Chapter Twelve
Although he was indeed even more handsome in the daylight, sporting his new hairstyle and clean jaw, Alys thought Piers looked unwell the next day.
She knew he had likely stayed up long after she was asleep, considering his newly arrived at decision to let her accompany him all the way to London and perhaps aid his plight with the king, so perhaps it was only fatigue that she saw.
She hoped so. But it had been she who needed remind him of eating the last of their food before they started out once again on their long journey, and Piers had done little more than nibble at a small piece of apple before shoving the uneaten portion into his pack.
She felt a strange coolness from him, and it didn’t stem from his lack of conversation.
She could feel him, in the way she’d felt Etheldred Cobb’s shame, the way she sensed that she must rescue Layla.
Alys’s mother had once told her long ago that there was a way in her family blood, of sensing certain things other people could not discern.
Some might call it witchcraft, Amicia had warned her, and advised that it was best not to announce her talent.
But Alys’s mother had also instructed her to heed these feelings, and cultivate a notice of them.
Alys had never given the idea much thought.
But as she now trudged along the forest floor behind Piers, she tried to sharpen her awareness of him—something she’d not done before in more than a purely superficial manner.
Her steps fell in rhythm, the crunching leaves became a sort of heartbeat, her breath like ocean waves, rising and falling, rising and falling.
He was clear in her sight—his broad back swaying with his steps, his pack bouncing, his head performing a choreographed dance of looking in turn down at the way before him and then left and right, always alert for anyone following them.
And as she stared at him, although his form was crisp and clear, the areas of her peripheral vision began to blur out.
She stared for a long, long time, until at last she saw a light around him—yellow, but not the sweet gold of sunlight.
It was more akin to smear of old mustard, and where it lined his body, it darkened to a fungus green.
And instead of radiating from him in sharp, brilliant points, the light was rippled, like heat.
Alys blinked, and her vision cleared, although now her heart beat faster and her stomach clenched.
Was he ill? She wasn’t certain.
“Piers,” she called, her voice high-pitched and breaking from fear and disuse.
He glanced over his shoulder at her in answer.
“Could we stop for a moment, please?”
He kept walking. “Do you need the bushes?”
“No. I need to talk to you.”
“Walking has never prevented you from doing that before.”
“Yes, but I need to look at you while I do it,” she insisted. “It’s important.”
“You can look at me when we stop. Perhaps another hour. It looks to rain soon any matter, and we’ll need make camp early.” She could hear the frustration in his voice and something else, a weariness, perhaps.
And Alys was bone-cold—the air she breathed into her lungs felt loaded with ice crystals. The day was frigid. If any precipitation fell on them, it could be nothing other than snow—being a man of a farm, surely he of all people realized that.
She frowned. “Alright, Piers. In an hour then.”
He walked on without reply.
She needed to look at him, yes, but perhaps it was better that they make camp first. The farther along they were, the better chance they had of coming across a village of some sort for supplies.
Her knowledge of the countryside surrounding Fallstowe had run out just past the little village of Pilings, and she had no idea now where they were or how far away London lay.
She did know that they would be needing more food, of course, and if Piers was ill as she suspected, perhaps herbs, a potion—she didn’t know.
Cecily was the sister learned in the healing arts.
Alys knew little about caring for the sick, save that they needed a soft bed and a warm hearth and Cecily Foxe—none of which were at her disposal, or even within reach.
Perhaps for the first time in her life, there was truly no one for Alys to call on save herself.
Alys had the dreadful feeling that wherever they stopped for the night, Piers would not be able to leave, for a while at least. Until he got better, of course. He would certainly get better.
She concentrated on him once again as she worked her legs like machines, telling herself that the green color close to his body was simply a very dark shade of green now, and not black.
Not black.
The voices were coming to him again for the first time in days, whispering in his ear with a vividness that was frightening. Piers fancied he could feel Judith Angwedd’s cold breath against his sweaty neck.
Filthy, dirty, foul little beast! Your whore mother burns in hell.
Piers’s head whipped to the left—surely his stepmother must be hiding behind that tree.
But no—no one peeked around the trunk at him. Only moss and dead-brown vines.
Hit him again! The voice echoed and was so loud, Piers winced at the bright pain it caused. Again, Bevan!
“Stop!” He tried to shout, but to his horror the word came out as little more than a whimper. His eyes felt as though they were bleeding and he swiped a hand across his face. He looked down at his palm and saw that it was wet.
Bloody hell, he was hot. And the bandage covering his fingers was damp with yellow and brown stains. Fucking Layla …
“Piers?” He heard Alys call to him from leagues away, it seemed. He glanced over his shoulder at her, noticing with dread how little range his neck had with the pain. His head swam and he looked forward once more lest he fall over his own feet.
You are my only heir.
“Piers, it’s been more than an hour,” she called faintly. “I do think we should stop—you don’t look well. Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine.” He tried to make his voice carry back to her, strong and certain. Each word caused his vision to pulse, the wood around him bulging with heat. “Just a bit farther.”
My son, my son!
He looked around him, trying to evaluate their surroundings as to suitability for camp, but he couldn’t seem to make sense of anything.
There were only trees … and he could not discern forest floor from trunk or slope or rock.
How far away was the road from where they walked?
They should have come across one of Gillwick’s rock walls by now, and the barn would not be far beyond.
How far had they come? Where was that bastard, blistering sun hiding?
Spill his brains onto the ground …
Bevan is no brother to you, Piers …
“Piers, I … I think I do have need of some bushes now.”
Are you certain he’s dead? Hit him again …
My son, my only son! Can you ever forgive me?
“Piers!”
