Chapter Thirteen #4
“What about her?”
Toby looked decidedly uncomfortable and eyed the foyer beyond the hall. “I found her this morn…. well, she is not herself.”
Alec put his hands on his hips. “What does that mean? Where is she?”
Toby gestured in the general direction of the foyer but thought better of sending Alec on to face the aged aunt alone. He motioned his brother to follow.
Alec was not surprised at the sight that greeted him in the small solar. In fact, confusion would have been a better term.
Jubil was hanging by her knees from an open beam, swathed from head to toe in a great cloak of black. Her faded hair hung askew and her blue eyes were closed. She was so still that she almost looked dead.
Toby eyed Alec as his brother moved into the solar, scrutinizing the woman with intense curiosity.
He paced a complete circle about the hanging woman, peering closely at every aspect of her from ceiling to floor.
He tore his gaze away from the dangling figure to pass a questioning glance at Toby, who merely shrugged helplessly.
With that response, Alec returned his focus to Jubil.
“Jubil?” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”
Immediately, one eye popped open, studied Alec, and promptly closed again. “I am a bat. Can you not see for yourself?”
“Indeed. But why are you a bat?”
“Keen of hearing, sharp of smell. I must be a bat.”
Alec put his hands on his hips, pondering her statement. “Is there a reason why you must be a bat?”
“I must hear. Leave me alone.”
His brows drew together in puzzlement and he passed Toby a glance. His younger brother was watching Jubil with his usual fascination. “How long has she been like this?”
Toby shook his head. “I was up before sunrise and she was in this state when I happened upon her. Shall I summon your wife?”
Alec cocked an eyebrow. “Why? She shall simply become irritated,” he moved away from Jubil, his gaze lingering on the older woman. “Leave her be. Make sure the servants do not disturb her.”
Jubil heard the door close, and the faded blue eyes opened slowly. She stared into the emptiness of the room a moment, her mind cloaked with the venom of the monkshade.
“I must hear the danger approaching,” she muttered feebly, for her ears alone. “I must be aware.”
*
Under the command of his sergeants, the bailey seemed to be running smoothly enough. Men were manning the battlements as he had commanded and he was pleased to see that, so far, there were no wrinkles in his operation.
A harried groom approached him to announce that his Saracen stallion had endured a rough night and went on to suggest the addition of ale to the animal’s water to calm him. Alec agreed, intending to administer the liquor himself, when a burly man approached him and bowed deeply.
“My lord?” he addressed timidly.
Alec fixed the man with his customary emotionless gaze. “Who are you?”
The man bowed profusely. He was a big man, with thinning reddish hair and small green eyes. “I am John Todd, the master brewer. I understand that the Lady Peyton returned last eve.”
“My wife has indeed returned,” Alec eyed the man with a degree of respect. “Is there a problem with the stores?”
“Nay, my lord, no problem to speak of,” John assured him.
“But there is a batch of pale ale that is already ripe. Lady Peyton’s approval is required.”
Alec studied the man a moment longer as the weary groom still hovered beside him restlessly. “My wife will come to see you shortly. I shall summon her myself.”
The master brewer bowed again. “Thank you, my lord, thank you.”
When the fat man waddled away, Alec returned his attention the stable hand. “Let’s tend to my vicious beast, shall we?”
The groom scurried after the long-legged master. “Vicious, indeed, my lord. He has nearly taken off my hand. Twice!”
Alec raised a disapproving eyebrow. “The first time should have been enough to warn you off. He is not to be trifled with.”
“I was attempting to feed him, my lord,” the groom replied with a touch of droll sarcasm.
Alec did not respond as they passed through an arched gateway in the wall and on to the protected stables.
*
In spite of her long and strenuous night, Peyton arose shortly after Alec had left her.
Taking her time, she bathed leisurely and dressed in a persimmon-colored surcoat that was nearly the exact color of her hair.
Gathering her considerable mane of curls, she tied them loosely at the nape of her neck and went about with her plans for the day. And she had a load of them.
Driving the servants like a Roman emperor, she proceeded to have all of her father’s items removed from the master wardrobe and replaced with Alec’s things.
