Her mother, engaged in washing her hands in the laver of rosewater, smiled wryly at Zipporah from across the table.
“Are you not hungry?” Gilburn asked Zipporah.
“Of course I am.” Actually, she wasn’t. She was too distracted by unwelcome suitors. Zipporah dipped into her onion soup anyway.
“I was probably too harsh on you earlier,” he said.
She took a sip from her wooden spoon.
“I am not trying to take your freedom away from you.”
She forced herself to smile. “I understand completely. I should finish my meal so that I can go sit with my father.” Zipporah broke her bread and soaked it in her soup.
“I shall accompany you.”
Her mother cleared her throat. “Zipporah would like to have some time alone with him.”
“Of course she would.” Gilburn reached across the table and filled the metal goblet she would be sharing with him. He passed it to her and she drank until she was out of breath.
He eyed the cup, and then her.
“I am thirsty,” she said.
He took it from her and refilled it, then turned to the task of cutting her meat, as was customary when sharing a meal with a woman. Zipporah ate with large bites. The faster she finished, the sooner she could be away from him. She lifted the goblet and drank again.
“I had hoped to spend some time with you this evening,” he said.
“We can always spend time together tomorrow.”
“I would like that. What should we do?”
Zipporah set the goblet aside, wondering if push you off a cliff might be the wrong thing to say. “We could go for a ride.”
His brown eyes lit with a feverish gleam.
Oh, no, what had she done?
She shifted on the bench. “Unless you will be otherwise engaged.”
“Of course not, my lady.”
“You are a very busy man.”
“I would be honored to accompany you on a ride.”
“Perfect,” she said, standing. “I should go now.” Gilburn stood with her, moving aside so she could step around the bench.
“Until tomorrow.” He bowed.
She graced him with a hurried curtsy, then grasped her skirts and left the great hall. Zipporah didn’t stop until she was at her father’s door. She paused with her hand on the iron ring, taking a deep breath. Maybe she should contact Peter and let him know about the ride. But how could she manage it without Gilburn finding out? Her mother’s knight, Sir Mark, could be trusted with such a mission.
Letting out a frustrated breath, she changed her mind. Nay, she wouldn’t ask Peter for help, because that was exactly what he wanted from her.
Zipporah pushed open the door, shut it quietly behind her, then turned to face her father. He was laid out on a four-poster oak bed, his unconscious form nestled in fox pelts, and a patchwork blanket pulled up to his shoulders. The fire in the hearth glistened off the reddish orange of the fox fur around the edges of the blanket and his head. The rise and fall of Lord Havendell’s chest was almost imperceptible. The apple blossoms Peter had cut were in a clay jar on the mantel, their sweet fragrance mellowing the musty stench of illness.
Her father had been moved out of the chamber he normally shared with her mother because of the regular medical care he required. His arm was out from under the blanket, bandaged from his recent bloodletting treatment.
Zipporah crossed the room. There was so little she could do for her father. She hated it. Sitting in the chair next to his bed, she smoothed his lank gray hair off his face. He didn’t move. She thought of the times he had lifted her onto his shoulders and galloped her around, pretending to be a horse. Now he couldn’t even lift himself out of bed.
Remembering Peter’s letter, she sat back and took her coin pouch off her belt, then loosened the drawstring and pulled it out. She held the parchment in her hands, still folded, afraid to read it. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of Peter’s betrayal.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and she sat up, her fingers crinkling the parchment. A shadow passed in the gap under the door. Whoever it was, continued on their way. She blew out a breath. Then she went to the door and slid the bolt into position, locking it.
Zipporah took her seat again. Her fingers traced Peter’s seal while she gathered her courage. A promise was a promise, whether she trusted him or not. What they’d had together, as imprudent as it might have been, deserved that much. Finally, she slipped her nail under the wax then spread the parchment over her lap, recognizing his handwriting immediately.
The top was dated two years and four months ago. She remembered the day it had arrived. It had taken months to find its way to her door. That part didn’t surprise her. It had come a long way, after all. What caught her off guard was the exact date it had been composed.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She had to stop.
Do not think about it. Do not.
She took a deep breath, turning back to Peter’s elegant script. He sounded homesick. He alluded to their time together, making it sound as if the memory of her was all that stood between him and madness.
She set the letter aside and stood, pacing before the fire and recalling what he had told her about Crusade. She looked at her unconscious father.
Zipporah did not understand why her father would want her to marry Gilburn. Obviously he saw something in the man that she did not. But it didn’t matter. Her father was her childhood hero, and nothing could change that.
“I need you,” she whispered. “You cannot leave me yet. There are so many things I need to talk to you about.”
So many things she had hidden from him. Her dishonesty was eating a hole through her skin. She wanted to come clean, but feared it might be too late.
