girl had come from the wood begging for food. The woman thought her quite mad until the end of their encounter, when she was offered this in payment for the charity, and then asked if the road through the village was the London Road. The girl left the village in that direction, but there was no trail to follow.”

Sybilla turned the coin over and over in her palm with the meaty base of her thumb and fingertips. “Did this villager say what the girl looked like?”

The soldier nodded. “Hair the color of straw. Mayhap fourteen years. Carrying a bag containing something alive, allegedly”—the soldier cleared his throat—“a monkey.”

“It
is
her!” Clement Cobb wailed, and dropped his high forehead dramatically onto his forearm. “Oh, my sweet angel, how I have betrayed you!”

“Shut up, Clement,” Sybilla said evenly. She placed the coin on the table carefully, precisely, so that it made not a whisper of noise against the wood. She looked at the soldier again. “Think you she indeed hies to London?”

“Aye, milady.”

Behind the soldier, Judith Angwedd stood with an
abrupt screech of the wooden bench. “What of the man? Did you follow
his
tracks? Where is he?” she demanded shrilly.

No one dare look at Judith Angwedd save Sybilla, who sent the woman her most level, cold stare.

“I have given you no leave to address my envoy.”

Judith Angwedd’s cheeks bloomed a shade akin to that of her hair, although the skin of her neck and around her eyes went snow white. “I must know,” she choked on the rage in her throat.

“Fallstowe’s soldiers were not sent to do your bidding, Judith Angwedd,” Sybilla clarified. “You are here upon my charity, and that is all. I understand that you wish to intercept this Piers before he reaches London—for fear of what he will witness to Edward against you, likely. But you will hold your tongue while I question this soldier as to my own interest or be gone from this castle.”

“You high-handed sow,” Judith Angwedd hissed, all color gone from her face now, as well as all previously feigned respect from her words. “I am not the only one who should be fearful of witness against me to the king. Likely your precious little princess will have her revenge on you and see you to the executioner’s block for your family’s fraud against the crown. And I hope to be there to see your head roll across the green, as your lying, witch mother’s should have!”

The air in the hall seemed to vibrate, like the moment before a lightning strike. The temperature dropped, or so it seemed to Sybilla. She rose from her chair calmly, her eyes never leaving the stricken face of Judith Angwedd. Sybilla walked the length of the table, her steps measured and sure. Holding her skirts up briefly, she stepped from
the dais, and her heels clicked dully across the stones of the hall, her pace increasing.

Judith Angwedd’s eyes began to widen. “What are you doing?” she demanded, but it was false bravado. Sybilla could hear the tremble of her voice, could practically smell the woman’s sour dread.

“Stay away from me!” Judith Angwedd warned hollowly, and stumbled backward, her flight halted by the table behind her.

Sybilla’s hand shot out and she struck the woman across the face before she had even come fully before her, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. Judith Angwedd’s head snapped to the side. The woman had barely brought her face forward when Sybilla struck her again, and this time, Judith Angwedd cried out and tumbled down the side of the table to fall to the stones on her hip. The woman’s hand came to her face, and when she looked up, Sybilla was darkly pleased to see the tears in her wide, frightened eyes, and the small trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth.

“You will remember in whose hall you stand, and to whom you speak.” Inside, Sybilla was shaking with rage, and only keeping herself from falling upon Judith Angwedd and beating the life from her by the tiniest shred of self-control. Outwardly though, her voice was calm, cold, and threaded with iron. Let there be no doubt in Judith Angwedd’s mind who ruled here, and what her disrespect would reap her.

“Should you ever again think to speak ill of my mother, Judith Angwedd Mallory—even to
yourself—hear
this: I will know. I will know, and I will hunt you, and I will wring the breath from your body with my own hands.”

The fat curls around the woman’s face danced. “You can’t threaten me like that,” she whispered, her face a mask
of horrified disbelief, her hand still cradling the side of her face.

Sybilla smiled briefly, and the sight must have been chilling by the way Judith Angwedd recoiled. “I can do anything I please. For instance—” She angled her chin slightly over her shoulder. “Graves, give my command to the archers: once Lady Mallory and her son cross over Fallstowe’s drawbridge, if they are ever again seen within range of the walls—together or separately—they are to be shot dead, without inquiry.”

“Regular arrows, or flaming ones, Madam?” Graves asked sincerely.

“That is at their own discretion, Graves.”

The soldier volunteered, “I shall relay the order upon my return to the garrison, if my lady wishes.”

Sybilla threw up a hand granting careless permission, and soon the clicking steps of the soldier were echoing away from the hall.

Judith Angwedd gasped. “Edward will hear of this, I warn you.”

Sybilla threw back her head and laughed to the buttresses above. She shook her head in mock pity. “Do you actually believe I care what
the king
thinks?” She held her arms out from her sides and looked around her hall pointedly. She raised her eyebrows. “Hmm?”

“You are what they say, aren’t you?” Judith Angwedd choked, her lips trembling. “You and your mother. The whole lot of you!”

Sybilla bent at the waist in a rush, bringing her nose so close to Judith Angwedd’s that their breaths mingled. Sybilla smiled.

“Care to find out?” she whispered.

The woman shook her head almost imperceptibly.

“A very wise choice.” Sybilla nodded once, emphatically.
And then she grabbed a handful of hair from the back of Judith Angwedd’s skull and rose, pulling the shrieking woman onto her hands. Sybilla began marching down the center aisle of the hall toward the door as if against a strong gale, dragging Judith Angwedd behind her, who was now screaming in earnest and clawing at Sybilla’s hand.

