Chapter Eight
Piers had never gained so much insight from someone he was doing his best to ignore.
All the long day they had walked, breaking camp early that morning when the sunlight was only a silver sliver on the horizon through the crowding, skeletal gray trees, the fog of his breath hanging solid in the frozen air.
Alys Foxe had awoken cross and tightlipped, perhaps still feeling the sting of his rebuff from before they had gone to sleep.
After a pair of hours though, she was back to her usual loquacious self, commenting on this or that, relating various bits of gossip from her noble circle of acquaintances, slyly phrasing questions to Piers, to which he remained steadfastly silent.
Then she would grow piqued at his lack of response and let him be for the next hour.
But it was not long before she was chattering again.
And Piers was finding it increasingly difficult to not answer her.
Without any interrogation of his own at all, he was learning quite a lot about the youngest Foxe sister, and to his dismay, he was beginning to wonder if she was as shallow and silly as he had first thought.
Her remarks were witty and well formed. Her opinions substantial.
It was unsettling.
For as much as Piers was determined to keep a mental if not physical distance from the wayward lady, his psyche was being increasingly pulled toward her.
She was enchanting, engaging, and quite intelligent.
There had never been anyone in Piers’s life—noble or otherwise—who had wanted to speak with him at such length.
And her chatter had the added benefit of occupying his mind to thoughts other than his throbbing, burning fingers or the dangerous pair who hunted him.
For an instant—and just that most fleeting instant—Piers wondered what it would be like between them should he and Alys Foxe be of similar station.
He laughed darkly at himself. Even were they of equal rank, she would not so much as glance his direction in his current state—filthy dirty, scarred and still bandaged in spots.
She was obviously a lover of tales, was her monkey’s moniker any indication, and so she likely would think him more akin to monstrous Grendel than brave Beowulf.
He was surly, disrespectful, and had, at times, been physically intimidating to her.
They were not meant to be friends, and that was for her own good whether she realized it or nay.
But that didn’t mean Piers had to continue in the state he was.
He could barely stand himself any longer, and he knew that he had become at least partially accustomed to his odor.
He couldn’t charge into Edward’s court looking like some ghastly beast—his claims would be difficult enough to prove.
Lucky for him, he could hear the rush of the river not far from where they walked.
The road must have wound back to meet it once more.
“We’re crossing the road,” he tossed over his shoulder as he headed to the bank on the left. His voice was gravelly and cracked from disuse.
“Why? Is someone following us?” He heard the slight rise of intrigue and excitement in her words, matched by the increased crunch of the leaves under her foot as she sped up to keep pace with him up the incline.
“That’s the whole point of keeping to the wood, isn’t it?
” He reached the top of the rise and stopped, still in the cover of trees, and held a forefinger behind him, signaling for Alys to be quiet.
He continued in a low voice as he scanned the long dirt avenue as far as his eyes could see in the afternoon light.
“I believe the river is just over the far side.”
“Of course it is,” she replied brightly, and, Piers thought, a bit loudly.
He frowned and brought his finger to his lips.
She complied by speaking next in an exaggerated whisper.
“We’re nearly upon the village of Pilings.
Were we to continue on, we’d run straight into the butcher. He’s at the river’s edge.”
“Pilings?” he asked. At her game nod, he winced. “Terrible name for a village, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But they are known for their pork.”
“I see.” Piers squatted down next to the packed surface of the road, both to stretch his tight muscles and to listen a moment longer.
He heard nothing but the hollow wind, the rush of nearby water, the whisper and creak of the winter trees.
He stood. “I hope for their sake that they’ve brought their pigs in to shelter for the night, for if I see one rooting about the leaves, I shall have his side meat for my supper. Come on.”
They crossed the road at a run. Once they were safely to the other side and into the wood proper once more, Alys spoke.
“We could wait for nightfall then go into the village and steal one.”
He looked sideways at her, and couldn’t help his snort of laughter. “Steal a pig? Have you any idea how difficult they are to catch?”
“The piglets, yes. But a full grown one is a bit harder to miss.”