“Shut up!” Piers screamed, coming to a swaying halt and gripping his head in both hands. He fell to his knees. “All of you, just … shut up!” His breath roared in and out of him, sounding like great slides of rock down a mountainside. The ground seemed to undulate before his eyes.
He couldn’t pass out. The cows needed to be brought in for the night still, and there had been reports of wolves north of Gillwick.
The beasts were lazy in the height of summer, and he could usually frighten them away with a rock or two.
Yes, he might need to keep watch, keep them safe.
And Alys would need a place to sleep where Bevan would not find her …
“Piers?” Her slippers came into view, shifting the damp leaves in fuzzy slow motion.
“It’s alright,” Piers said, and his words sounded slurred. “Just give me a moment, Alys. I have work to do. Wait for me in the mew.” He would gladly share his pallet with Alys, but that damned monkey would have to bed elsewhere.
Then her face was before his, her neck bent so that she could look up at him, and her fingers were like rounded icicles stroking his cheeks and forehead.
“My God, you’re burning up!”
“Be cooler once the sun sets,” he promised her, the spoiled girl, used as she was to her dark, stone castle. She’d never make a proper farm wife, but she was so pretty and fiery …
“There is no sun, Piers—and it’s starting to snow,” he heard her say as if she was moving away from him. But that couldn’t be, because he could feel her hands gripping his arms, taking his pack from his shoulders.
“My ring,” he mumbled, and tried to swipe at his bag, but the woman had the speed of a minx, darting away from him in a blur. “It’s all I have.”
“It’s alright,” she placated, and was half pulling him back against something solid. Where did she find a bed so soft to bring him? Was she so wealthy that she could conjure furniture from raw wood?
“You have me.” She framed his face with her frozen palms. “Just rest here—I’ll start a fire.”
“No,” he struggled to sit up, but was unsuccessful. “No fire. Too close to the road.” The wolves would find them, and he hadn’t brought the cows in yet. His father would be so disappointed.
“I have no earthly idea where the road is, but I don’t think it’s close.” Her voice faded in and out as she seemed to move away and then near again. “I think we’ve gone somewhat off course.”
He realized his eyes were closed, and tried to open them.
It was not safe to sleep with Bevan skulking about.
Little Alys bloomed into vision, her sweet brow crinkled, her pink lips in a thin line as she clumsily piled twigs atop each other.
She dug in his bag rudely, eventually pulling out his flint and steel and a bit of tinder, dropping everything twice as she tried to work the tools.
“You’ll burn yourself,” Piers slurred, marveling at the softness beneath his head now. He was enjoying watching her move, and the pain in his head was only a dumb, numb memory.
“Shh,” she chastised.
Piers chuckled. So stubborn. His eyes closed. He struggled to open them again, and when he succeeded he saw dancing flames. How long had he slept? It seemed only an instant. He was confused. And cold, now. So cold.
He looked down and saw that his legs had been covered by the bulk of Alys’s blue perse gown. The dusting of snow across his lap shifted, and the monkey poked her head from beneath the cloth near his chest.
“W-whaddo you w-want?” Piers challenged through his chattering teeth. “G-geddoff.”
“You’re keeping each other warm.” Alys’s face was before his again as she crouched before him. Her cheeks were cream and poppies, her breath little white clouds in the night with the fire behind her.
When had night fallen?
“Here, have a drink.” She pushed the lip of the jug against his teeth and turned it up. The water was wet and delicious as it flooded down his hot and tight throat.
She set the jug on her knee. “Piers, I can’t find the road,” Alys said. “Do you know where we are?”
Piers frowned. He concentrated on her face, hoping it would remind him. “G-gillwick?”
Her lips grew thinner. He didn’t like the look of Alys distressed. She was always so carefree.
“Try to remember,” she said. “You’re very ill, Piers, and I must try to find a village or travelers on the road or something. You must try to help me decide in which direction to go.”
“No. C-can’t leave,” Piers insisted. “B-Bevan find you. Or the wolves.”
“There are no wolves, Piers. I have to find someone to help us. Can you think at all where we might be?”
His memories all boiled together place and time.
Gillwick, the abbey where the monk had taken him, the Foxe Ring, the river, the road to London.
He couldn’t put them in correct order. He thought and thought, so hard that his head almost started to hurt and so he stopped. “We’re not to London yet, are we?”
“No. No, we’re not.” She drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly through her lips. “Alright. Listen to me: I’m going in a straight line the direction I think is south. If I find nothing in an hour, I’ll come straight back. I’ve built the fire so that your location is quite visible.”
“No,” Piers argued.
“Yes. I need all the help I can get in the dark. And perhaps God will hear my prayers and someone will find you before I return.”
“If Bevan … he’ll kill me,” Piers croaked.
“If no one finds us, I’m afraid you’ll die any matter,” she said levelly.
He stared at her, realizing a moment of clarity as her face blurred in and out of his vision. It was too dangerous for her to go, but he knew he could not stop her. And he knew that he was quite ill.
He tried to smile. “Sorry … terrible husband.”
She peered at him for a moment and then her lips curved upward softly. “You are a fine husband. You have taken such care of me, now it is my turn to try to do the same for you. You need me, Piers, and I will not fail you.”
Her words struck him somewhere deep within his feverish body, and he tried to swallow. She was planning to walk south …
“Don’t go,” he whispered. He could barely find the strength to move his lips now.
“It will be fine,” she insisted. “You’ll get well and we’ll gain London just in time. You’ll see.” She leaned forward and pressed her warm lips to his cheek for a long moment. When she leaned back, there were tears in her eyes.
“Don’t,” he said again, his words little more than formed breath.
“Take care of him, Layla. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Two hours at most.”
And then she was gone, the black night and the cold, blowing snow rushing in to fill the void she had left.
“Alys,” he whispered into the wind. “Alys, the road is north …”