Alys had risked her own life to save Piers. It was because of her unselfish heart that he now had Ira. She had sworn to stand by him, even in defiance of the king. When Piers had faith in nothing, no one, Alys had placed all of hers in him, and he had denied her at every turn. His father’s rejection of him at the insistence of Judith Angwedd had ensured that Piers would never know the privileges of his father. His hard labor at Gillwick had labeled him common, just as surely as it had labeled his very body by the scars and calluses and muscles it bore. Piers Mallory was not known for his lands or his title, but for his fists. He was no one. And yet Alys had loved him.
And so now he would sacrifice all that he had or might have had for her. She would never forgive his betrayal of her in the forest, his arrogant stupidity that had placed her in the teeth of danger, but Piers would at least be certain that from this night on, he did everything he could, gave everything he had for Alys.
When the windows behind the still-open draperies began to brighten with gray fog, Piers was dry-eyed and calm. He stood slowly, his body stiff and sore from his travels and his still pose on the hard floor.
He rinsed his mouth and washed carefully in the basin, wincing when the lip of the pitcher trembled against the bowl. He brushed at his tunic with a damp rag, swiped the cloth over the tops of his boots. Piers noticed with irony how he could feel the plush towel through the thin leather. He washed his hands and beneath his fingernails, polished the stone in the signet ring.
Then he went to stand before one of the windows, looking down on a brightening courtyard, quiet and still and bare with winter’s breath. He tried to summon his mother’s face in his mind’s eye, but the best he could muster were dim memories akin to something once sweet on his tongue and the rich smell of hay.
Then, as if someone had called his name, Piers turned suddenly and left the room.
He went purposefully down the wide flights of stairs, passing servants bearing trays and candle snuffers and stacks of folded linens. He bid each good morn, and most gave him a started look before returning the greeting, adding “milord” to the end.
No one of station had ever deigned speak to Piers outside of a barked command before. He had been part of the invisible machinery that enabled Gillwick to prosper, much as these servants did for the king’s home, and Piers wanted to acknowledge them as he had never been acknowledged.
He reached the grand receiving hall, and was surprised to see a crowd of people already gathered around the gilded double doors at the far end. Some sort of commotion was being raised, and Piers heard a man’s shouts from the center of the crowd.
“I’ve had many a year to dream of the day you’d receive your comeuppance, and thanks be to God that day is nigh!”
Piers’s footsteps faltered when the old man’s statement was met with a female’s gay laugh. Then Piers charged, his heart galloping to match his footfalls. He met the wall of the crowd and muscled to its center forcefully, pulling people out of his way by their arms like scarves from a basket, while the old man still invisible to him continued.
“Laugh now, heifer! I’ll be drinkin’ to your tears with me supper!”
“Ira,” Piers said, as he at last reached the center of the crowd and stood a pair of steps from his grandfather, as well as the same distance from Judith Angwedd and Bevan. “What are you doing here? How did you—?”
“Piers!” Ira shouted and rushed to him, gripping his arm with one bony hand. The old man continued to speak, but Piers heard him not, his eyes having locked on to Bevan’s.
Red, boiling, bloody hate swelled up in Piers’s veins. It burned beneath his skin, caused his muscles to twitch, his teeth to grind. Bevan was smirking below his red-lined nose and the dark circles beneath his small eyes. But Piers could only see the man’s thick neck, his adam’s apple bulging grotesquely. Piers fantasized briefly at the gristly cracking noise it would make when he crushed it in his fist.
“Alys,” was Piers’s only word.
“Dunno, mate,” Bevan snorted, then after another deep smirk, he shrugged his big, dumb shoulders. “Alys who?”
“Where. Is she?” Piers enunciated, slightly louder.
“Yes, who is this Alys you speak of?” Judith Angwedd asked stridently, and then gave another cawing laugh. “I vow I have no idea who you mean. A scullery maid you’re fond of, mayhap?”
Piers heard a growling, and only faintly realized the sound was coming from his own throat. His eyes neverleft Bevan. He felt his back tense, the muscles bunch. He couldn’t wait.
“Piers. Piers!” Ira was shaking his arm. “They don’t have her! Listen to me—Alys is safe.”
His grandfather’s words were slowly penetrating the haze of rage that had enveloped Piers’s head. He turned his head minutely, listening.
“Me and”—Ira glanced toward Judith Angwedd—“a friendfreed her last night. She’s gone home, Piers. She’s safe.”
Now Piers did let his eyes flick to his grandfather’s face. “You’re certain?”
Ira nodded once and then leaned in, whispering harshly. “They want you to attack—don’t! Stand firm! Let the king be your witness, lad.”
Piers had no comment to Ira’s advice, although he recognized the wisdom of the old man’s words. Alys wasfree.Piers could now do his best to strip the pair of Gillwick before the king, but then—then…
Bevan snorted again. “Fine boots you have there,Lord Piers.”
Piers let his eyes bore into Bevan’s, and he hoped even a fraction of the hatred he felt was evident. When he spoke, his voice was low and deadly. “Enjoy the air you now breathe, Bevan. Savor it. You shall not be earthly witness to another sunrise.”
“Oh!” Judith Angwedd screeched, seizing Bevan’s arm and pulling him toward the doors that were now opening. “Did you all hear that? He threatened my son’s life! You … you base criminal! Thief! Liar!” she continued to shout as she slipped into the king’s private court.
Bevan held Piers’s eyes as he was dragged along by his mother. “A fine piece of ass she was too,” Bevan said and then waggled his fat tongue at Piers.
