Chapter Seven #2
Alys opened her mouth but then quickly closed it again, confused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Was it a cushion? A rope? Her bare hands?” He sat up fully now, engaged and animated. “Bevan tried to hang me from the loft once when we were young, but the rope was too thin—old and rotted—and it snapped before I passed out.”
Alys was horrified. “What are you talking about?”
“Your sister smothering you,” Piers said.
“I don’t mean she actually tried to kill me!” Alys cried. “My God, what kind of—” Alys stopped abruptly. “Wait! You said Bevan. Bevan Mal—you work a dairy! Bevan Mallory is your stepbrother?”
“You said she tried to smother you!” Piers accused. “You meant only that your sister wouldn’t give over to your every whim, didn’t you?”
“No! Well, perhaps I should have used ‘stifle’ rather than ‘smother,’ but—Bevan Mallory tried to kill you? More than once?”
“This conversation is over,” Piers growled. He turned away from her and lay down.
“I disagree,” Alys said, scrambling to his side. “Is Bevan the one who gave you the marks you now bear?”
“Go to sleep, Alys.”
“How can I? Is Judith Angwedd your mother?”
He whipped around so quickly that Alys jumped. “Don’t ever dare to compare Judith Angwedd to my mother!”
“I wasn’t comparing them—I don’t know!”
Piers flopped back onto his side.
Alys’s eyes narrowed and her mind whirred. “If Judith Angwedd isn’t your mother, then your father would be Warin Mallory.” She frowned. “But, no, you said ‘stepbrother,’ and Bevan is Warin Mallory’s only son, so—”
“Don’t be so certain,” Piers growled.
“But that’s just it—I’m not certain at all!” Alys slapped her palms onto her thighs, and Layla took it as an invitation. Alys gathered the small animal to her bosom. “It is a long way to London, Piers. Can you not confide in me the tiniest bit?”
He was still and silent for so long, that Alys was nearly resigned to the idea that he would not answer her. When he did speak, his words conveyed no satisfying resolution.
“You may as well try to get some rest. We’ll be off not long after sunrise.”
“But—”
“Good night, Alys.”
She sighed, her lips pressed tightly together. After a moment, she reached over to snag the bundled perse gown, Layla clinging to her front, and stuffed the makeshift pillow against the rock next to Piers’s. She lay down on her side close to him, the monkey snuggled between.
He raised up slightly and turned his face to look at her over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to get some rest, as you commanded,” she snapped. “‘Tis cold, Piers. I know you’d likely prefer I freeze to death, but I rather enjoy living.”
He laid back down. “You’re young. Give it time.”
“You are the most cynical person I believe I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
His shoulders jerked, and for an instant, Alys thought he might have chuckled. “I shall take it as one any matter.”
* * *
Everyone was gone from Fallstowe’s great hall now in the smallest hours of the morning, save for Judith Angwedd and Clement Cobb.
The disgustingly lavish hall had been a flurry of grim activity up until several moments ago, with her highness, Sybilla Foxe, organizing a thorough brigade of soldiers to search for the youngest Foxe girl, Alys.
And Piers, Judith Angwedd thought to herself with a smile.
The most powerful house in England was now to do Judith Angwedd’s work for her.
Lady Sybilla herself—that rich, cold, pompous bitch—had been quite clear that should her men find Piers Mallory in possession of her sister, his life would be forfeit.
Delightful!
The Fallstowe soldiers were on the trail, commanded in no uncertain terms to search every road, every wood, every rough animal path for sign of the little wayward princess.
Judith Angwedd hoped the soldiers found two cold, dead, scavenger-gnawed bodies—‘twould serve Sybilla Foxe justice for treating the lady of Gillwick and her fine son so poorly. But that was only the beginning.
With the chore of finding the bastard Piers delegated nicely, Judith and Bevan would soon carry on to London, to pay homage to Edward and once and for all secure their hold on Gillwick Manor, whose lands very soon after would more than double in size.
And while they were in audience with the king, Judith Angwedd would be sure to bestow upon Edward any detailed morsel that might aid him in knocking Sybilla Foxe from her lofty, self-appointed throne.
Before they were off though, she would enjoy Fallstowe Castle’s luxuries and have herself a spot of fun, since Phineas had been left behind at Gillwick.
She approached the distraught Clement, sitting at a common table, his fine, white hair falling over his fingers where they grasped his head. His narrow shoulders were hunched, the perfect figure of despair. She placed her palms near his neck and squeezed lightly.
“Sweet, young Clement,” she cooed. “My darling, you must not mourn so. It saddens me to no end to see you in such pain.”
“My Alys, my angel!” he cried in a strangled voice. “She is alone out there, with that … that—”
“Low-born killer, yes,” Judith Angwedd said lightly, and she smiled while she said it because Clement could not see her.
She sat down next to him on the bench, facing away from the table and letting her hand trail down his arm to his elbow.
“And, as troubling as it is to think, we must all prepare for the very, very worst.”
Clement whimpered.
Judith Angwedd sighed toward the vaulted ceiling. “A young girl such as Alys—innocent, trusting—she stands no chance against a base criminal such as Piers. She is likely already dead.”
There was a muffled cry from the vicinity of Clement’s hands.
Judith Angwedd turned on her hip to wrap her arms around Clement’s shoulders.
“Oh, but my darling, you must not mourn your own life away! You are so young yet, Clement—my sweet, comely Clement! You will marry another and put this sadness behind you.” She pressed her lips to his hair, kissed him and then whispered, “Oh Clement, I adore you so—and your kind and gentle mother, my dear, dear friend! How I regret to have played a part in your distress.”
“You have shown great honor, Lady Judith, and courage to come to Fallstowe with your warning,” Clement whispered. “We are all in your debt.”
“Perhaps,” Judith Angwedd acquiesced lightly. “But I feel so very guilty, lovely Clement. Would that I could comfort you in your sorrow!” She stroked his hair, pulled him closer, her breasts pressing into his arm. “A widow such as myself, I am most familiar with loneliness and heartbreak.”
He turned into her embrace, as she’d known he would, and Judith Angwedd pressed her lips to both his damp cheeks. “You must not mourn for poor Alys, who is surely dead and cold and stiff now. You must live, Clement!” She kissed his mouth. “Live!”
He leaned into her and kissed her, his mouth wet and eager, his tongue snaking thickly past her teeth. Judith Angwedd moaned deep in her throat.
But then he pushed her away with a cry. “Oh, I dishonor the memory of her, my betrothed, my sweet and innocent beloved!”
Judith Angwedd pulled him back to her roughly. “She would not wish for you to be alone this night, Clement. Not her greatest love, alone and weeping. She would want this, want your friend to comfort you. Let me, Clement. Let me.” She drew his face to hers again, and he did let her.
And a moment later, he let her pull up her gown and mount his lap in Fallstowe’s darkened great hall, sitting on a bench at one of the common tables. He let her, until he cried out her name and it echoed off the stones.