Chapter Nine
The village of Ely sat nine miles to the southeast of Blackstone on the plain of Fenland, sometimes alluded to as the Isle of Ely in reference to the days when the entire region was an untrained marsh.
Bordered by the River Ouse, the hamlet was asleep for the most part as Alec entered the outskirts.
It was an unremarkable little town until one lay sights on the Norman cathedral that dominated the skyline; a most remarkable structure with towers that soared to the sky like fingers reaching for heaven.
It was an hour before midnight as Midas’ hoof-falls echoed against the cobblestone toward the cathedral.
They passed a tavern and Peyton studied it intently, listening to the singing and laughing and wishing that Alec would take her inside simply so she could see what it was like.
Having barely ventured from the confines of St. Cloven, she was understandably curious.
A couple of knights came stumbling through the front doors and immediately made comment of Midas as they rode past. Alec ignored the whooping and hollering, even when the men yelled their highest bid for the magnificent destrier.
Peyton kept the hood of her cloak over her head protectively, shielding her face from the loud men and feeling a good amount of apprehension.
She was afraid they would try to steal the horse from underneath them and Alec was unarmed but for his crossbow and a dagger.
He wore no sword, something she considered most strange.
Suppose he was called upon to defend them both; he would have no ready means of protection.
Suppose they fell into danger somehow? Suppose… ?
“Why is it that you do not wear a sword and armor?” she asked.
“As I told your sister, I gave up knightly pursuits long ago.”
“But why?” she turned to look at him. “What if I were to need defending, Alec? You have no sword to accomplish this.”
He grinned in the moonlight. “God help the man who provokes you, my lady. You are the last woman in the world who needs defending.”
She scowled reproachfully. “You know what I mean. You are certainly not past your prime, and I know you fought with Edward on the Seventh Crusade. Why is it you do not bear arms anymore?”
His smile faded and he looked away after a moment. “I choose not to.”
She stared at him, perturbed that he was avoiding her question.
She had a right to know, after all. If she was to be his wife, then she would know why he chose not to bear a sword like most husbands.
But it was obvious that there was far more to her question than a simple answer. Irritated, she turned away.
The cathedral loomed before them momentarily. Alec reined Midas to the monastery that bordered the monstrous church and dismounted, pulling Peyton off with him. Taking her hand, he led her to the carved oaken door and rapped heavily.
A short man with thin hair answered, dressed in coarse brown wool. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Alec, surely the largest man he had ever beheld.
“How may I help you, my lord?” he asked in a soft voice.
“My lady and I wish to be married this night. I would speak with the Monsignor.”
The monk beckoned them inside. “Leave your sword at the door, my lord, and follow me.”
“I bear no sword,” Alec said, almost stiffly.
The monk merely nodded his head and moved silently down the narrow hall. Alec, for his massive size, kept bumping into wall sconces and rosaries as he followed, thankful when the little man stopped and motioned them into a room. Alec ducked underneath the door frame as he entered the small chamber.
“You will wait here, and I shall summon Father Lenardon.”
“He is the Monsignor?”
“He is my superior and capable of transacting such business as you seek,” the monk closed the door softly.
Peyton removed her hood and glanced about the small, vacant chamber. “I feel as if I am in prison.”
Alec gazed at the meager furnishings and whitewashed walls, clean but worn. “I see your point. I myself feel as if I have just entered an abode meant for midgets,” he motioned to a small stool. “Sit, sweetheart. We could be in for a long wait.”
She shook her head. “My backside is sore from so much riding,” instead, she pressed her back against a wall to stretch out the muscles. “I wonder if your father realizes that we are both missing.”
“If he doesn’t by now, he will shortly,” Alec fumbled with his thick leather gloves, loosening them. “But there is naught he can do, even if Jubil tells him what she knows.”
“He shall be angry,” Peyton said softly.
“He shall get over it,” Alec shrugged. “Especially when he sees his grandson next year.”
She smiled, a delightful flush mottling her cheeks and he went to her, taking her face between his huge hands.
“I pray that the past few hours of riding have not made you overly sore,” he said with a tender smile.
