Sybilla was more than a little surprised to hear the old man speak that name. “He told you of her?”
Ira nodded once sharply. “He did. But I know enough of the bitch personally to last me the rest of my miserable life.” The old man’s mouth thinned, and Sybilla thought she saw his shoulders square. “Piers Mallory is my grandson, lady. My grandson, and the sole heir of Gillwick Manor.”
Sybilla drew a quick breath. She was very rarely ever surprised, but this piece of information shook her. She looked around her to the soldiers and the crowd of villagers. “Do what you can to put out the flames, all of you—go!” she shouted. Then she looked back to Ira. “You’ll be coming with me, Ira.”
“You’re no mistress here, woman, and I am not your subject to be ordered about,” the old man sneered.
Sybilla simply waited.
He fidgeted for a moment, crossed and then uncrossed his arms. “I’ll get me bag.”
Chapter 21
The guards had admitted him into the palace.
Up until the instant he’d received the approving nod, Piers had doubted they would. His entire scalp was covered in perspiration beneath the weak glow of the late afternoon sun, his stomach knotted, the muscles of his legs shook. He was certain it was the suit of clothes that Alys had gifted him with that had swayed the guards—they’d looked him up and down and obviously believed his claim to be the Lord of Gillwick Manor, and for the brief instant their eyes had inspected him, Piers prayed they would not notice his old, worn boots that would clearly mark him as common. Even with the costly signet ring on his smallest finger—perhaps even because of—had he worn his old clothes, they would have likely turned him away, or had him seized for a thief.
But now he strode down the receiving hall, trying to stymie his sense of curiosity and his sense of overwhelming at being in the king’s very home, but his eyes glanced around furtively at the lavish residence, the milling nobles preening before each other. He hoped to seek audience with the king immediately—as unlikely as that notionwas, else he did not know where he would pass the night. He certainly was no royal guest, and he had not one single coin to spend. He’d given his leather pack and all of its remaining contents to a beggar just inside the city walls, so now Piers had naught but the clothes upon his back and the signet ring on his finger.
Perhaps he could feign his way around the stables, if his audience was delayed.
Every time a man let out a shout of laughter, or a door slammed, Piers had to fight his urge to jump and swing around with his fists readied. His nerves were like a rope being rubbed over a sharp rock.
He spotted a man near a set of ornate double doors, who received people in turn, spoke with them briefly before scribbling on a sheet of parchment with a quill and sending them away. He was a large man, taller than Piers, and looked more to be a soldier than a court servant. His hair was longer than was fashionable, and fell away from his face like a tawny lion’s mane. Piers guessed that he was looking upon Edward’s own gatekeeper, and it was that man he would have to first convince.
Piers turned away for a moment, pretending to admire a tapestry on the wall, and he summoned Alys to his mind. His eyes closed as her sparkling brown eyes and impish grin flooded his consciousness, and his heart kicked petulantly. He was a fool for sending her away from him—he needed her brazenness now, her fire and fearlessness. She had always had faith in his dreams and abilities, even when Piers had not, and now he was determined to live up to her high opinion of him.
He wrapped the image of her in his soul, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. Turning with his head up and eyes forward, he marched toward the lion at the gate.
The man looked him up and down with the merest flickof his eyes before meeting Piers’s gaze directly. “Good day, my lord.”
“Good day,” Piers said firmly. “I am Piers Mallory, lord of Gillwick Manor. I have a request to speak with the king this day. As soon as possible.” Piers cleared his throat. “Now, actually.”
The man’s tawny eyebrows barely rose. He looked down at the parchment before him. “His appointments are filled for the next pair of days, and then there will be no further court until the year is new. Mayhap you could persuade your mother to speak on your behalf—she arrived only this morning with your brother, and will see the king on the morrow.”
Piers shook his head once, little more than a jerk. Judith Angwedd was already here, somewhere, and Bevan with her. He had arrived in time, thank God. But only just, and his nerves sizzled and popped. He had to fight himself not to glance over his shoulder and look for them. “No. Forgive me, but it cannot wait.”
Again, the man’s eyebrows rose, and he seemed to present an expectant expression on his square face.
Piers clenched his teeth together, and he spoke low so that no other could eavesdrop. “The woman you named as my mother is not. She is my father’s widow, and she has come to Edward so that he will bequeath Gillwick Manor to her son, Bevan. But I tell you, Bevan is not my father’s child. Judith Angwedd Mallory is attempting to steal the lands that are rightfully mine, and is prepared to bear false witness to His Majesty in order to do so. I am the only true heir of Gillwick, and I can prove it.” Piers held up his right hand, his mother’s signet ring on his littlest finger flashing briefly in the dull light of the hall.
He let his hand fall back to his side. “If the king hearsJudith Angwedd in his court without my witness, he will be making a grave mistake.”
The man’s eyebrows had slowly descended and then drawn downward as Piers spoke. He seemed to appraise Piers once again before saying, “Wait here.” He turned, rapped three times on the door, and then disappeared between them. Raucous laughter escaped the seam of the doors before they shut once more.
Piers let out a tight breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Even though he knew in his gut that Gillwick was rightfully his, that Judith Angwedd was naught more than a lying, conniving, mad bitch, Piers felt extreme unease with his surroundings and with the task before him. He longed for the humid peace of Gillwick, or the quiet forest he had traveled through and lived in for so many days. He wanted Alys, needed her. God, how he loved her! And with that thought, he realized now that he was not fighting to gain Gillwick for himself any longer, or even to give peace to his long-dead mother. He was doing it for Alys.
Perhaps once she returned to Fallstowe, she would not want the humble life Piers could offer her. But he would offer it any matter. He could not help himself. He needed her and he loved her, and he knew that he would for the rest of his life. If there was any chance that she truly loved him, Piers planned to seize that love with both hands and never let her go. That damned monkey which had nearly killed him could also come, if Alys wished. After all, Piers had invited Ira, so it was only fair that Alys should have her own sort of cross beast at Gillwick.
He felt the faint impression of a smile twitch at his lips at the thought, but the very idea of joviality was killed with the cold words he heard spoken directly behind him.
“Hello, Piers. Stealing clothes now as well as land, I see.”
Piers turned slowly, uncertain at what would happen once he faced the wretched woman who had tried to destroy his life.
She was actually smiling at him, her large, square teeth glistening in the festive gloom of the receiving chamber.
“It’s over,” Piers said, refusing to stoop to ridiculous, barbed banter with the madwoman. “I’ve just spoken to Edward’s man. I will see the king on the morrow.”
