Yea, ‘twas likely that a professed union between him and Alys Foxe would stand before the king. And how much more weight would his accusation of treachery against Bevan and Judith Angwedd—not to mention his claim to Gillwick—then carry? Edward wanted Sybilla Foxe, and to have her brother-in-law in his court, claiming lands that would then be connected by marriage to the grand Fallstowe’s, might be too beneficial to the king’s own interests to deny.
Perhaps Alys Foxe was in some way the answer to his father’s riddle. Piers hadn’t sought out the tenacious little blonde—indeed, he had done all in his power to escape her. And yet as her husband, perhaps it was her own powerful blood ties that would save Gillwick and himself.
But if he used her so to gain what he wanted, what would happen to Alys in the aftermath? How would they ever disentangle their lives from each other’s? Would Edward indeed take Alys for ransom, reining her powerful sister to him?
What would you care if he did?a nasty part of him argued.She will leave you any matter, deny you. Have you not kept her safe in this reckless petulance she has carried out by running away from her family? Have you not potentially saved her from a marriage she did not want? Should you not be rewarded for choosing not to leave her alone to die in the wood with her damned monkey, which nearly took your fingers off? She would not die at Edward’s hands—the king is not stupid. And her sisters would surely save her, any matter. Let Alys Foxe for once pay the consequences of her actions. Shewill then be free to again do as she pleases, and you will have Gillwick. And your revenge.
Piers sat for a long time, staring into the blackness over the river and listening to that voice, while the fire faded and then died quietly behind him. His fingers throbbed, his stomach roiled, his head pounded. The night seemed to have become inexplicably warmer to him, so much so that his face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He told himself it was naught but the excitement of having his victory only as far away as the king’s court.
Some time before dawn, he sought a cool, smooth stone for a pillow and lay down to sleep.
Chapter 12
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 toheed 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 anotherhour. 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 colorclose 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.
