Judith Angwedd sighed toward the vaulted ceiling. “A young girl such as Alys—innocent, trusting—she stands no chance against a base criminal such as Piers. She is likely already dead.”
There was a muffled cry from the vicinity of Clement’s hands.
Judith Angwedd turned on her hip to wrap her arms around Clement’s shoulders. “Oh, but my darling, you must not mourn your own life away! You are so young yet, Clement—my sweet, comely Clement! You will marry another and put this sadness behind you.” She pressed her lips to his hair, kissed him and then whispered, “Oh Clement, I adore you so—and your kind and gentle mother, my dear, dear friend! How I regret to have played a part in your distress.”
“You have shown great honor, Lady Judith, and courage tocome to Fallstowe with your warning,” Clement whispered. “We are all in your debt.”
“Perhaps,” Judith Angwedd acquiesced lightly. “But I feel so very guilty, lovely Clement. Would that I could comfort you in your sorrow!” She stroked his hair, pulled him closer, her breasts pressing into his arm. “A widow such as myself, I am most familiar with loneliness and heartbreak.”
He turned into her embrace, as she’d known he would, and Judith Angwedd pressed her lips to both his damp cheeks. “You must not mourn for poor Alys, who is surely dead and cold and stiff now. You must live, Clement!” She kissed his mouth. “Live!”
He leaned into her and kissed her, his mouth wet and eager, his tongue snaking thickly past her teeth. Judith Angwedd moaned deep in her throat.
But then he pushed her away with a cry. “Oh, I dishonor the memory of her, my betrothed, my sweet and innocent beloved!”
Judith Angwedd pulled him back to her roughly. “She would not wish for you to be alone this night, Clement. Not her greatest love, alone and weeping. She would wantthis,want your friend to comfort you. Let me, Clement.Let me.”She drew his face to hers again, and he did let her.
And a moment later, he let her pull up her gown and mount his lap in Fallstowe’s darkened great hall, sitting on a bench at one of the common tables. He let her, until he cried out her name and it echoed off the stones.
Chapter 8
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 slightrise 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 snortof 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.”
