But Peter, of course, served his father more than he served the spy ring. In the end, he was his father’s son, and that’s where he found himself today. He was playing escort for some of the great barons who were arriving in London and making sure nothing got out of hand. Too many warlords in close quarters was often a recipe for disaster. He was enormous, powerful, skilled beyond measure, and brave beyond reason. He could handle the most difficult warlord with finesse.
But the sight of Agnes de Quincy had him running for cover.
Peter was in the city proper, near Milk Street as he headed to Aldergate because they were anticipating a large party coming in from Norfolk. The House of Summerlin was a warring house, one with fine knights, but they weren’t at peace with the Earl of Lincoln at the moment, who was also due. Several de Lohr men were spread out in the city, escorting arriving barons, so Peter was alone at this point. As he’d told his father, he didn’t need help escorting anyone, so he was riding solo and that, unfortunately, left him vulnerable when he caught sight of Agnes and her father.
Two against one, as it were.
Quickly, he bolted into one of the smaller alleyways that lined Milk Street, which was in the Jewish quarter of the city. Nearby was the Street of the Jewelers, comprised of stall after stall of some of the finest jewelers the world had to offer and in that section of the city, all of them were Jewish. But here on Milk Street, the homes were fine and well-appointed, the streets better maintained than most. When Peter ducked into an alley, it was a surprisingly clean one. He slid off his expensive Belgian rouncey, a type of horse that was big and showy, and peered around the corner of the building like a child hiding from bullies.
Agnes and her father were heading away from the Street of the Jewelers, which is where he suspected they had been that morning. Agnes was a woman with expensive tastes, as she displayed every single day in the copious amounts of finery she wore, so there was little doubt in Peter’s mind that her father had taken her to buy her more loot. The woman was up to her eyeballs in loot and looking for a rich husband.
She wanted to get her hands on the de Lohr fortune.
Perhaps there was more to it than that, but Peter wasn’t going to make it easy for her.
He should have been smarter about trying to avoid her because she seemed to turn up wherever he was. He swore she had spies on his tail, something his father laughed at, but even as Christopher thought his son was being paranoid, old Walter de Quincy was trying to convince Christopher just how perfect Agnes would be for his firstborn son.
A bastard son, but firstborn nonetheless.
And now this.
Agnes and her father happened to be near the Street of the Jewelers just when Peter was heading in the same direction. This wasn’t coincidence; it was witchcraft. Agnes had pulled out her cauldron to once again locate the man she’d set her sights on.
Damnation!
He could see the pair lingering at the mouth of Milk Street and Lombard Street, one of the main east/west avenues through London. Fearful that they really did have spies on his tail, Peter headed back into the alley, looking for a place to hide. Milk Street ran between Lombard Street and Catte Street, so he could head to Catte Street and escape them by taking another route, but the problem was that he would be visible if he made an appearance out of the alleyway.
It wasn’t worth the risk.
But he heard voices, people drawing closer. He could hear the clops of horses. Nearly in a panic, he pushed open a big gate that bordered the alleyway and entered into a neat kitchen yard. He wasn’t at all concerned with whose yard he was actually in as he shut the gate and leaned against it, listening as the voices seemed to grow louder. He couldn’t be sure that it was Agnes and her father, so he listened carefully. Someone was definitely traveling up Milk Street.
And he waited.
“What have we here? Don’t tell me that you are the new livery servant.”
The voice came from behind him and he whirled to see a woman standing several feet away. She had clearly just come out of the house, a basket in her hands, but she was looking at him with curious amusement. No fear, no anger. Just… amusement.
For a moment, Peter was actually speechless.
He was looking beyond the amused expression to the woman who wore it.
A woman of unearthly beauty was gazing back at him. She had black hair, silken and curled, and a face of porcelain. Her black eyebrows were delicately arched over eyes of an exquisite cornflower blue. She had a pert little nose and lips that were shaped like Cupid’s bow, lush and pink. And the rest of her… he found himself looking her over from head to toe, from the top of that dark head, to her full breasts, to her tiny waist and generous hips, all of it clad in a dark blue dress that was finely made but simply constructed. She wore it like a goddess.
Nothing about her was imperfect.
In fact, he had to blink his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“I… I am the what?” he sputtered. “What did you call me?”
Her blue eyes twinkled. “Livery servant,” she said. “But I suspect you are not.”
He shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Are you disappointed?”
“Possibly. Who are you?”
He couldn’t believe the woman wasn’t terrified of a fully armed knight in her kitchen yard. She wasn’t showing an ounce of fear. That impressed him until he realized he was about to make a fool of himself with his answer to her question. Given that he couldn’t think of a lie fast enough, it would be better to face the truth and hope that glimmer in her eyes didn’t turn to disappointment.
Somehow, he wouldn’t like that.
“Hiding,” he finally said.
Her dark eyebrows lifted. “From what?” she said, growing serious. “Are you in danger?”
He grinned; he couldn’t help it. Standing away from his horse, he put his entire armored body on display.