His pale, lined face revealed no sign that he had heard her. She sat, and with slow fingers picked up Peter’s letter. The rest was cryptic, probably in case anyone got their hands on it. She understood his meaning though. Peter was trying to apologize for having left her so abruptly. She read the last line several times.
Would that we had joined forces, my brother standing guard.
Oh . . .
In the beginning, Peter had made her a promise of fidelity, swearing he would never touch another woman, but he’d never asked her to marry him. Peter’s older brother, being his liege lord, could have said the rights for them. They would have done so without her father’s permission, leaving Peter with an untoward reputation. But with John’s word as witness, it would have been too late to turn back.
What if they had done just that?
Would it have changed anything? Other than giving people something to gossip about?
Edward would still be dead, her father dying, and the land would go to Gilburn anyway. Would it have made any difference for Katrina, her sweet babe born blue and lifeless on the same day Peter had penned the letter she now held?
Zipporah lowered her face into her hands, and wept. Her throat was raw by the time she lifted her head and wiped her eyes. She strained to see Peter’s handwriting through her blurred vision.
Maybe she should have accepted Peter’s letter when it had first arrived, but her grief had overwhelmed her. She had not wanted that child when she’d first realized she was carrying. But over time things changed. She couldn’t describe what had happened, but she felt the baby move, and she started talking to her, and had even come to look forward to her arrival.
And then Katrina died.
Zipporah stared at Peter’s signature at the bottom, just below the words, Enduringly Yours.
She stood and crossed to the hearth. Peter was right. It was safest she burn it. Reaching toward the fire, the missive dangling from her hand, she watched the corner catch and smolder. As it flared up, she jerked the sheet back, dropped it on the stone floor, and pressed the sole of her leather shoe over it.
She couldn’t burn the letter.
She had already lost too much. Zipporah bent and
picked it up. His signature was gone, along with the words, Enduringly Yours. She wiped her eyes, then carefully folded what was left, and tucked it back into her pouch.
* * *
Peter unbuckled his sword belt and set it aside. Then he pulled off his surcoat and tossed that aside. With a sigh he collapsed into a high-backed chair before the fire at Ravenmore.
“Messy, messy,” came John’s voice.
Peter watched his brother cross the great hall. John picked up the coat and laid it over an empty chair. Then he sat next to Peter.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but it is late,” John said, running his hands through his blond hair. “You have missed the entire day. You missed a rather important meeting with Lord Burkhar. And you missed your supper.”
Peter patted his stomach. “That would explain the growling sound. Sorry about the meeting. It must have slipped my mind.”
John softened his tone. “Where have you been? Or dare I ask?”
“Zipporah was out alone today. I had to guard her.”
“Until the middle of the night?”
“I stayed until I saw the light go out from behind her shutters.”
Peter recognized the look in John’s eyes. He was ready to give some brotherly advice, whether Peter asked for it or not. “I think it would be best if you called Sir Gilburn out,” he said. “Duel him for her, and be done with it once and for all.”
John only knew two colors—if they could be considered colors at all—black, and white.
“You forget one detail,” Peter said.
“What?”
“The lady.”
John shrugged. “She’s a good lass. She will see the value in a duel.”
“And how is your search for a bride coming, my lord brother?”
“I am not searching.” John stretched his booted feet out before him and crossed his ankles. “I am nowhere near ready.” He laced his fingers over his stomach.
“You’ll need an heir.”
“There is more to life.”
Peter eyed him.
“I know I’ll need one. We have only been home for a fortnight. Do not press me.”
Peter wiped the grin from his face. He loved to annoy his older brother. Nothing cheered him more. Accept, maybe, annoying Zipporah.
“Do you really need me around here?” Peter asked.
John’s green eyes swiveled in his direction. “Aye I need you,” he stated. “How could you even ask?”
“I meant just for now.”
“I . . . suppose I can survive. Why?”
“I plan on riding out to Havendell every morning to keep an eye on things.”
“You do that anyway.”
“I might be gone all day.”
“Might?”
“I will probably, most likely, be gone all day.”
His brother’s stare had its own personality. “You are shackled,” John said.
“Shackled?”
“With a ball and chain around your ankle.” John sighed. “Fine. Aye, do what you must, but I still say you should duel Gilburn and take the woman.” He scratched at the stubble coating his jaw. “Or just take the woman and be done with it.” He smiled.
“I wish it were that simple.”
“Have you spoken with her father yet?”
Peter leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I have not. He is too ill.”
“You must make a special request of Lady Havendell. Surely she would agree to letting you see him. You are a far better match for her daughter than Gilburn.” He said the man’s name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. It made Peter smile.
“I tried, although I did not tell her of my intent. It is too soon for that.”
“Her husband is dying. Wait too long and Gilburn may, heaven forbid, sway even Zipporah.”
“She would never marry him. She knows better.”
“Not unless she was forced.” John lifted his brows.
“Which is why I am keeping an eye on her.”
