by Lynn Kurland
“No more paranormal activity, either,” Zachary muttered under his breath, just in case Hugh wanted to add that to his list.
He could have sworn the last thing he heard before he fell asleep was indulgent laughter.
Chapter 2
ARTANE, ENGLAND WINTER, 1258
Mary de Piaget closed her eyes and flew.
The exertion was nothing to the powerful horse beneath her. He was the fastest in her father’s stables, bred from equally speedy beasts along lines she herself had overseen, bred to want to run. It wasn’t always possible to predict what a horse would have the heart for, but in this case she had been amply rewarded for her care and attention. If ever there had been a horse born to fly, it was the black beneath her. Her father called him Lucifer, she called him Rex Diabolus, and they both agreed that he was quite possibly the best stallion Artane’s illustrious stables had ever produced. Her father had forbidden her to ride him, which she had of course assumed was an edict ripe for a bit of negotiation. The fact that she was riding him now and had been the one to break him before was proof enough of that.
She suspected her father might just have a weak spot where she was concerned.
She was thankful for that because she wanted to fly and Rex was the horse to allow her to. The day was perfect for it. The ground was hard and flat, the sky was overcast, and there was no wind. The only thing that might have improved the day would have been a bit of warmth, but when a body had freedom it was unwise to be choosey about how that freedom was enjoyed. The only sounds around her were the pounding of her mount’s hooves against the hard ground and the wind rushing past her ears. It was enough. Nay, it was more than that.
It was glorious.
She was content to give Rex his head, something her father would have been less than pleased with. If the beast wanted to run, then she would allow it for as long as he liked, even though there was some peril associated with it. One of her uncles had found himself thrown more than once from Rex’s great grandsire’s back, but he readily admitted that she was a better rider than he. It was likely sinful to take pleasure in such an admission, but she couldn’t help herself. She and her mother were the two lone women in a houseful of men. Being included in their talk was a pleasant thing, but besting them at one of their own games was better still.
She closed her eyes for a moment and relished again the perfection of the day, the magnificence of her steed, and the fact that she had recently avoided a very unsavory betrothal. Truly, things could not be any—
Rex slowed to a trot so suddenly that she almost bounced out of the saddle. She opened her eyes in surprise, then pulled him back into a walk without thinking.
“Hell,” she said, to no one in particular.
That wasn’t a curse, it was an accurate description of what, based on the size of the company she could see in the distance, would be the state of her life during the next pair of fortnights.
Damnation, those were the colors of Geoffrey of Styrr! Hadn’t she managed to be rid of his annoying self but a month ago? That she should see his company coming up the road to Artane could only mean one of two things: her father had decided to agree to a betrothal and hadn’t had the courage to tell her, or Styrr was making good on his promise to assault the tender, delicate walls of her heart with every chivalrous weapon in his arsenal until she swooned into his arms in artful surrender.
Why he didn’t just stab her and have done, she couldn’t have said. Perhaps he didn’t think himself equal to the task of catching her gold as it fell from her cold, dead fingers.
She pursed her lips. It wasn’t that she was opposed to marriage. The thought of engaging in it had occurred to her now and again over the years.
It had also occurred to her to dress as a lad, steal one of her father’s fastest steeds, and escape the fools who had come to offer for her. She hadn’t been forced to do that, though, because her father had done the distasteful work of shooing off all her would-be suitors, having found them lacking for one reason or another.
Well, he’d mostly been unimpressed by their swordplay, but given that her father was who he was, perhaps that was understandable.
He’d hastened Geoffrey of Styrr on his way a month ago after Styrr had made very loud noises about being needed at court. Apparently he was an ornament there that the king simply couldn’t do without. Mary was fairly convinced Styrr was imagining his importance in Henry’s circle, but she couldn’t deny that he certainly dressed the part of an important courtier. He also knew how to clutter up a supper table, which was one of the other reasons her father had been so willing to see him sent on his way.
Mary had feared that neither her father’s abrupt invitation to leave nor the required visit to court would keep Styrr forever from Artane’s hallowed hall. She just hadn’t thought he would return so soon.
Obviously, there was nothing to do about it save what she’d done in the past. She would hide in the stables until Styrr tired of waiting for her and went away, disappointed and empty-handed. Maybe this time he would finally realize that she was serious about her unwillingness to wed him and turn his greedy eye in another direction.
She turned Rex around and touched her heels to his side. He was just as swift on the way back to Artane as he had been galloping away from it, but that didn’t surprise her. He would outpace any other stallion in England, of that she was certain. She raced past a pair of her cousins littering the side of the road and continued on in spite of their shouts that she stop. She wouldn’t have, not for any amount of gold. Not with what was following her.
She slowed Rex to a trot as she reached the village, then walked him up the way to her father’s gates. She dismounted in time to hear more shouts coming from behind her. She looked over her shoulder and cursed at the sight of a new set of lads calling for her to stop. They were a pair of her cousins from Raventhorpe who had neglected to go home with their parents earlier that morning.
