Chapter Seventeen #2
“Think naught of it,” Ella said, returning her attention to her chore. “It will be a grand feast to see the two of you off. I’m certain we’ll all remember this evening for many years to come.”
Alys ducked out of the hut, her brow furrowed, her confidence more shaken than it had ever been. What kind of woman was Lady Alys Foxe?
Or, perhaps more importantly, what kind of woman did she want to be?
Piers finished dressing in his clothes that Linny had cleaned for him. He felt almost like himself again.
At least he thought he did. He wasn’t quite sure who he was anymore.
In the span of little more than one month, he’d been a motherless, half-noble bastard; orphaned; married; and then discovered he had a grandfather.
A living grandfather, who was at once mean as hell on a summer’s day, sharp as any learned scholar, and generous as though he were the richest man in the land.
That Alys had gone in search of help and found Ira was more than just a coincidence that had saved Piers’s life.
She had given him another chance at saving Gillwick from Judith Angwedd and Bevan, true, but she had also given him something that he had, for all purposes, never had in his life: family.
Someone he shared a blood bond with, a history.
Ira was his mother’s father, and through him, Piers was beginning to know the woman who had left him so long ago.
Family. Something that Alys took for granted, and something Piers would not let her forsake.
Not for him, for what she thought she felt for him, not for anything.
Alys needed her family. And she would be a fool to disobey the Foxe matriarch in her wishes for Alys to marry.
The opportunities that Alys’s family ties would present to her and her future children were too many and too great for Piers to let her throw it all away with idyllic dreams of becoming a dairy farmer’s wife. She deserved more than that.
He would tell her tonight about Ira and his mother and father; tell her that while he still intended to go to London and attempt to secure Gillwick, he would not use Alys or her name to try to sway Edward.
He would tell her that he wanted her to go back to her sisters at Fallstowe. That was all he could do.
He didn’t want to hurt her. In honesty, he didn’t want her to go back to Fallstowe, and he most definitely did not want her to marry Clement Cobb.
There was something about Alys that pulled at his insides.
That twisted his thoughts from their previously logical course.
She was unpredictable and impulsive and reckless.
And passionate and strong and brave. He felt pride at the idea that she could love him, that perhaps there was something worthy of him to love after all.
The best he could hope for was that she would heed his wishes for her to return to her family. She had changed during their adventure together. Piers could easily see that. Perhaps she would listen, this time.
He heard faint drumming below—sounds of the villagers readying for the feast—and then a moment later, Ira called up: “Lad! Are you coming down or nay?”
Piers stepped toward the seam in the skin wall of the house and ducked his head through.
He saw the old man directly below him, his white hair and beard reflecting the dusk-blued snow glowing in the long shadows of the trees.
Deeper into the village, a great fire roared, and Piers could see the black outlines of revelers already engaged in the merrymaking.
Alys was there somewhere, waiting on him.
The woman who could be his wife. Wanted to.
The woman who belonged to someone else. Belonged to another life.
“Only a moment longer,” Piers called to Ira.
“What—does your gown not suit you?”
Piers smiled. “I have to get Alys’s gift.”
“I’ll not wait for such nonsense.”
Piers raised a hand in acknowledgement and ducked back through the wall. He walked to his cot and pulled his pack from underneath. He flipped open the straps and then plunged his hand down inside, digging around for the object with a nervous ripple in his stomach, and then pulling it from the bag.
He’d not had enough time to work on it, he knew. But even had he another week to perfect the carvings, he was no craftsman. He only hoped that she would recognize what he’d intended to create, and that she would like it.
Piers had never given anyone a gift in his life.
He put the thing he had made inside his tunic and walked back to the flap in the tree house wall, where the ladders hung. He climbed down slowly, testing his strength and balance. Both good. He hopped to the ground three rungs high and landed squarely.
“A mite early to be so prideful of yourself, is it not, lad?” Ira had waited on him, despite his earlier threat.
“I’d know the measure of my strength before leaving on the morrow.
” The two men turned and began walking toward the center of the village.
Children ran around and past them on fast feet, their footfalls and laughing shrieks muffled by the deep, packed snow.
It seemed the village was cocooned now, safe from all outsiders.
“Mayhap you should wait a day or more,” Ira suggested brusquely. “You’re just from the sickbed. Would not aid your cause were you to catch croup just outside of London and die. Devil knows that noble woman of yours couldn’t care for you.”
Is she mine though? he wondered to himself.
“She’d do her best,” Piers defended Alys aloud as they neared the bonfire, as big around as one of the ground huts and nearly the height of two grown men.
“I won’t catch croup, any matter, Ira. I’m well now, and rested.
” He paused, wondering how much to admit to the old man before he left, and then decided someone else should know.
“I’ll send Alys back to her family once we gain London. ”
Piers saw the old man’s face turn toward him out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t need to look at him to imagine his shocked expression.
“What of the Foxe Ring?”
“It’s no law.”
“That it’s not,” Ira agreed, rather mildly, Piers thought. “Think you she’ll heed your wishes?”
Piers shrugged. “It’s best for her that she be with her own people. And ‘tis likely she’ll want nothing more to do with me once this is all over.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps not,” Ira mused. “Any matter, ‘tis the smartest thing you’ve said since coming here.”