“You cannot watch her all the time.”
“I know.” Peter shrugged. “I am just a knight, though. And Zipporah is Lord Havendell’s only living child.”
“Gilburn is only a knight as well.”
“With his lord wrapped around his finger, and Prince John to back him up.”
“I could die so that you can be Lord Ravenmore.”
Peter laughed. “Could you now?”
“I can see it.” John held his hands out before him. “I will go down like the heroes of old. Perhaps you can erect a statue of me in the bailey.”
“Nay, you would like that too much.”
John grinned, then his brow creased and his smile receded. “I hope Zipporah’s worth the energy you are expending. What side of her door do you guard her from these days, brother?”
Peter shook his head. “Now that is none of your business.”
Laughing, John stood. “Get something to eat, and promise me you will sleep tonight. You are keeping me awake with your pacing.”
Peter watched his brother ascend the stairs. John must have waited up just for him. He was undeniably Peter’s closest friend, even when they got on each other’s nerves.
The two of them had left behind their widowed mother when they went on Crusade. After she died, several months back, John was given leave from service and sent home to take care of his estate. Peter was John’s First Knight, and as such, was sent home with him. Peter didn’t like letting his brother down at a time when he could use his help. But he had a responsibility to Zipporah as well.
Torn, and hating the feeling, Peter stood and wandered toward the kitchens, hoping to at least find something to keep his stomach from growling all night.
Chapter Four
The following morning, Zipporah stared at her reflection in the polished looking glass on her dressing table while her mother ran a whalebone comb through her hair.
“I could feign an illness,” Zipporah said.
“That will only work for today. Sooner or later you will have to spend time with Sir Gilburn, or he will suspect that you are not interested in him.”
“Would that be so bad?”
Her mother gave her a warning glance.
“Aye, I know.”
Living in the same castle with him was not easy as it was, and it would be even worse if he knew the truth about her negative feelings toward him. Zipporah could only hope her father would regain his senses long enough to change his mind about leaving the land to Gilburn.
“We could pretend I have an infectious disease,” Zipporah said.
Her mother lifted graying brows.
“I did not actually give him permission to woo me. He took it.”
“He caught you off your guard.”
“Aye, and I know who addled my wits. He will dive me to madness.”
“Peter?”
“Both of them. Gilburn has always followed Father’s orders, and as far as he is concerned he has orders to make me accept his hand.”
“I am not sure that is quite the truth. It is hard to say what goes through Sir Gilburn’s head.”
“You should have seen him yesterday. He believes I am someone I am not. And if he should find out that I . . . I am not . . .”
“Bide your time. We will think of something.” Lady Havendell ran the comb through once more, then placed her hands on Zipporah’s shoulders. “Do you want to know what I think?” She ducked her head so Zipporah could see her face in the mirror.
“I am not sure. Do I want to?”
“Let Peter help you.”
“Nay.”
“I knew you would not want to hear what I had to say.”
“You have been spending too much time with him.”
“He misses his mother, and I miss my son.”
Zipporah turned to face her. “I understand.” She took her mother’s hand. “But he will work his way under your skin. He has a way of doing that.”
Lady Havendell smiled. “He is a b
etter choice for you than Sir Gilburn. I for one am grateful for his watchful eyes on you.”
Zipporah narrowed her gaze.
Her mother took her by the shoulders, facing her forward again. She sectioned dark hair and started braiding it. When she finished, she closed a brass cylinder around the end.
“We better hurry, or we will be late for Mass.” Lady Havendell said. “When you leave the grounds with Gilburn, stay mounted. If he asks you to dismount, pretend you have lost control of your gelding and come straight home again.” She paused. “I will have one of my personal guards ride out with you.”
“Thank you.”
“I eluded my share of suitors in my day.”
Zipporah looked herself over, frowning at her burgundy kyrtle. It was soft to the touch and hugged her hips nicely. She shook her head. “Help me out of this.”
“But why?”
“I will wear my dull brown hemp kyrtle instead.”
“But there is a tear in the sleeve.”
Zipporah gritted her teeth. “It is a small tear. I do not wish to look attractive.”
“I do not think your choice of attire will make any difference to Gilburn, but if you wish it so, than I will help you.”
Zipporah loosened her laces then lifted her arms so her mother could pull the sleeveless garment over her head. “We should send a message to Ravenmore. I would feel better if Peter knew I was out with Gilburn.” She stopped herself. “Did I just say that out loud?”
“Aye.” Her mother smiled.
“I meant John. I meant to say John, not Peter.”
“Mmm . . .”
“I did.”
“As you say, daughter.”
Lady Havendell helped her into the brown kyrtle. The fabric was threadbare in places, but the flaxen shift she wore beneath was thick enough that it did not matter.
“Be careful what you say to Gilburn today,” Lady Havendell said. “He will take every word seriously. Anything you say could further encourage his attachment.”
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