Chapter Eighteen
Alys wanted to throw her arms around Piers’s neck and weep with joy when he looked relieved and nodded.
She knew where the materials for the bracelet had originated: the old strand of wooden beads and cross from his pack.
Piers had taken the large beads and carved them down to resemble the round fruits, complete with fluted and puckered ends.
She recalled their first afternoon together, when Piers had been so completely outraged that Alys was saving the last pomegranate for Layla when they were both starving.
That was also the day he had agreed to take her back to Fallstowe, and then they had both been sent to flight by the arrival of Judith Angwedd.
It seemed so long ago, now.
She knew he was waiting on a reaction from her. She handed the bracelet back to him. He took it hesitantly, his brow lowered. She pushed up her sleeve, held out her wrist, and smiled up at him.
“Would you tie it on for me?”
Around them, the villagers once more took up their applause. Just as Piers was finishing the knot and preparing to draw away, Alys reached up with both palms and framed his face. She leaned in quickly before he could retreat and pressed her lips to his.
The applause quickly turned to hoots and shouts of encouragement, and beneath her lips, Piers’s mouth softened. She pulled away.
“That is the most wonderful, beautiful, perfect gift I have ever received,” she whispered against his mouth and looked up into his eyes. “Thank you, Piers.”
He swallowed. “You’re welcome.”
The next handful of hours were filled with a happiness unlike any Alys had ever known.
She and Piers joined in the woodland villagers’ feast with enthusiasm, singing along with songs they knew and those they quickly learned, listening raptly at the retelling of the old legends, and drinking copiously of the strong, bitter mead of the folk.
The children of the village were sent reluctantly to bed, and with each song, each tale, each mug, Piers and Alys sat closer, touched longer, smiled more deeply.
He had changed into his new suit of clothes, and Alys could sense a difference in him as soon as he’d donned the tunic and hose.
He stood taller, his jaw out and his shoulders back.
He was more forward with her, touching her low back, pulling her along gently with him.
His hand gripped her waist, and with each touch, Alys became more drunk with desire.
And so she returned each touch he gave her with one of her own.
Running her palm across his wide shoulders, raking her fingers through the short hair over his ears, smoothing a palm up the padded velvet covering his chest. She could smell him, feel him, see this brilliant white glow around him that had nothing to do with their close proximity to the bonfire.
At Alys’s side sat Ella, and in a moment the woman’s husband stood before her, presenting his wife with a sprig of mistletoe whilst bowing low. Ella took it with a girlish giggle and then rose to her feet when her husband took her hand and the two disappeared into the shadows beyond the fire.
Alys looked around and noticed Ira circulating quite drunkenly amongst the revelers, one crooked elbow full of little sprays of the plant. The old man made his way to Piers and then shook his head and tsked.
“None for you, lad. Not married,” he said with a wink for Piers and frown for Alys.
After Ira had moved on, Piers turned to look at her. He glanced down at the mug in her left hand, its base resting on her knee. Her right hand was presently intertwined with his.
“More drink?” he asked in a low, relaxed voice.
She shook her head. Then she licked her lips and leaned toward him. Piers met her more than halfway, kissing her fully at last, pushing his tongue past her lips, the bitter taste of the mead sweetened exponentially with his desire.
All around them, married couples were stealing away into the forest. Alys pulled away reluctantly, but only because she knew it was a temporary separation.
“Piers,” she whispered. “You have no mistletoe to give me.”
He shook his head. “You heard Ira: we’re not married.”
Alys let a smile curve her mouth as she pulled her right hand free from his. She reached up to the back of her head and then held her fingers out to him.
“I say we are.”
He looked at the tiny plant in her hand and then back into her eyes. She could see that the happy ease he’d possessed only a moment ago was now gone.
“I need to talk to you, Alys. Will you come to the tree with me?” he asked.
She said nothing, only nodded.
He followed her closely up the ladder, his weight allowing her to climb more securely, his arms on either side of her hips steadying her. Her legs were trembling, from both nerves and the nature of her ascent. She stopped, her eyes closed, clinging to the rough ropes.
He nudged her with his head. “Go.”
Alys went.
The interior of the tree house was pitch, and after the bright contrast of the bonfire, Alys couldn’t see anything.
She went instinctively toward the center of the shelter, where she knew the tree’s trunk would be.