“She needs be with her family,” Piers repeated. “As do you.” He stopped, and Ira did the same, turning to mirror Piers’s pose. “I want to come back for you when I’m through in London. I want you to return to Gillwick with me.” He glanced toward the bonfire and saw Alys sitting with Tiny.
“I sorely want to, that is the truth. But I can’t leave them, Piers,” he said quietly. “All us here, we’re all we’ve got.”
Piers looked back to Ira. “I know. That’s why I want you all to come back. There is a place for you. If you tell them the truth—that I am your grandson—they will follow you.”
Ira stared at him for a long moment, and then he too, looked away toward the leaping flames, his old face streaking red and orange and black in rhythm with the merry fire.
“It is hard for a man to consider returning to a place that holds such sorrow. And could be, the king will deny you, since you have no proof of Bevan’s true sire, save an old rumor of a birthmark.
‘Twill be that hoary bitch’s word against yours. ”
Piers nodded. He saw Alys wave to him and give him a smile. He raised his hand in reply.
“I’ve seen the mark upon Bevan’s chest myself, so it is not simply an old rumor. But it’s true that I have no proof to compare it to. Should I be denied then, I would like to think that I would be welcome here with you, in your village.”
Ira’s head swiveled back. He stared at Piers and then nodded once, sharply. “Upon your wish, lad. Triumph or defeat. Should you ever desire to make your home with me, it would gladden my heart.”
“And mine,” Piers added gruffly. “So I hope you will consider my offer. Talk to the folk. Think upon it.”
Ira nodded again. “I will.”
Piers reached out an arm and clapped the old man on his bony shoulder. Then he turned to find Alys in the crush of villagers once more. She stood up from where she had been sitting beside Tiny, and Piers felt his stomach lurch.
She wore the blue perse gown under her fine sable-lined cloak.
She’d sewn the ragged hem of the skirt smooth again, and even missing the wide swath Piers had cut for a rag, it still grazed the tops of her slippers.
Her golden hair was braided above each ear and around the back of her skull in an intricate circlet, and sprigs of mistletoe decorated the twist at her nape.
Her hands were clasped in front of her waist, holding a large, reddish cloth-like bundle.
She smiled at him, her lips pink and perfect, and Piers no longer thought she looked like a child.
He walked toward her, and had almost reached her when the villagers took up a cry that caused both he and Alys, so intent on each other, to jump.
“Huzzah! He lives!” They smiled and applauded, and Piers realized they were all looking at him.
Alys laughed and then, tucking the fabric in her hand away under her arm where he could not see it, she began clapping, too.
Piers chuckled and looked to the ground. Then he gave a bow toward the crowd. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you all for your kindness.”
The applause died down and then the revelers seemed to all look toward Alys expectantly. Piers did the same.
She fidgeted and blushed before retrieving the item beneath her arm and holding it out to him.
“I know ‘tis early, but since we’re not certain what will happen once we reach London …” her voice trailed away and her eyes flicked to the ground for a moment.
She shrugged, likely not wishing to speak the unknowns in her head—and in Piers’s own—aloud, then gestured with the bundle again. “Merry Christmas, Piers.”
He held out his palm almost reluctantly. In addition to never having given a gift before, Piers had never received one either.
A thin rough string was tied into a bow around rich, burgundy cloth. He pulled one end and then shook out the material. Piers felt his throat constrict, and his eyes went to Alys’s.
“I thought mayhap you should have a suit of clothes more fitting to your station for your audience with Edward,” she said quietly, and Piers could see the doubt in her eyes. “Do you like it?”
Piers looked at the tunic again—thick, quilted velvet, trimmed in gold braid. A black leather belt and sturdy, black hose to match. He had never seen anything so fine, even on his own father.
“Where did you get it?” he asked, knowing the question sounded gruff and demanding, but he could not help the tone of his voice. He was shocked beyond measure at her thoughtfulness, and overwhelmed by the richness of the gift.
“I bought it from one of the lads,” she admitted.
“Stolen?” he asked.
She grinned and nodded.
Piers looked down at the plush velvet again, rubbing his thumbs over it, feeling his rough skin catch on the costly material. He thought of the primitive gift he’d made her, hidden away inside his poor tunic, and he was ashamed. He could not give her some crude, handmade thing now.
But that is how it would always be, a voice in his head advised. Her wealth could buy all the clothing in London. What could you ever give her that would be enough? How could you ever please her?
“I have something for you as well,” he said in a low voice. “But you don’t have to keep it should you not fancy it. It’s nothing, really.”
“You got me a gift?” she asked, the surprise in her face genuine. “Piers, I didn’t expect—you were so sick, I—”
He cut off her words by reaching into his tunic and withdrawing her gift. He shoved it toward her.
“Just take it.” He glanced self-consciously at the crowd of people gathered around them. “Merry Christmas.”
She looked at the small cluster of wooden beads now tangled in her palm. She huffed a laugh and brought the fingertips of her other hand to her mouth.
Tiny pushed into her arm, craning her neck to see, as did several of the other closest villagers.
“What is it?”
“It’s a bracelet!”
“Are those onions?”
“No, I think they must be lilies.”
“Little birds, mayhap?”
Piers’s face burned. He should have never given it to her.
Alys raised her eyes to his, and he saw a welling of tears there. “No. They’re pomegranates.”