Chapter Two
Every bone in Piers Mallory’s body ached as he trudged up yet another hillock in the dark, wet night. Perhaps, as the monk had warned him, he was not yet well enough to travel. His wounds were not completely healed, and even now, Piers’s head throbbed so that his stomach roiled.
Spill his brains onto the ground! I want to see them seep from his skull and wash downstream, the filthy bastard-beggar!
He paused, blinked painfully against the pressure of the woman’s shrill voice, swallowed. He could all but taste the green water of the River Arrow on the back of his throat once more. Thankfully, he did not vomit again. So, indeed, perhaps he was not yet well.
He began to walk slowly once more. London seemed very far from his vantage point over nothing more than his own two feet, and he must reach the King’s Bench in a fortnight. If he did not, Bevan would win Gillwick Manor.
Bevan is no brother to you, Piers.
His father’s words were quieter, but the torment they inflicted was no less severe and so he had to stop again—the pain was threatening to turn his insides out.
He was certain he could move more quickly if only he could stop reliving that hell-filled night over and over again inside his bruised brain.
The night his father had died. The night Piers himself had nearly lost his own life.
The memories squeezed so, twisted, in his head and in his guts.
Why, Father? Why now do you weep?
My son, my son! Can you ever forgive me?
The night went red behind his eyelids, and Piers thought for a moment that he might pass out.
But then a heavy fog rolled through the valley and misted his already damp neck with a sweet coolness.
The red faded slowly, the pounding behind his eyes lessened enough so that he could open them once more.
He straightened with care, and onward he went, the hateful voices gamely giving chase.
Slovenly peasant! Son of a whore! Nasty little bastard! Someone ought kill you in your sleep!
His stepmother, the conniving Judith Angwedd, would be at court as well, of course.
How she had terrified him as a child, barring him from even sleeping inside his mother’s humble cottage.
She had done everything in her wicked power to be certain that Piers never saw Gillwick again.
She and Bevan thought him dead even now.
But Piers lived. He lived, and he walked.
To London, in the night, where he would not be discovered by any who could report to Judith Angwedd.
Time when he could heal, and think, and plan the exact moment when he would appear in Edward’s court and make his claim for Gillwick.
When he would at last stand before his half—nay, not half.
When he would stand before his stepbrother, look him in the eye as an equal.
And then Piers thought he might kill Bevan Mallory.
Perhaps with a blade. Or perhaps with his bare hands, as Bevan had tried to do to Piers.
All the years of Piers’s life, he had denied himself of his revenge on the man he had known as his brother.
No matter how belittling Bevan had been, how cruel.
How quick to point out to Piers at every opportunity the life that Bevan enjoyed and that was denied to Piers.
Piers had never retaliated. But now, he thought he might savor the moment when Bevan’s evil soul departed his body.
Piers would laugh and laugh and laugh … perhaps until he was mad with it.
Or perhaps Piers was already mad.
But now he was simply tired. So tired, and hurting.
Ahead in the foggy gloom, he could see the skeletal ruins of some old keep.
Unless he had truly lost his mental capabilities, the decrepit standing ring rising to the foreground in silhouette against a jagged, crumbling central tower indicated he had arrived at the old Foxe family hold.
From village gossip, Piers knew the great Fallstowe castle was nearly an hour away by foot, and he was certain that none from the keep would be about the grounds at this hour in the damp cold.
He looked at the sky, the fat, white moon little more than an impression behind thin, high clouds, then back to the ancient remains.
A chill kissed each droplet of sweat on his forehead.
Were he a superstitious man, he might fear the old place, rumored to be magic.
But Piers Mallory did not believe in magic.
Or miracles, or tales of wild people living in the forests, or unicorns.
He no longer believed that right always triumphed, or that perseverance made you strong—it only made you weary.
He harbored no faith in a benevolent maker, and therefore no fear of demons.
And so he would rest at the old Foxe Ring. He would rest, and then tomorrow, he would march again.
Are you certain he’s dead? Hit him again.
“Oh, I will be certain, Judith,” Piers muttered aloud as he climbed the last hillock leading up to the ruin. “I will be quite certain he is dead.”