“Do I look as if I could not handle another armed man with a weapon?” he asked as if her question had offended him.
She shook her head, that silky hair licking at her neck. “You look like a highly skilled, highly honored knight,” she said. “But why are you hiding?”
He sighed heavily. “If you must know, and since you found me in your yard I suppose that you have a right to, I am hiding from someone I do not wish to see.”
Her gaze lingered on him on a moment before her expression suggested she understood what he meant. “Ah,” she said. “You are hiding from your father?”
“Nay.”
“Your mother?”
“Nay.”
“A nasty cousin with foul breath?”
He chuckled. “Nay,” he said. “Keep going.”
She cocked her head, sensing a game afoot. “Someone you owe money to.”
“Nay.”
“Someone who owes you money?”
He started to laugh. “Why would I hide from someone who owed me money?”
She shrugged. “I would not know,” she said, fighting off a grin. “I’m simply going through all potential choices since you are being so mysterious about it. Are you hiding from an annoying sister?”
“Nay.”
“A frustrating brother?”
“Nay.”
“Then I give up,” she said, finally letting her smile bloom. “Who has you hiding out in a stranger’s yard?”
He grunted. “You would not believe me if I told you.”
“I would believe it.”
He cocked his head. “Very well,” he said. “I am hiding from a woman I do not wish to see.”
She cast him a long look. “You are correct,” she said. “I cannot believe that. A lad as comely as you, hiding from a woman? Astonishing.”
He puffed up at the suggestion that he was comely. He knew he was handsome and he was glad she knew it, too. Already, he was glad that he’d hidden in her yard, if only for the chance to speak with this exquisite and witty woman.
It made the awkward situation wort
h it.
“It is true,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Everywhere I go, there she is. Even today, she is in this quarter of London on the same day I happen to be here. I do not wish to burden you with my troubles, but that is why you find me here. I promise I will leave as soon as I am certain she will not find me. I will not vex you any longer than necessary.”
The woman shook her head. “You are not vexing me,” she said. “You are welcome to stay until your trouble has passed.”
He smiled at her, a genuine and warm gesture, and he swore he felt a flash of something pass between them. It was… vibrant. Shocking. Like the flash of lightning from a summer storm, titillating and exciting.
He wondered if she felt it, too.
“Thank you,” he said. “I am Peter de Lohr. May I know your name, gracious lady?”
“I am Liora, daughter of Haim,” she replied. “Do you live in London, Sir Peter?”
He shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “Though I spend enough time here that I may as well live here. I serve my father at his castle on the Welsh Marches.”
“That is far away.”
“Have you been to the Marches, then?”
“Nay,” she said. “But my father has. He has business associates in Hereford. I know that it takes him weeks to travel there and back again.”
Peter looked her over again. A woman that fine should be in the highest social circles with the right familial connections, but she wasn’t. He’d never seen her before. She was a petite little thing, but more than that, he noticed that she was wearing a cap sewn with gold thread that matched her dress. Her hair was gathered in an elaborate braid that also had gold ribbon woven into it. The house itself was a wealthy one; he could see that. She was clearly wealthy from what she was wearing. But the way she’d introduced herself had him curious.
“What business does your father engage in?” he asked.
“He is a goldsmith,” she said. “A jeweler. In fact, he is the jeweler to our king. He has supplied John with his fine jewelry for years and before that, he supplied Richard, although Richard sold many of his pieces to pay for his wars.”
A jeweler. Peter knew what that meant and, abruptly, he realized what she was and why he hadn’t seen her before. “Then you are a Jewess?”
Liora nodded. “I am.”
Peter nodded as if a good deal suddenly made sense to him. “I see,” he said, looking at the structure. “I’ve never been on this particular street before. Your house is very fine. In fact, all of the houses on this street are fine. Is everyone here Jewish?”
Again, she nodded. “They are,” she said. “Mostly jewelers, but there are some merchants as well. It is a nice, quiet street.”
“And a good one to hide in,” he said, grinning. “You will forgive me for asking questions. I have never met a Jewess before.”
“And I’ve never met a Christian knight hiding from a woman before.”
He broke down into soft laughter. “I’m not such a coward, I promise,” he said. “I come from a long line of fearless knights. My father is the Earl of Hereford and Worcester, a man once known throughout the kingdom as the king’s champion. Therefore, bravery is in my blood. But this woman… she would frighten the heartiest barbarian, I assure you. Aggressive is where she begins. Where she ends, no one knows.”
Liora fought off a grin. “Mayhap she is simply misunderstood,” she said. “Why does she pursue you? Have you asked her?”
He snorted. “She pursues me because her father wants her to marry well,” he said. “She wants to marry well, but she is a woman of expensive tastes, haughty manner, and general arrogance.”
“How do you know? Do you know her well?”
“Well enough,” he said, distaste on his features. “The first time I met her was a few months ago when I came to London with my father. I met her at Westminster Palace when there was a great feast. My father always told me that the true test of character of any man or woman is how they treat those beneath their social rank. If they are kind to those who are inferior, that speaks very well of them. They are people of good character. I have always remembered that and try to behave accordingly. The first time I met Lady Agnes, she cuffed a serving wench on the ear because the woman accidentally brushed against her. That told me all I needed to know.”