It actually wasn’t unusual for any of her aunts and uncles—of which she had several—to leave a selection of their offspring behind at Artane. Mary suspected it was so those lads could combine mischief where their parents wouldn’t be forced to watch, but she’d never heard any of her aunts or uncles admit as much. For herself, she couldn’t say she minded. Despite the fact that the lads so left to linger seemed determined to shadow her at all costs, she had to admit that she loved them all.
But she didn’t have to admit that to them presently, nor was she of any mind to discuss anything that might or might not be coming to lay siege to her heart, so she would see to her own business and leave the lads to speculate however they cared to.
She snatched up a bit of dirt along the way and rubbed it artistically onto her cheeks. She would pull her hood close round her face and hide either in the lists or the stables for the day. ’Twas a certainty that Geoffrey wouldn’t spend any time in either place looking for her. Such lingering might force him to become overly acquainted with substances that would perhaps remain on his clothes or in his hair—
“Maryanne de Piaget, what in the hell were you doing riding that demon horse that way?” a voice demanded suddenly from behind her.
“What way?” she said, not looking back over her shoulder. “In a way you only dream you might?”
Laughter and curses from two different males greeted her ears. She looked behind her briefly to see Jackson and Thaddeus of Raventhorpe lurking there. Thaddeus was laughing; Jackson was not. Actually, Jackson was now shouting at his brother, who was unmoved in the face of his elder brother’s considerable wrath.
Mary left them to their arguing and turned off to the left so she could walk Rex about in the lists for a bit. Her peace was short-lived, for she soon found herself joined by Jackson, who had apparently stopped shouting at his brother long enough to hand his reins over to him and command him to put both their horses away.
“If your father had seen you on the road today,” Jackson said evenly, “he would forbid you to ride again.”
“That bloody horse could have thrown you!”
“You sound like your father.”
“And if I had a shilling for every time he said the like to my mother, I would be building myself my own keep!”
She nudged him rather ungently out of her way. “Raventhorpe will be yours someday just the same, so don’t look at me for any pity. Now, go away. I’m busy.”
She said it lightly, but it was costing her quite a bit to do so. In truth, she suspected she had reason to be very nervous indeed. She had been certain Geoffrey’s hopes of having her dowry had been fully and completely crushed during his previous visit. Perhaps he simply thought to wear her father down until he relented.
She caught sight of a man running up the path from the gate, then sighed as he veered toward her. He avoided Rex, then hunched over, breathing heavily.
“Did you see?” he managed.
“Of course she saw, Parsival, you fool,” Jackson snapped. “Why do you think she has dirt on her face? She’s trying to hide!”
Parsival de Seger straightened and looked at her seriously. “Chérie, Styrr has come with a full contingent of retainers. I think he intends to stay for quite some time.” He held out his hand for her reins. “Let me walk Rex for you so you can take yourself elsewhere.”
“But Styrr won’t recognize me out here in the lists,” she protested.
“He is not so stupid as you would like to believe him to be, Mary. And if the best mount in your father’s stables didn’t give you away, your astonishing beauty would.” He reached out and brushed the dirt from one of her cheeks, then smiled and nodded toward the stables. “Go hide yourself. I’ll see to Rex for you.”
She wanted to protest, or make a jest, or simply ignore the potential danger of her situation, but she couldn’t. It was all she could do to force a smile and hand the reins off to her cousin. She nodded her thanks and turned to walk with Jackson up the path toward the keep. He put his arm around her shoulders, but it didn’t comfort her as it might have another time. And when he turned her into the mouth of the stables, she found the thought of being in such a confined space was enough to leave her breath coming in gasps.
Truly, she had to put an end to Styrr’s ambitions once and for all.
If Jackson noticed her reluctance, he said nothing, but that didn’t surprise her. When he had decided upon a course of action, nothing swayed him, not even the complaints of a woman bent on avoiding a betrothal she didn’t want. She pitied the woman who eventually found herself shackled to him, for he would give no quarter.
As he was not giving to her now. He urged her along until she ran bodily into two lads who were seemingly waiting there just for such an occurrence. They were taller than she was, fair-haired, and fearless.
They were also, unsurprisingly, related to her.
Currently they looked as if they’d been rolling in the hay and fighting to see who would emerge the grubbiest, but perhaps that was a boon.
“Styrr’s coming,” Jackson said shortly. “Put yourselves between him and Mary.”
The twins nodded as one. Mary was actually rather glad they were for her. Though they were only ten-and-six, there was something in their eyes that bespoke a ruthlessness that belied their age. Theophilus took her by the arm and pulled her behind him, whilst Samuel accompanied Jackson back to the door.
“Let’s shovel manure,” Theo suggested.
Mary was only too happy to agree. She walked to the very back of the stables, allowed Theo to remove a horse from its stall, then took off her cloak. She braided her hair quickly, then shoved it all up under the sort of cap most of the stable lads wore in the winter.
Within moments, she was filthy and sweating. She concentrated on what she was doing, knowing that Theo and Samuel would make certain that Geoffrey didn’t come close enough to see exactly who was pitching manure out the stall door.