Several strapping male servants brought in another wardrobe to house her possessions.
The huge bed that had belonged to her father was stripped of its bedclothes and taken outside to be cleaned and re-stuffed with layers of straw and feathers.
The more that was accomplished, the more she decided needed to be done.
The upper floor of St. Cloven turned into a clutter of displaced furniture and other items as the servants set about scrubbing floors and washing rugs and portieres at Lady Peyton’s direction.
But they were used to her dictatorial rule; she was an accomplished chatelaine and having been away from her home for so long strengthened her resolve to restore its perfection.
With a new master in their midst, and a powerful one, the servants of St. Cloven were pleased to do her bidding.
Returning from the stables, Alec could see the cleaning commotion even from a distance and correctly assumed his wife to be at the head of it. With a faint grin, he made his way inside.
Peyton was standing in the middle of the upstairs corridor, expressing concern over the wearability of a particular woolen rug. He moved up behind her silently, only to grasp her firmly about the waist and plant a loud kiss on the nape of her luscious neck.
She started with surprise, but immediately relaxed into a radiant smile as he wound his thick arms around her torso and buried his face in her hair.
“Who is it?” she asked innocently.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Pray, Lady Summerlin, who else would greet you as I have just done?”
She pretended to think and he swatted her bottom with a trencher-sized hand. Laughing, Peyton whirled away from him as if to escape his wrath.
“No one has ever greeted me in that fashion, husband. Only you.”
He rested his fists on his narrow hips. “Well and good for you,” his gaze lingered on the hall in disarray. “What goes on here?”
“Cleaning,” she told him. “I would make sure that your new keep is perfect.”
He slanted her a glance. “With you residing within its walls, it could be nothing less.”
She smiled prettily and lowered her gaze. He closed the distance between them, cupping her dainty chin in his hand. “Did you sleep well?”
She nodded. “Well enough. You were certainly up early.”
“I had several things to attend to, and still more duties await me. But I wanted to bid you a pleasant morn.”
She wrapped her arms around his thick neck and he lifted her off the floor with the power of his embrace.
Sweet, lingering kisses filled the silence between them until Peyton shifted in his arms and he reluctantly allowed her to slide to her feet.
As much as she would have liked to have relented to his fevered lips, she had more pressing things to attend to. And she fully intended to involve him.
“I would ask a favor before you return to your tasks,” she took his hand and led him down the hall.
She took him to the chamber where she kept her paintings, the moody room awash with color and sorrow.
Understandably, he was a bit wary, for their last visit to this room had resulted in a bitter argument.
Moreover, it was the room where she kept reminders of her love gone by.
Alec did not want to see of her love for another man.
The moment they entered the room, the black tides of jealousy swept him.
His eyes avoided the brilliant displays of his wife’s talent, instead, focusing on the broken joust pole in the corner.
Somehow, he could visualize the strong young knight who had wielded the pole, a man who had kissed his wife, who had once been betrothed to her.
The faded yellow and white colors of Sir James Deveraux took shape, molding into a vision of the fair-haired man who should have been standing in Alec’s stead. Alec was glad he was dead.
Aye, he was glad. As selfish and distasteful as it was to be thankful for another’s demise, he was nonetheless grateful.
Had James survived his bout in Norwich, Alec would have never come to know the woman who had very quickly become the center of his world.
He would have never known complete joy, or madness, sometimes one and the same. He would have never loved her.
Aye, he loved her.
The thought crept upon him so gently that he was not startled by it.
In fact, he couldn’t remember when he hadn’t loved her.
Gazing at his wife’s red head as she moved across the room, he felt full of his feelings.
They were subtle, yet so powerful that he couldn’t remember when they hadn’t been an integral part of his life.
More than ever before, she meant the world to him.
But his love would never be returned. She had already informed him of that fact. Watching her move across the room, he hoped to summon the bravery to tell her of his feelings one day. One day when he was prepared for the biting sting of her rejection.
Peyton disrupted him from his train of thought when she stopped just shy of the twisted joust pole. When she turned to him, the smile was gone from her face.
“Would…. would you please remove these for me? I am afraid a servant would hurt himself on the broken pole. You are the only one qualified to handle it.”