She gave him a smile that she knew must be watery. “You always do.”
“You hold a high opinion of me,” he said, and his mouth crooked wryly. “A lot to live up to.”
She raised her left palm to smooth over his forehead and the top of his scalp. He was running with perspiration. She leaned over and pressed her lips to his fevered brow. “See that you do. You know how we titled ladies are—you must live. I command it.”
Then Alys was nearly certain that Piers did squeeze her hand.
“Go,” he said, sliding his fingers free from her grasp. “I will send for you after.”
Alys swallowed hard. “As you wish it, Piers. I’ll be waiting below for when you call me.” She rose and turned to go.
“Alys.”
She turned back, her heart springing with foolish hope. Would he now tell her he loved her too?
“Yes?”
“Are we in a tree?”
“They are here.” Sybilla stared through the gray morning light at the darker gray tree trunks, her mount shifting nervously under her. She stilled the stallion with a touch on his neck. Although no stable master would dare chastise her, Sybilla knew the horsemen of Fallstowe thought her choice of mount dangerous: a dappled destrier with a skittish nature and barely better than wild. But he was powerful, and sensitive to the very air he breathed, and he and Sybilla trusted each other.
The soldier standing nearest her slipper looked up from the remnants of a fire to which the increasingly wild and haphazard trail had led. “Indeed, my lady—there was a camp here. The coals are cold, but the ground beneath still holds a bit of heat.”
Sybilla nudged gently with her heels and leaned to the right. Octavian obeyed immediately. Sybilla let her eyes roam the ground as her horse carried her in a wide circuit around the perimeter of the clearing. There was little else to see save for a litter of nutshells dusted with snow. She breathed deep, trying to taste the air on the back of her throat. She squeezed her thighs and her horse came to a stand.
“What is the nearest village, and how far?”
“No place of significance until the abbey at St. Albans, milady, perhaps five miles from here.”
They hadn’t gone on to St. Albans, Sybilla was certain. The fire was too cold to have gone out with the risingsun, and they wouldn’t have tried to breach the thickness of wood in the middle of the night with blowing snow upon them. Any trail they might have left was now largely covered over with white. It was as if Alys had been spirited away from the earth, snatched up into the air by invisible hands. There must be shelter elsewhere in this wood. Hidden shelter.
“Make camp here. They came less than a quarter of the distance in one day than they have previously. Someone is wounded or ill. Something is slowing them. They are here,” she repeated, almost to herself this time.
The soldier nodded and began barking orders to his underlings, directing the search. Sybilla urged Octavian away from the camp slowly, letting the stallion drop his head as he wandered. But his mistress was alert, her gaze taking in the tiny dust motes, the color of the moss on the trees, the lean of the trunks.
Where are you, Alys?
“Ready to tell me the truth now, are you, friend?” The old man took his time lowering his bony backside to the stool once more, his hands bracing on his knees. The signet ring was nowhere to be seen.
“You say that ring belonged to your daughter,” Piers began. “And I say it belongs to me. There is little chance that the object possesses a twin, would you agree?”
The old man nodded once. “Aye.”
“I think you lie. I think you have stolenmyring with intentions of selling it on your own.”
“I told you thatmy daughter’sring will never leave my possession, and that is my solemn vow,” the old man said in a careless manner. “Your belief of it or nay makes little difference to me.”
“You do not look as though any in your family would be of means to possess such a jewel.” Piers forced himself to continue breathing easily, lest another coughing fit overtake him. “Convenient solution, that she’s dead and cannot claim such valuable property herself. Clever.”
“It’s not convenient for me that my daughter is dead, you lying, sickly bastard,” Ira hissed through his teeth. “Further comments of that nature will find you a ready grave.”
“When?” Piers asked without comment to the threat.
“When what? When will I kill you?”
“Tell me again when she died.”
Ira’s jaw worked, as if his mouth was trying to prevent the words from escaping. “A score and four years ago. My only grandson with her.”