Liora was listening seriously. “Your father sounds like a wise man,” she said. “It is a pity when great men or women cannot be great to those who serve them. There is something ignoble in treating the less fortunate no better than the dirt beneath your feet.”
“True,” he agreed. “And that is why I avoid her.”
Liora set her basket aside. “I do not blame you if that is the measure of her character,” she said. Her focus lingered on him and Peter swore he saw a flash of warmth in her eyes, like that lightning he’d felt earlier. But it was quickly gone. “But I am sure you do not wish to hide from her all day. Would you like me to go out onto the street to see if anyone is there?”
“Would it be too much to ask?”
“Of course not,” she said. “Stay here and I shall return.”
He did. He watched her turn back into the house, noting the way her backside curved beneath that blue dress. He had been quite enjoying the view, even lingering on it, when he felt a sting to his right cheek. He put his hand up to see what had touched him when he felt another sting to his temple. Perplexed, he looked around the yard in time to see a young boy several feet away with a hollow piece of straw in his hand. When he saw Peter looking at him, he stuck out his tongue and ducked behind the chicken coop.
Peter returned his attention to the open rear door where Liora had vanished, but his senses were attuned to the hooligan lurking in the kitchen yard. Now that he knew the boy was there, he listened for the rustling as the child moved about. It seemed that there was a game of cat and mouse going on in that kitchen yard that he hadn’t even been aware of until now.
He was being stalked.
He could hear the child moving around behind him now, by the small outbuilding behind the house. Quietly, he tied off his horse, which left his hands free, and he began to back up towards the rear of the horse and pretending to check his hooves. But all the while, he was waiting and listening. He wanted to be able to move one way or the other if the little boy decided to shoot projectiles at him again. He didn’t want the lad startling his horse, which could be quite snappish when provoked.
As he stood next to the big, round buttocks of his horse, he heard noise behind him and turned his head in time to see movement. As a purely reflexive action, he threw up his hand in front of his horse’s rear end and managed to stop a pebble that had been aimed right at the horse. He whirled around in the same motion, just in time to see the little boy within arm’s length as he tried to reload another pebble into his straw.
Peter lashed out an enormous hand and grabbed him.
“Let me go!” the boy howled. “Let me go or I’ll fight you!”
Peter cocked a droll eyebrow. “Fight me? You already have. I have won.”
“I’ll kill you!”
“With what?”
The boy was all fire and fear – fear because he’d been caught and fire for the same reason. He tried to kick Peter in his protected shins.
“My feet and my hands,” he said, trying to kick with all his might. “I’ll kill you with my hands and feet. Then I’ll get a big sword and I’ll cut your hands off. Then I’ll cut your legs off. Then I’ll chop your head off and throw it in the river!”
Peter frowned. “Christ, that was graphic,” he said. “Who taught you to say such things?”
The child was beginning to sweat because he was struggling so hard. “My friends and I will throw you to the fishes!” he said. “They’ll eat your eyeballs right out of your head!”
“Asa!”
They both heard the gasp from the back door, looking over to see Liora standing there, aghast. She rushed out and grabbed the child by the ear as he howled, but he didn�
�t fight her the way he had fought Peter. In fact, he whined and cried as she dragged him over to the kitchen door, swatted him on his behind, and shoved him inside. Chagrinned, she turned to Peter.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “He… he is young and foolish. Please forgive him.”
Peter fought off a smile. “He is young and fearless and frightening,” he said. “Is that your brother?”
Liora nodded sheepishly. “Aye,” she said. “His name is Asa. He has only seen seven years, but you would think he’s seen thirty from the way he talks. He has a group of friends that are older and quite rough.”
“Ah,” Peter said. “The same friends who are going to throw me to the fishes?”
“The same.”
He chuckled. “I am fearful for my life now,” he said, but soon sobered. “Did you notice anyone on the street?”
Liora was glad to change the subject. “Nay,” she said. “You are safe.”
His smile grew. “Thanks to you,” he said. “You were quite kind to a stranger when you did not have to be.”
She smiled at him, a gesture that was more beautiful than anything Peter had ever seen in his life. The woman was such a magnificent beauty that every new gesture, every new expression, was like seeing her again for the very first time. Something told him that he wanted to see her again.
It had been a most interesting afternoon.
“You are welcome to hide here any time you feel the need, Sir Peter,” she said. “I am happy to have made your acquaintance.”
He was moving back towards the front of his horse, but his eyes never left her face. “Thank you,” he said. “I am happy to have made yours, also. I was thinking that I have never seen you around the town, at feasts or festivals. Do you never go away from your home?”
She shrugged. “Not too often,” she said. “I help my father in his stall sometimes, or my mother here at home. We attend the Great Synagogue weekly.”
“But you mostly stay to home and your father’s business.”
The Splendid Hour: The Executioner Knights Book 7 Page 2