Alys passed the lonely, still time at the Foxe Ring by alternately crying and shivering on the fallen-down slab of rock in the center of the ring.
She fancied that perhaps it had long ago been used for pagan sacrifices, and she thought how fitting the idea was as gooseflesh overtook her.
She was offering herself up this night, partly in faith, partly in desperation.
Her newly acquired monkey now kept residence with her other quickly gathered possessions inside the drawstring sack, snuggled up against Alys’s belly.
She’d packed a spare amount of clothing, food, and miscellany for herself and the monkey, quite certain that the two of them were hardy enough to spend as many as three nights at the ruin—long enough for Sybilla to feel the shameful pinch of what she’d done and apologize.
But now Alys cried more out of self-pity than anger at her sister.
‘Twas dreadfully cold—much colder than it had seemed when she’d departed Fallstowe through the herders’ gate.
And much colder than she could ever remember being while scurrying about the bailey with her friends in her disobedience to Sybilla.
Alys suspected she’d never really felt the cold then because she had no reason to fear it.
There was always a warm, comfortable shelter only steps away from wherever she chose to adventure and she’d never given a thought to the idea that she might be unable to retreat to a warm haven once she’d felt the desire.
She felt like a fool. Like the child Sybilla accused her of being.
And so she also cried because she knew she would not last longer than morning at the ruin.
She would return to Fallstowe once the gates were open for the day, defeated, humiliated, and likely with Sybilla never even knowing Alys had spent a cold, lonely night at the old keep.
Her defiance had been for naught. Her will, weak.
Perhaps simple, watery, whispery Clement Cobb was her ideal match, after all.
The sack shifted and a small hand poked out of the drawn opening. Alys rose to sit on one hip while she liberated her pet.
“I’ll wager you won’t like it out here any more than in there,” she said ruefully, pushing the sack aside as the monkey clambered up her chest. “‘Tis colder than Sybilla’s frozen heart.”
The monkey clung to Alys’s bodice with warm hands and feet, and tucked its head under her chin.
Alys sniffed and then sighed. “What are we to do then, little monkey?” She paused, tucked her chin to look down at the small, pink face. “Hmm. I can’t continue calling you Monkey, now can I? ‘Tis what that dreadful, nasty, ugly witch called you. Let’s have a good look at you.”
Alys held the animal away from her for a moment, liking the way it curled itself around her hands.
“From the Holy Lands, are you? A girl,” she mused, tucking the animal back into her body when it leaned that way.
And perhaps because of her melancholy, Alys called to mind a sad romance from Persia itself, overheard while listening outside the soldiers’ garrison.
“How do you fancy ‘Layla’?” Alys asked the monkey, feeling very much like old Graves who only ever spoke in questions. The monkey didn’t try to bite her, so she took that as agreement. “Very well, then. You shall hereby be known as Layla. A fine choice, and my congratulations to you.”
That important detail resolved, Alys now appraised the ring of stones tossed seemingly haphazardly around her, trying to keep her mind off of the incessant shivering of her body.
Still no heavenly glow from any of the towering gray pillars, no ethereal music, no shimmering voice of wisdom calling to her through the ages, heralding the arrival of her true love.
The fabled Foxe Ring was no magic place, after all.
Yet another thing Sybilla had been right about.
Alys had been in the very center of the frigid circle for ages it seemed, the moon lighting her like a beacon, and the only visitor she’d received was some sort of nocturnal animal scurrying out of sight in the ruined keep’s interior.
It seemed everyone in the land had either tried the Foxe Ring, or knew someone who’d used it, as a last desperate act to find love, and all the stories had told of its wise success.
Men and women, brought together alone within the circle of standing stones upon a full moon were fated for a lifetime of love together.
So respected was the belief that many couples who met in the Foxe Ring never even bothered with an official ceremony.
They entered the ring alone, but they departed a couple, for the rest of their lives and even into eternity, if the tales were to be believed fully.
The ring had brought her own mother and father together, and so Alys did believe, God help her foolish, girlish heart.