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 complemented 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 the 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 worst 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 other 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.