“I am not a woman to be trifled with, Judith Angwedd,” Sybilla said in a tone of friendly advisory, although she nearly had to shout it over the woman’s terrible wailing. “And you may tell Edward
that
as well.”

She only let go of the woman’s hair once they had climbed the steps and arrived at the doors of the hall. Judith Angwedd was sobbing now. Without having to give signal, the two guards on either side of the entry swung open the doors. Sybilla gave a courteous sweep of her arm and Judith Angwedd began crawling over the threshold.

When she was nearly through, Sybilla planted her slippered foot on the woman’s backside, completing Judith Angwedd’s exit and knocking her on her face.

“Your son shall be roused to join you shortly. Good night, Lady Mallory.” Sybilla turned back to the hall, and the guards threw the doors closed.

She strode swiftly back down the center aisle, calling instructions before she had reached the men still standing near her dais.

“Graves, send Lady Cecily to me immediately, and have a party outfitted for my imminent departure. Inform the lieutenant who reported that he shall accompany us to this Pilings with additional soldiers, and we will search until we pick up Lady Alys’s trail.” She was nearly past the table now, heading for her private door.

“All the way to London, Madam?”

“Pray we reach her before then,” Sybilla sighed. “And
send several strong men to Master Bevan’s room, to assist him with his and his viperous mother’s belongings. I’m certain Judith Angwedd wishes to be reunited with her offspring as soon as possible, and far be it from me to cause the woman any distress.”

Graves slipped soundlessly from the dais.

Sybilla had laid hand upon the door latch when Clement Cobb seized her elbow weakly. Sybilla had nearly forgotten about him. But her ire was still high and looking for further escape, and so she whipped her arm free and spun on the man.

“Lady Sybilla,” Clement simpered and cowered. “‘Twas wise of you to rid Fallstowe of that scavenger, indeed. But, I beg of you, let me accompany your party. Alys is—”

“I am not at all certain that Alys is anything to you now, Clement,” she informed him evenly. “And until I and Lady Alys come to that decision, Blodshire will see not one farthing of Fallstowe coin. You may gather your belongings, your mother, your servants, and be gone from my home within the hour, lest you also wish a hasty departure.” She looked pointedly toward the doors where Judith Angwedd had so recently taken her own leave.

“Oh, Lady Sybilla! Why? Whatever have I done to give you such cause to reconsider the betrothal?” Clement nearly sobbed and sank to his knees. “I love Alys so—adore her! She—”

“If you hurry,”
Sybilla interrupted pointedly, “you might yet catch one more experienced at comforting you in your mourning, although I do hold some doubt that her compassion is at all sincere.”

Clement’s face seemed to pull in on itself, and take on a greenish cast. He swallowed.

“Do we understand each other, Clement?”

He gave a hesitant, terrified nod. Then he whispered, his eyes pleading with Sybilla, “I beg of you, tell her not.”

Sybilla turned and swept through her private door, slamming it closed behind her. While she preferred to not bruise her dignity by running to her chamber, she did walk as quickly as she could.

Everything! She had to do every damned little thing herself.

But her mother had warned her of that. That, and so many other things which seemed to be coming to fruition, one after the other, like bone tiles collapsing in a long, clicking line.

And so Sybilla gritted her teeth and, at last, ran.

Alys didn’t know what she found more delicious—the succulent pork, or the sight of the recently-shorn Piers, sitting a quarter of the way around the fire from her. The light played over the lean planes and hollows of his face, sparked the gold in his bristly short hair, shadowed his long, dark lashes against his skin. The look of him, clean shaven, relaxed, eating good food, had triggered a hunger in Alys’s stomach that could not be sated by the meal they shared.

He was gorgeous. Gorgeous and brusque and damaged. And Alys felt drawn to him as surely as rainwater must flow down to deep, dark valleys. She wanted to touch him again, not only his warm scalp and the skin of his neck, but every part of him beyond, to satisfy her curiosity of his whole body. And she wanted to learn of him, his hard past, his desperate mission, his dreams and hopes for Gillwick Manor. She wanted to know the truth about the ring in his bag, beyond her suspicions. Alys realized she was craving intimacy of any kind, every kind, with him.

She must have been staring at him for quite some time, because at last he flicked his eyes to her and frowned.

“What?” he said around a mouthful of food.

“Promise me you’ll never wear a beard again.” She remembered the piece of food still grasped in her grease-slicked fingers and took a bite of it.

He swallowed. “Beard keeps me warm in the winter. I’ll grow it back out.”

“Then why shave at all?”

He seemed to think for a moment, as if testing his answer in his own mind first. Then he shrugged. “It was unkempt. I had no mirror to trim it into a proper shape. Reckoned I’d do better to simply start anew.”

She popped the last piece of onion into her mouth—it was soft and caramelized and sweet—and then shook her head while she sucked her fingers clean. After she had swallowed, she simply said, “Don’t.”

He was finished eating as well, and so he picked up a long stick and began tweaking the fire. Sparks flew up in the air in a dancing, crackling spiral, and the burst of light across Piers’s face caused Alys’s stomach to clench. She was mesmerized by the very sight of him.

“I doubt you’d hold that opinion were it you who must venture out before dawn in the dead of winter.”

Alys shrugged. “But when you return to Gillwick, you’ll not have to perform menial chores yourself, will you?”

He looked at her warily.

Alys raised her eyebrows as if challenging him to deny it. “The ring in your bag—it was your father’s.”

He was quiet for a long time before nodding “It was. Although he never wore it, to my knowledge.”

“Did you steal it?” she asked simply.