Chapter One #2
“Too much wood,” she sniffed. “This batch has taken on too much of the barrel. Give it to the villeins. I would taste the batch of red ale that is not quite as aged. If it is not ruined, then we will transfer the contents to beechwood barrels. This oak is too strong. I never have been fond of oak, even though father insisted it adds flavor.”
Lady Ivy de Fluornoy relayed the orders to a hovering servant. When the man disappeared, she turned to her elder sister. “The taste was normal to me. How can you taste the wood so strongly?”
“I just do. Why must you question my palate? I am never wrong.”
Ivy made a face at her sister’s arrogant declaration. “And I say it tasted fine. As long as it is good enough to get drunk by, what do the innkeepers care?”
Peyton shot her sister an intolerant look. “We sell to more than just innkeepers, as you well know. Now, leave me alone. Go bother someone else.”
“There is no one else,” Ivy said, plopping down in a leather chair that had once belonged to their father. “We are quite alone, you and I.”
Peyton gave her sister a long glance, some of her irritation fading. “You need not remind me. I have been well aware of the fact for six months now.”
“And well aware of the fact that St. Cloven is a goldmine to the man who marries you,” Ivy shot back with soft intensity.
She gazed at her sister, watching the emotions ripple across her beautiful face.
“Your fate is in the hands of our liege, as much as you loathe the fact. You do not control your destiny and your daily moods reflect your frustration.”
Peyton’s sapphire-blue eyes flashed angrily for a split second before banking with equal rapidity. “As our liege controls your fate, as well,” she reminded her. “It is the man’s duty to select husbands for both of us since….”
Peyton’s voice trailed away and Ivy knew exactly what she was going to say; since my betrothed saw fit to get himself killed on the tournament circuit and since father died before he could complete a contract on you.
“I do not want to marry anyone,” Ivy bemoaned quietly. “I am too young. Seventeen is far too young.”
“Mother was married at fourteen,” Peyton reminded her, inadvertently pondering the man to whom she was betrothed. The man she should have married.
“I did not mean to bring up James.” Ivy knew what her sister was thinking. In fact, she thought of little else.
Peyton shrugged, her luxurious cascade of golden-red curls shimmering in the weak light. “Whether or not you mention him, he is always on the surface of my mind. It takes very little for me to think of him.”
Ivy felt the stab of pain for her sister, remembering too well the loss of Sir James Deveraux nine months prior. The anguish still clouded Peyton’s face. She hadn’t been the same since dashing blond James was gored by a spear-tipped joust pole in full view of his fiancée.
Ivy rose, not wanting to linger on the private memories. “I shall see to sup. It is my turn, is it not?”
“It is,” Peyton nodded. “I would prefer fowl this night. Or mayhap lamb. No mutton, if you please.”
“Venison?”
“Disgusting, wretched stuff.”
Ivy smiled, her pale coloring in sharp contrast to her sister’s radiant beauty. “You used to like it well enough.”
“I have changed my mind. Nothing heavy. Or slicked with grease.”
“What gall! When it is your turn to see to meals, you serve items that are literally floating in slime.”
Peyton smiled deviously. “Because you like it that way, darling. Admit it.”
“I shall admit that you are intent on making me fat so that no man will have me.”
“I thought you did not want a husband?”
“I never said that. Stop twisting my words.”
Peyton laughed again, patting her sister’s blond head affectionately. “Stop fretting, Ivy. ’Tis out of our hands, I am afraid.”
Ivy wandered to the solar door, her fingers probing the scrubbed jamb absently. Behind her, Peyton stood staring into space, no doubt with James on her mind. The pain, although somewhat faded, still clutched at her heart. It took her months before she could right herself after his death.
“Do you think Lord Brian will choose Colin?” Ivy’s voice was faint with dread.
Peyton was jolted from her train of thought, her expression contemptuous. “Not unless he is willing to be an active party to murder, for that is what will surely happen if he betroths me to Colin Warrington. I shall kill the beast before I shall allow a marriage to take place.”
Ivy thought a moment. “Mayhap the union would ease the feud. After all, the Warringtons and the de Fluornoys have been fighting for decades, and….”
Peyton put up a hand. “Say no more. I will not even hear of the possibility. Now go order me a round of slop, sister.”
Ivy cocked a slow eyebrow. “Slop, did you say? That, darling Peyton, can be arranged.”