Piers’s footsteps whickered past, and in a moment, the bright flare of a candle sprang to life, illuminating the narrow cot that was, thankfully, not suspended by ropes.
She watched him crouch down and fill and light the small brazier.
He replaced the lid with a scrape and then stood, staring at her.
Dressed as he was, he could have stepped from the crowd of Sybilla’s well-heeled friends, stood at the king’s side, sat the throne himself.
His clothing was refined, his body large and intimidating, his expression feral.
The candlelight gave the hard planes of his face depth and mystery; his eyes glittered, colorless.
Alys’s heart beat with the rhythm of a thousand primitive drums.
He continued to stare at her, saying nothing, but she could feel his hesitation.
“Piers, do you want me?”
“I do,” he replied. “But there are things I must tell you.”
“What is there of such import that you would deny me?”
“Once I tell you, you may well deny me.”
Alys shook her head with a smile. “Never.”
“Ira is my grandfather.”
Perhaps it was only the wind, but Alys felt the floor under her feet sway. “Surely that’s impossible. Does he claim this?”
“‘Twas I who discovered it, when he took the signet ring from me. It belonged to his daughter—my mother, Elaine. When my father got a child on her, he had the signet ring made for her. When Ira found out his daughter was carrying the lord’s child, he tried to kill Warin Mallory. My father and Judith Angwedd had Ira banished from Gillwick. He was told that I succumbed to the same illness that claimed her, twenty-four years ago.”
Alys could only blink. “Piers, that—it’s so fantastical. Are you very sure?”
He nodded. “I am.”
Suddenly, Ira’s increasingly foul disposition toward her made perfect sense. She was noble, and she wanted a member of his family. The last time that happened to Ira, he had lost all. His home, his daughter, his grandson.
Piers broke the weighty silence. “He gave me back the signet ring, of course. And some information that I believe solves my father’s deathbed riddle—Bevan bears a mark on his chest. One that I have seen with my own eyes. Bevan’s true sire bears the mark’s twin.”
“The proof you need?”
“Mayhap. I still do not know for certain who fathered Bevan, but it is considerable more evidence than I possessed before you found Ira.”
Alys brought her hands to her mouth. “You have a grandfather,” she whispered.
He gave her a slight, crooked smile. “Thanks to you. I owe you a great deal, Alys. That’s why I must lay all of my plans out in the open.”
Alys dropped her hands from her mouth and held them out, walking toward Piers. “Why would such happy news give me pause? In truth, it only makes me more certain that we are meant—”
He grabbed her forearms, keeping her from embracing him as she wanted to do.
“Wait. There is more.”
Alys let herself be held captive by him, relaxing and looking up into his face. She would be patient.
“Whether the king grants me Gillwick or nay, I know that I will encounter both Bevan and Judith Angwedd in London.” She waited. “And once Edward’s decision is reached, I fully intend to see Bevan dead. By my own hands,” he added.
Alys’s heart skipped a beat. “You would kill him for what he has stolen from you.”
Piers shook his head. “He has played a part in stealing much from me, true: my father, my childhood, my self-respect—nearly my life. But more than that, he is a vile pestilence upon this earth, and I cannot abide him to live. You know not what he is capable of, Alys. And should I triumph in London, I would never rest easy in my own home while he lives. And neither would he. His entire life, Bevan has begrudged me the very air I breathed.”
“Piers, you are no killer.”
His eyes glinted in the candlelight, and for a moment, Alys was not quite certain that was true.
“Even if Edward sides in your favor, I doubt he would stand aside wordless while you take another man’s life,” Alys reasoned. “He could retract Gillwick the moment after you’ve won it.”
Piers had no reply.
“Perhaps there is another way.” Alys twisted her arms in his hands and he released her. She stepped to him fully, placing her hands on his chest. “We shall speak to the king, and—”
“I do not tell you these things so that you might try to reason me out of them,” Piers said. “But I would not hide it from you, no matter how ugly.”
He was very, very serious. He meant to kill Bevan Mallory, and any resistance Alys put up to the idea would only be met with rejection. She could not change his mind. At least, not tonight.
“I accept what you are telling me,” she said at last. “I don’t necessarily agree that it is your only recourse for justice, but I see why you might feel thusly.”
He nodded.