Piers reached out an arm and clapped the old man on his bony shoulder. Then he turned to find Alys in thecrush of villagers once more. She stood up from where she had been sitting beside Tiny, and Piers felt his stomach lurch.
She wore the blue perse gown under her fine sable-lined cloak. She’d sewn the ragged hem of the skirt smooth again, and even missing the wide swath Piers had cut for a rag, it still grazed the tops of her slippers. Her golden hair was braided above each ear and around the back of her skull in an intricate circlet, and sprigs of mistletoe decorated the twist at her nape. Her hands were clasped in front of her waist, holding a large, reddish cloth-like bundle. She smiled at him, her lips pink and perfect, and Piers no longer thought she looked like a child.
He walked toward her, and had almost reached her when the villagers took up a cry that caused both he and Alys, so intent on each other, to jump.
“Huzzah! He lives!” They smiled and applauded, and Piers realized they were all looking at him.
Alys laughed and then, tucking the fabric in her hand away under her arm where he could not see it, she began clapping, too.
Piers chuckled and looked to the ground. Then he gave a bow toward the crowd. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you all for your kindness.”
The applause died down and then the revelers seemed to all look toward Alys expectantly. Piers did the same.
She fidgeted and blushed before retrieving the item beneath her arm and holding it out to him. “I know ‘tis early, but since we’re not certain what will happen once we reach London …” her voice trailed away and her eyes flicked to the ground for a moment. She shrugged, likely not wishing to speak the unknowns in her head—and inPiers’s own—aloud, then gestured with the bundle again. “Merry Christmas, Piers.”
He held out his palm almost reluctantly. In addition to never having given a gift before, Piers had never received one either.
A thin rough string was tied into a bow around rich, burgundy cloth. He pulled one end and then shook out the material. Piers felt his throat constrict, and his eyes went to Alys’s.
“I thought mayhap you should have a suit of clothes more fitting to your station for your audience with Edward,” she said quietly, and Piers could see the doubt in her eyes. “Do you like it?”
Piers looked at the tunic again—thick, quilted velvet, trimmed in gold braid. A black leather belt and sturdy, black hose to match. He had never seen anything so fine, even on his own father.
“Where did you get it?” he asked, knowing the question sounded gruff and demanding, but he could not help the tone of his voice. He was shocked beyond measure at her thoughtfulness, and overwhelmed by the richness of the gift.
“I bought it from one of the lads,” she admitted.
“Stolen?” he asked.
She grinned and nodded.
Piers looked down at the plush velvet again, rubbing his thumbs over it, feeling his rough skin catch on the costly material. He thought of the primitive gift he’d made her, hidden away inside his poor tunic, and he was ashamed. He could not give her some crude, handmade thing now.
But that is how it would always be,a voice in his head advised.Her wealth could buy all the clothing in London.What could you ever give her that would be enough? How could you ever please her?
“I have something for you as well,” he said in a low voice. “But you don’t have to keep it should you not fancy it. It’s nothing, really.”
“You got me a gift?” she asked, the surprise in her face genuine. “Piers, I didn’t expect—you were so sick, I—”
He cut off her words by reaching into his tunic and withdrawing her gift. He shoved it toward her.
“Just take it.” He glanced self-consciously at the crowd of people gathered around them. “Merry Christmas.”
She looked at the small cluster of wooden beads now tangled in her palm. She huffed a laugh and brought the fingertips of her other hand to her mouth.
Tiny pushed into her arm, craning her neck to see, as did several of the other closest villagers.
“What is it?”
“It’s a bracelet!”
“Are those onions?”
“No, I think they must be lilies.”
“Little birds, mayhap?”
Piers’s face burned. He should have never given it to her.