Peyton waved her sister on with a grin. Outside, the sun was setting over the golden-pale fields of grain that kept St. Cloven firmly established in her trade as the sisters made their way to the manor.
Dinner was an unexpectedly flavorful affair and Peyton enjoyed the rewards of her sister’s uncanny sense of table with nary a greasy dish in sight.
Fowl, boiled vegetables and a pale yellow ale graced the table.
And, to match the yellow ale, Ivy had instructed the cook to dye everything saffron yellow.
So Peyton ate yellow meat, yellow vegetables, and only half of her bright yellow custard.
In truth, she was stuffed full from the main courses and sat back in her chair, sipping her ale with satisfaction.
Across the table sat Ivy, eating everything in sight.
She was a large girl, round and curvaceous with a tendency for fat.
Fortunately, she fatted in all of the right places and drew many a man’s stare with her buxom profile and generous hips.
Formed like their father’s side of the family, she was in sharp divergence to Peyton’s slender beauty.
Although Peyton was no fragile, delicate hybrid; average in stature and height, she was inordinately strong for a female.
But her graceful limbs and creamy skin gave her a soft, dainty appearance, and her beauty was absolutely unequaled.
James always told her that she reminded him of a porcelain doll, perfect and sculpted in every way.
She and Ivy were very different in appearance, but not in personality. Their father used to call them magpies, for they chattered incessantly. And fought like Lucifer and Gabriel when the mood hit them.
Aye, they missed their father terribly. For a man who had been hardy and robust all of his life, his death from a heart attack six months prior had come as a deep shock.
After their mother had died when the girls were very young, Albert de Fluornoy had coddled and spoiled his children.
He had been their only family with exception of the creature currently seated at the far end of the table.
Jubil de Fluornoy was an enigma of sorts.
A self-proclaimed witch, she was a peculiar woman with even more peculiar habits.
Bizarre did not quite encompass the exact description of Aunt Jubil; in fact, Peyton had yet to come up with the exact terms to describe her father’s younger sister.
Weird certainly seemed appropriate most of the time and Peyton and Ivy spent a good deal of time ignoring their only living relation.
“There’s a cock’s foot in here,” Jubil hissed, picking at her trencher.
Ivy glanced at Peyton. “Aye, there is, Jubil, just for you,” she replied sarcastically.
“A big bloody one!” Jubil suddenly declared, although neither girl could see what she was talking about. “It’s preparing to fly away!”
Peyton rolled her eyes irritably. Her aunt was known to ingest concoctions distilled from native plants and roots to aid her in her “visions”. Sometimes it took days for the potions to wear off, leaving Jubil insane for that particular length in time.
“Jubil, there’s no cock’s foot in your dish,” she said with little patience. “If you are finished with your meal, then you are excused.”
Jubil began to shovel clumps of food all over the table in her attempt to single out the elusive cock’s foot. Peyton ducked as a piece of roast fowl flew particularly close.
“Cock’s foot! Cock’s foot!” Jubil cried, jamming her fingers into her trencher and withdrawing an object pinched between her index finger and thumb. Her eyes were wild as she scrutinized whatever it was. “An eyeball! I knew it! I thought I smelled the essence!”
Ivy closed her eyes, silently beseeching God for patience. “Oh, Christ.”
Peyton watched with morbid curiosity as Jubil bound from her chair, still squeezing the bit of “eyeball”. “I can use this, I can,” she smiled at Peyton. “I shall use this to divine your future, sweetheart. We will see what Lord Brian Summerlin has in store for you.”
Peyton shook her head as Ivy looked bored. “I do not want to know, Jubil. Truly.”
Jubil did not hear her. She shuffled off, clutching her prize and mumbling to herself.
“My God, Peyton. What are we going to do with her?” Ivy demanded softly. “My appetite is gone.”
“Your appetite is gone because you ate everything but the bowls,” Peyton said. They had long since stopped figuring out what to do with Aunt Jubil.
In the warm dining hall this night, Peyton and her sister were alone save a few serving women and two household guards.
Since their father had been somewhat of a recluse, positive any stranger or traveler had come to his doorstep for the sole purpose of extracting his ale secrets, there had never been an overabundant amount of activity at St. Cloven and the women were not lonely.
They simply learned to entertain themselves.
“What is it tonight, Peyton? Cards? Chess? Backgammon?” Ivy leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head.
Peyton sat silently, listening to the faint howl of a dog somewhere, the crackle of the fire in the massive stone hearth.
“Nothing, I think. I am tired tonight.”