Peter returned from the lake to find his traveling companion sitting and nibbling a biscuit.
“Feel better?” Mort asked. He carefully licked the crumbs from every one of his fingertips.
Peter wondered at the man’s own appetite and he didn’t mean food. At none of the inns they’d stopped at had the man shown any interest in the local women for hire. He seemed only attuned to Peter and his comfort. To call that loyal was an understatement. Peter had even encouraged the man to take his leave earlier in their travels. But that was back when Peter was determined to remain celibate. The man just shrugged and said his place was at Peter’s side.
“I feel refreshed,” Peter said.
The man quirked a smile. “I can see you do.”
Peter bent to retrieve his clothes. “You might want to take a dip as well. Help put a lock on those lips of yours.”
“My lips are at your disposal alone, my lord. If you no longer wish to hear my stories, I will indeed cease and desist.”
“I never wanted to hear your stories.” Peter popped his head through the neck of his shirt. “Why ever would you think that I did?”
“You must be prepared for what you may face here. The King wishes you to stay on to settle the matters disrupted by FitzOsbern’s departure.”
“That departure was quite a while ago. Why the sudden interest in the area now?”
“Ah, so you do have need of my knowledge?”
“You’re prattling thus far has not demonstrated knowledge.” Peter shook his head like a dog to help the drying process. Too late he realized his words had finally struck a nerve. The man was tight jawed, his gaze locked on the dark forest behind them. “I am sorry, Mort. I do find my tongue is not well kept when I am so clearly frustrated.”
The man did not respond. Instead, he straightened and extracted his sword from his palfrey’s saddle.
Three or four riders quickly approached. Peter stepped beside Mort, wondering how the man could have spotted the group before he did. “Can you tell if they are Normans?”
The Normans were not well liked in the area. This had been one of the last areas of England to be subdued under King William and their loyalty was still highly suspect. By the looks of the surrounding area, the tactic the King had used against them had been savage with the harrying still quite visible everywhere they went. Peter had his orders. He also had compassion.
Mort shook his head, his voice low. “They are not, my lord.”
As one, they mounted their horses. Peter drew his blade. “I do not believe they know we are here.”
They exchanged looks and retreated into the darkened, western woods to watch their approach.
Three, young riders burst onto the field laughing, their horses winded beneath them.
“And you cheated as always, Lachlann!” A tall, red-haired man atop a courser had spoken. He reined his mount in to face the other two riders. His accent difficult to understand.
The one called Lachlann had long, black hair and a smile from ear to ear. “I know a shorter way is all.”
The stumpy blond puckered his mouth. “And you’re being chased by the devil.”
Lachlann rubbed at his groin. “Aye, the devil in the form of a brown-haired fox. She’s riding me hard.”
He leapt from the horse then led it to the edge of the lake. He dropped to take a drink as well.
“Methinks youwishshe was riding you hard,” the first man replied then followed suit.
They laughed, relaxing alongside the water. They had bare legs and knee-length coverings of course material. But they appeared young and strong.
The blond stood beside the water, about a head shorter than the other two but stockier in build. He crossed his arms, taking a wide stance beside his horse.
“She would have been well-bedded if I’d laid hands on her.”
Peter settled himself but remained wary. Like a spark to dry grass, relaxed teasing could quickly turn to death blows.
“Don’t believe that’d be true, Aldred,” Lachlann said. He closed the distance between them. “If I couldn’t succeed, why do you suppose you’d have gotten any?”
