Chapter Nine #4
“God’s Blood, Alec, I like her already,” Simon declared, bellowing for food and ale with the same breath.
“Turn around,” Alec rumbled to his wife. “Behave yourself.”
“Did you see how they looked at me?” she demanded, still outraged. “Why did they do that when I did nothing to warrant it?”
He sighed and leaned close to her. “They are simply jealous of your beauty, sweetheart. You must learn to deal with such hostilities calmly.”
Somewhat sated, Peyton accepted the cup of ale offered by Simon and took a deep drink, immediately choking on the swallow. Simon looked concerned.
“What is it, Lady Summerlin? Is something wrong with the ale?” he asked earnestly.
She made a face, pushing her cup away. “Nay, my lord, nothing abnormal….” she licked her lips and shuddered. “Where did you purchase this ale?”
“From a man in Mildenhall,” Simon replied. “He brews it especially for me. Is it not acceptable?”
Peyton cast a helpless glance at Alec, who was smiling faintly at her over the rim of his cup. “Why on earth would you purchase ale from a man in Mildenhall when the very best ale in the realm comes from St. Cloven?” Alec demanded.
“St. Cloven! Pah!” Simon snorted. “The best ale in all of England, but too damn expensive. My customers’ lowly palates do not require such extravagance. Were I to purchase St. Cloven ale, I would go broke because no one could afford it.”
Peyton and Alec exchanged grins. “No more, Simon. I happen to know the lord of St. Cloven personally and I will see that you are treated most fairly,” Alec said.
“Truly?” Simon said thoughtfully. “Do you think I could purchase St. Cloven ale for what I am paying now?”
“What do you pay now?” Peyton asked.
“Forty pence a barrel.”
Peyton considered that price. St. Cloven ale was priced nearly three times higher.
“Would you purchase ale from St. Cloven for sixty pence a barrel if, for every two barrels you purchased, a hogshead-barrel was given to you without charge? You could conceivably purchase five barrels for the price of four, ten for the price of eight, for nearly the same price you pay your present supplier for his inferior ale. The quality of St. Cloven’s drink would overshadow the slight increase in your cost.”
Simon scratched his chin. “Aye, I would do that. Were word to spread that I supplied St. Cloven ale I would likely have more business than I could handle.”
“Done,” Alec said firmly, his gaze warm on his wife. Not only was she beautiful and brave, but she had a head for business and that pleased him immensely.
“How can you do this, Alec?” Simon queried. “Did your father annex St. Cloven, perchance?”
Alec smiled and took a healthy drink of the bitter ale. “I married it.”
Simon stared at him a moment before turning an astonished expression to Peyton. “You are St. Cloven ale?”
Peyton felt Alec’s hand on her back gently. “I am Lady Summerlin, formerly heiress to St. Cloven.”
Simon’s mouth went agape with surprise and he slapped himself on the cheek as if to regain his senses. Then he laughed. “God’s Blood! I have ties to St. Cloven!”
The food came then, great trenchers of roast pork and gravy, huge chunks of fresh bread, butter, and boiled carrots and apples.
Peyton dug in with gusto and ate until she could hold no more, but her voracious appetite could not compare with Alec.
He must have eaten half the pig as his wife wallowed in over-stuffed misery.
“Tell me, my lady, how did you come by your name?” Simon asked, his mouth full of food. “’Tis a man’s name, usually.”
Peyton sighed with contentment as her food settled.
“’Twas my mother’s maiden name and she swore she would give one of her children the name, male or female.
The Peytons come from the Isle of Arran in Scotland.
They still inhabit Brodick Castle on the island, although I have never been there. I understand it is very lovely.”
“Scotland is a wild land,” Simon agreed, eating loudly. “But it breeds the most beautiful women. Wild, delightful women.”
Alec lifted an eyebrow, unwilling for Simon to pursue that particular line of conversation. “You have only to look at my wife to know that Scotland does indeed breed beauties. Her sister is to be Ali’s wife, by the way.”
Simon smiled broadly. “Ah! The black lad did indeed find a mate. You know, Alec, the only time I ever saw Ali comfortable with a woman was in the Holy Land where all of the women were nearly his color. I thought he might find a Saracen bride.”
“He was far too young for a bride at that time,” Alec said softly. “Lady Ivy has accepted him as her husband and it is a most agreeable arrangement.”
“No doubt.” Finished, Simon sat back in his chair and belched loudly, stretching his huge body. “Imagine that I know two men who are related to St. Cloven ale. ’Twill prove to be a gold mine for me. My lady doesn’t have any more unattached sisters, perchance?”