Then he truly laughed. “I’d like to see you try to steal a six hundred pound pig. They’d find your little flattened body under one the next morn and then throw you in a beggar’s grave for a thief.”
“Is that so?” she said haughtily.
“It is.” He stopped at the broken edge of earth that capped a steep ravine down to the churning water. No getting down this way lest he wished to be drowned. Piers turned to his right and began to walk south once more, Alys following him, obviously quite offended.
“You underestimate me, husband. You think I can’t do anything save for lie about and be waited on.”
“Stop calling me husband. And I do believe you can do more than lie about and be waited on.”
“You do?” He heard the shock in her voice.
“Yes. Well, not useful things, such as outfitting yourself properly for a journey, or listening to reason, but you’re actually quite good at walking.”
A clod of wet dirt whisked past his left ear to sail harmlessly into the ravine below.
“You certainly have terrible aim, so no future at all in archery.” Piers felt his spirits lifting merely through the act of speaking aloud.
It was rather enjoyable to spar with Alys Foxe.
He spied a path down the ravine wall. “Here we are.” And he dropped down over the side with what he himself even thought of as a rather spry hop, leaving Alys to get down through her own devices.
“Ooph! Oh, hold on, Layla! Why are we going to the river again?”
“I need water,” was all Piers was willing to disclose as his feet touched the wet and pebbled strip of ground at the river’s edge.
His spirits lifted even further when he spotted the rocky overhang ahead of them, perhaps a third of the way back up the ravine.
It would be a perfect shelter for the night—no one looking down from the road would be able to see them.
The clouds blanketing the whole of the dark gray sky looked heavy—‘twas likely to rain, or perhaps even snow should it grow colder.
They would at least stay dry, if not completely warm.
“We’ll camp up there,” he called to Alys over his shoulder, and pointed toward the overhang as he walked past.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll be back.”
“Oh, I think not,” he heard her mutter. He glanced behind him and saw her hurrying along the river bank at his heels.
He stopped. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not. You can’t.”
“Yes, I can. You’re not leaving me here alone. I’m not a complete idiot, Piers.”
“What are you talking about? I said I’d be back.”
“The oldest trick in the history of trickery!” she cried. “Don’t think I haven’t realized how early in the day it is to be making camp. You think to abandon me here while you go on your merry way with enough daylight to get as much distance between us as possible. Voila! No more Alys.”
“That isn’t my plan at all,” Piers said, and he meant it.
But actually, her idea was a rather good one, and Piers wondered why he hadn’t come up with it himself.
What better way to be rid of her than to just walk away into the woods on other pretenses and never return?
She’d not realize she’d been abandoned for a good hour, and Piers knew he could run a fair distance in that amount of time, even with his whole hand now aching and itching.
“You can’t follow me,” he continued. “It’s a … private matter.”
Her eyes narrowed for a moment and then she flushed as she caught his meaning. Or the meaning he meant for her to catch. Let her think he meant to go find a nice comfortable log over which to move his bowels.
But then her face went suspicious again. “I don’t believe you.”
“I give you my word, I shall return.”
“Not good enough,” she said. He noted her eyes roving over his body and then she smiled. “Leave your bag as ransom.”
“What?”
“Your pack. Leave it with me so that I will be certain of your return.”
He rolled his eyes but then began to shrug out of his shoulder straps.
He swung the bag in front of him and thrust his hand under the flap to find his only other clothing, the rough linen shirt he’d been wearing when Bevan had attacked him.
Although the tears had been inexpertly mended by his savior, the old monk, the raggedy thing was stained a horrible brown from Piers’s own blood, even after being boiled at the abbey.
“Oh, no,” she said and then before he could stop her, she had snatched the bag from his grasp, his shirt stretched between his fist and the pack. “If whatever you’re searching for is that important, you’ll return for it.”
He frowned at her and considered taking the bag back by force.
He also considered strangling her. But the first would only assure him that he would be followed and have an audience for his bath, and he was not capable of the second, although right at that moment he was quite willing. So he simply jerked his shirt free.