Peyton rolled her eyes irritably. Her aunt was known to ingest concoctions distilled from native plants and roots to aid her in her “visions”. Sometimes it took days for the potions to wear off, leaving Jubil insane for that particular length in time.
“Jubil, there’s no cock’s foot in your dish,” she said with little patience. “If you are finished with your meal, then you are excused.”
Jubil began to shovel clumps of food all over the table in her attempt to single out the elusive cock’s foot. Peyton ducked as a piece of roast fowl flew particularly close.
“Cock’s foot! Cock’s foot!” Jubil cried, jamming her fingers into her trencher and withdrawing an object pinched between her index finger and thumb. Her eyes were wild as she scrutinized whatever it was. “An eyeball! I knew it! I thought I smelled the essence!”
Ivy closed her eyes, silently beseeching God for patience. “Oh, Christ.”
Peyton watched with morbid curiosity as Jubil bound from her chair, still squeezing the bit of “eyeball”. “I can use this, Ican,” she smiled at Peyton. “I shall use this to divine your future, sweetheart. We will see what Lord Brian Summerlin has in store for you.”
Peyton shook her head as Ivy looked bored. “I do not want to know, Jubil. Truly.”
Jubil did not hear her. She shuffled off, clutching her prize and mumbling to herself.
“My God, Peyton. What are we going to do with her?” Ivy demanded softly. “My appetite is gone.”
“Your appetite is gone because you ate everything but the bowls,” Peyton said. They had long since stopped figuring out what to do with Aunt Jubil.
In the warm dining hall this night, Peyton and her sister were alone save a few serving women and two household guards. Since their father had been somewhat of a recluse, positive any stranger or traveler had come to his doorstep for the sole purpose of extracting his ale secrets, there had never been an overabundant amount of activity at St. Cloven and the women were not lonely. They simply learned to entertain themselves.
“What is it tonight, Peyton? Cards? Chess? Backgammon?” Ivy leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head.
Peyton sat silently, listening to the faint howl of a dog somewhere, the crackle of the fire in the massive stone hearth.
“Nothing, I think. I am tired tonight.”
“And you are worried, as well. Lord Brian promised you that he would decide your future by the end of the month and that is in two days,” she sat straight. “Mayhap when the messenger comes, we will tell him you died in your sleep.”
Peyton smirked, running her hand wearily over her face. “Not a bad idea, methinks. Oh, why can he not simply leave us be? Why must we be wed? I do not want a husband.”
It was a plea, not a question. Ivy shrugged. “Because St. Cloven needs a man to protect her,” she said. “Mayhap your husband will come with an army of a thousand.”
“We do not need protection,” Peyton snapped softly. “Father’s household troops have proven quite adequate for many years. In fact, we did not even have soldiers until twenty years ago when Warrington began making threats. ’Tis only because of Nigel Warrington and his idiot son that we need men here at all. And as for an army that would come attached to any future husband, they’ll probably spend all of their time in the ale barn drinking us into the poorhouse.”
“Tsk, tsk,” her sister admonished mockingly. “A prospective husband will not tolerate your nasty temper.”
“Then that is his misfortune,” Peyton sniffed, rising wearily. “As for me, I shall retire to bed and await my sentence…. I mean, ponder my destiny. Surely a missive will come from Blackstone tomorrow. Lord Brian has had nearly a month to decide what is to become of me.”
“Become ofus,” Ivy reminded her.
“Us,” Peyton corrected. “Good sleep, darling.”
“Good sleep,” Ivy watched her sister mount the stairs, her heart going out to the eldest de Fluornoy sibling. She wasn’t worried so much for herself, because a husband meant very little in an emotional sense. But Peyton was still recovering from the fierce loss of James, and was very vulnerable. Ivy still heard her crying at night, bemoaning her loss.
Ivy knew from watching her sister that love was a terrible, sorrowful emotion and she herself vowed to never succumb to the devastating weakness.
*
Blackstone Castle
Lord Brian Summerlinsat hunched over his carved oaken desk, pondering what he considered a most weighty subject. Two contracts sat before him, drawn out and awaiting approval. He sat back and scratched his head; approval would not come easily.
A rap sounded on his heavy oak door, and the caller did not wait to be hailed entrance. Brian heard the familiar footsteps, not bothering to glance up from his business. He knew who it was without looking.
“Do you have the tally for the horse sales?” Brian asked softly.
“Four colts sold, two fillies,” the man replied. “And a further promise to breed my Saracen stallion to two brood mares at 25 gold marks a piece. Quite handsome.”