“Not overly,” she replied, her eyes locking with his. “’Tis a bit tender to walk, but nothing more. I am sure it will be gone by the morrow.”
“And I promise I will not aggravate you until such time as you are properly healed,” he said with a twinkle to his eye. “It may kill me, but I shall valiantly adhere to my vow.”
She put her fist into his stomach playfully and pulled from his grasp. “You are a vulgar beast, Alec.”
He pretended to rub the spot where she had weakly punched him. “And you, my lady, are enticing beyond reason.”
Abruptly, her smile faded and she turned away. Alec saw her expression harden and he was puzzled. He reached out and grasped her arm gently.
“What is it, sweetheart? What did I say?”
She pulled free and moved away from him. “Nothing, Alec.”
He followed her, grasping her chin gently and forcing her to look at him. “If there is one thing I will demand in this marriage, it is honesty. What did I say to upset you so?”
She heard her own words echoed in his voice and she sighed with resignation. A terribly clever man, her future husband. Slowly, she sat on a sturdy little stool.
“James used to tell me I was indecently enticing,” she murmured, turning to him after a moment. “You simply reminded me of him, that’s all.”
He gazed down at her, again feeling the peculiar stab of jealousy he had experienced once before.
The more he pondered her statement, the more he needed to clarify the entire Deveraux relationship.
It was as if something inside him demanded to know what, exactly, he was up against. He’d not particularly cared until this moment.
“Did you love him terribly, Peyton, or were you simply resigned to the fact that he would be your husband and felt a duty to be fond of him?”
Instead of becoming angry, a painful expression washed her features and for a moment he thought she was going to cry.
“I loved him. Love him, I mean. I was looking forward to spending my life as Lady Deveraux until all of my dreams were destroyed by the point of a spear-tipped joust pole,” she lowered her gaze, remembering the event once again but, strangely, without the wrenching pain that usually accompanied the memory.
“Do you know that the spear went all of the way through him? By the time I reached him on the field, he was laying on his side and six inches of the spear protruded from his back. I tried to hold him but…. it was awkward. I could only cradle his head.”
“I am surprised that the marshals allowed the spear-tipped pole to be used. They ceased using those poles long ago; in fact, I have never competed against anyone who wielded a spear-tipped shaft.”
Peyton turned her pensive face to him. “As I said, the knight had broken his primary pole and they allowed him to use his spare. Have you competed in many tournaments?”
He eased his enormous body onto the solid oak table, scrubbed until it was nearly bleached pale. “Quite a few. Peter and I used them as personal competitions, each man trying to out-do the other.”
She found it surprising to hear him refer to his mysterious, deceased brother. “And who won?”
Alec smiled as if remembering the rivalry.
“Me, most often, which thoroughly angered my brother. He was two years older than I and convinced that the eldest should always be the victor,” he chuckled softly.
“I remember one year at a tournament in Cheltenham I won both the melee and the joust competitions. Instead of congratulating me, Peter tried to punch me in the nose. As our father stood by in horror, we wrestled about until another knight, the man I beat in the melee, shouted encouragement to Peter. My brother promptly stopped our brawl, calmly walked over to the other knight and knocked out four of his teeth. It would seem that only Peter had permission to provoke me in a fight and no one else.”
She smiled, forgetting her sorrow as she was drawn into his recollection. The mood was light and comfortable and she felt comfortable asking him a most discomfiting question. After all, she was to be his wife, was she not? Surely he would not fault her for wanting to know.
“How did Peter die, Alec?”
His smile faded. Stone-faced, he stared off into the dimness of the room, his gaze averted from Peyton and she was suddenly sorry she had asked.
He had told her quite firmly that he did not speak of his brother and she should not have pushed.
Yet…. she felt as if she had to ask. He was to be her husband, yet she knew virtually nothing about him.
This man who did not bear a sword, who refused to wear armor.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I know you do not like to speak of him. Forgive me for asking.”
He continued to stare off into the room a moment longer before turning to her, his face masked with pain. Immediately, she stood up and wrapped her arms around his thick neck, pulling his face into her soft shoulder. He responded instantly, embracing her in massive arms.
“’Tis a natural question, and I will answer you,” he whispered against her. “But it is difficult….”