Or so she thought until Samuel came running toward her. He pulled her out of the stall, tore the pitchfork from her hands, and jerked his head upward.
“Hayloft. Hurry.”
She didn’t argue. Samuel had an uncanny ability to sense where trouble was, so she snatched up her cloak and bolted up the ladder to the loft above. She pushed herself into the darkest corner and wrapped her cloak around her before she pulled handfuls of hay over herself. It left her little to do besides lie there and listen to her blood thundering in her ears.
’Twas all madness and it had to end. She had managed to avoid wedded bliss in the past because her father hadn’t pushed her toward it. Her one brief brush with a formal betrothal had ended badly. After that, she had seemed fated to simply remain happily at Artane where she might even more happily tend her father’s horses.
And then Geoffrey of Styrr had presented himself at the gates and wooed everyone in sight with his very fine manners and exquisite face. She had known him long before that, disliked him for an equal amount of time, and distrusted everything that came out of his mouth.
She was the only one, though. If her cousins didn’t care for him, ’twas only because they generally despised anyone who found court life preferable to an honest day’s labor with the sword, and they felt duty bound to dislike whomever she did. Her parents found nothing wrong with Styrr past his failings in the lists and the unfortunate burden of his very irritating mother. She, however, saw past those things to the man himself, and what she saw unnerved her.
She waited for quite some time without hearing anything useful, so she carefully shifted until she had rolled over onto her belly and was able to peer down through the cracks in the floor of the loft. She knew she couldn’t be seen, but she flinched just the same when she heard the piercing tones of Suzanna of Styrr cutting through the air. A horse whinnied in protest.
Mary understood completely.
“It smells very strongly of horse,” she announced. “Something should be done.”
Mary didn’t dare snort, but someone else did admirably in her stead. Rolf, the stable master, shot that someone a dark look, then made Suzanna a low bow and took the reins of her horse from her servant.
“We’ll see to it immediately,” he said, handing off the reins to one of his lads. He gave directions for the rest of the horses to be seen to, then escorted Lady Suzanna quite firmly out of the stables.
Her son wasn’t gotten rid of so easily, which was surprising. In all the years Mary had had the misfortune of knowing him, she had never once seen him inquire about anything other than when supper was set to arrive or if there might be another bottle of wine for his pleasure.
She jumped slightly as he came into her sights, but knew it wasn’t possible that he could see her. As long as nothing dropped through to the floor below, she was safe. She breathed in carefully, then looked again.
Geoffrey stood there as a pair of stable lads saw to his mount. He was, as he likely would have told anyone who would listen, a very handsome man. His fair hair shined like spun gold, his visage was unmarred and exceptionally pleasing to the eye, and even his form left nothing to be desired. He wasn’t nearly as tall as any of the men in her family, which likely vexed him, but he seemed to have stature enough as he was. He had never been aught but unfailingly polite to her mother, respectful to her father, and not unkind to her cousins.
If he eschewed too much time in the lists because he didn’t care to sweat and turned his nose up at bread that wasn’t completely free of rocks and wine that didn’t pour as purely as water, who were any of them to criticize? His mother was famous for her love of fine things, insisting on only the most expensive of tapestries to line her walls and the most elegant of fabrics with which to clothe herself and her lovely second son. Mary always felt, by comparison, as if she’d just come in from the stables, grubby and in sore need of a wash.
Which, as it happened, she usually was, but her family was accustomed to it.
She supposed if she’d had any sense at all, she would have agreed to the betr
othal the moment Geoffrey had suggested it. But she had grown to maturity watching horses and judging them by the slightest of movements. She had learned to take the measure of men around her in the same way. And there was something about Geoffrey of Styrr that made her very uneasy.
Her father had been putting off discussions of a betrothal between them for almost three years now. She had flattered herself that ’twas because her father just didn’t want to let her go. If he had another reason, he hadn’t shared it with her.
Unfortunately, she feared that the time would come when he would exhaust all his reasons and agree simply because he had no reason to refuse.
She propped her chin up on her folded hands and continued to watch. Styrr didn’t linger after his horse had been taken away. He looked about himself, sniffed delicately, then pursed his lips in distaste. He nodded regally to anyone who was looking before he strode off as if he had important business waiting for him elsewhere.
The saints pity her if he did.
She waited until he was long gone before she rolled over onto her back and heaved a huge sigh of relief. She squeaked at the sight of a face an arm’s length away from her.
“How do you manage that?” she said, putting her hand over her pounding heart.
“I’m quiet,” Theo whispered.
“You’re terrifying.”
He smiled an evil little smile that made her laugh in spite of herself. He and his brother gave their parents very foul dreams, of that she was certain. He made himself at home on the hay next to her.
“We should wait a bit longer,” he advised, “just to make certain there aren’t undesirables lurking nearby. Then we’ll sneak into the kitchens through the secret passageway.”
Mary felt her mouth fall open. “There’s a secret passageway?”