Peyton shook her head. “Nay, my lord. There are only two of us.”
“Pity. Imagine what I could do if I were married to St. Cloven,” he raised an eyebrow at her. “You would not consider leaving Alec and marrying me, would you? I would be more than happy to dispose of your husband.”
She grinned and Alec pulled her chair over to him, putting his arm around her shoulders. “I might reconsider my vow and wield a sword if I thought you to be serious. You’d not take her without a fight.”
“In that case, I recount my offer. I would sooner go up against the Devil himself than meet you in a swordfight.”
Peyton leaned against Alec, content and happy, basking in his heat. It occurred to her that Simon had seen Alec fight at one time and she was curious to know the man’s complete opinion of Alec’s skill.
“He is a great knight, then?” she asked.
Simon’s eyes glittered at Alec through the smoke. It was the first time all evening he seemed to calm somewhat. “Do you not know the man you married, my lady? There was no better knight in the entire realm.”
“Simon….” Alec shook his head faintly, modestly toying with his cup.
Simon grinned, propping a huge boot on the table and knocking his empty trencher to the floor. Underneath the table, fat dogs scuffled for the scraps and Peyton raised her legs to avoid being bitten.
“Lady Summerlin, your husband was beyond magnificent when it came to swordplay. There was not a man in the entire civilized world that could best him. When he competed in tournaments, the melees were always decided before the combatants ever took the field. Everyone knew that Alec Summerlin would triumph, although there were those of us who were foolish enough to take our chances against him. Aye, there was none more brilliant,” Simon chuckled at Alec’s demureness.
“Stop acting the blushing maiden, Alec. You know full well your skill and power. When England lost you, she lost her most powerful warrior since Galahad.”
“Galahad?” Peyton gazed at her husband, who merely took another drink of ale.
Simon was enjoying Alec’s embarrassment. “Certainly. But I doubt even Galahad could have held the position against the raiding Muslims those years ago. Nothing short of God could have defended thirty English knights against hundreds of barbarian soldiers.”
What had promised to be a glorious tale of Alec’s strength suddenly turned uncomfortable as Simon referred to the fallen fortress. Peyton turned to her husband to gauge his reaction as Simon continued on, fully aware of the tender memories.
“There were very few of us left alive to escape the initial onslaught,” Simon sat forward, his eyes intent on Peyton.
“On our retreat we ran headlong into a patrol of Muslims, fifty barbarians against eighteen English knights who had just fled for their lives. Your husband was magnificent as he engaged man after man with only his spear and dagger. It was a sight to behold, indeed, for he killed thirteen men on his own while the rest of us struggled with two or three. ’Twas the last time I saw The Legend in action. ”
“He was magnificent, then?” Peyton repeated in awe.
Simon smiled with satisfaction. “Indeed, madam. Alec could fight God himself and win.” Sighing, he gazed at Alec fondly.
“Edward has never given up hope that The Legend would forsake his vow and take up campaigning again. With the trouble Edward has from the Llewellyn ap Gruffydd and the Scots, he is sorely in need of Alec’s power.
I shall wager he shall never stop begging you to join him, Alec. ”
Peyton again turned to Alec with a faint smile of admiration when she saw that he was not smiling; in fact, his expression had turned to stone.
She well remembered the personality trait she had learned to hate, but this time she did not shy away from him.
Knowing what she did of his past, she realized the facade was an act of self-preservation.
She raised her hand and clutched the arm that rested on her shoulder, reassuring Alec silently that she understood his torment.
“Alec is no longer a fighting man, but lord of the manor,” she said quickly, changing the subject. “You will have to come visit us at St. Cloven. Ali and Alec have grand plans on renovating the keep and I promise it will be a magnificent place when they are finished.”
“Ali is a grand designer,” Simon took the bait and followed her lead. “I understand he did a great deal of the planning when Lord Brian added a south wing to Blackstone.”
“Ali has a mind for dimensions,” Alec said quietly, draining the last of his cup. “He can figure exact measurements of the most prolific proportions and they are always correct. I have never known him to be wrong.”
His voice was faint and Peyton felt a distinct melancholy settle. Now that they were fed, her fatigue was increasing and she gently tugged on Alec’s sleeve.
“I am tired, Alec. Can we retire?”
“Certainly,” he set down his cup. “I shall escort my lady wife to our chamber and return to our conversation, Simon. Stay where you are.”