by Jackie Ivie
That was the last thing he noted.
Sybil wasn’t concerned until the midday meal was being cleared and still there was no sign of Vincent or Waif. She wasn’t actually worried, because she never allowed herself to feel such an emotion. As she dressed for the supper entertainment, however, she did tell herself there was always a first time.
It had been so stupid to let him leave last night without even giving chase! Now she had to contend with Sir Ian’s blatant interest and had no option other than to dose him before he asked for her hand. That would only work if she had access to him and him alone. She wasn’t certain she dared sprinkle linden flowers on everyone’s fare. The resultant illness would have only one result. Blame. And there was only one they’d lay the blame on. Her.
She had to get to Sir Ian’s fare and his alone. Which meant she’d have to be close to him, and him alone. And that she was avoiding that at all costs.
She had some hope, though. Waif. If Waif managed to find the Viking and get him to try the leaves, he’d be like clay in her hands, easy to manipulate and aroused. At least, that was her plan.
And then there wasn’t even that.
The summons came as she was finishing tying the bottom of her braid ribbons, preparatory to winding them about her head.
The Lady of Eschon was requesting her presence in the solar. Prior to sup. Sybil swallowed and told Isabelle she’d be but a moment or two. She then shut the door on the wench’s face. She didn’t want to see the gloating that was bound to be on it. Of course, Isabelle and Mary had the right to gloat. They had Vincent Erick Danzel probably spirited away in their chamber, while Sybil had a grand, rich, lush future as the wife of a Caern clansman.
Her wimple gave her trouble. She was wearing a high white one, because that was the only one she could find in what had become a confusing existence. Where all had been orderly and easily located and filed and catalogued, now she couldn’t locate one headdress that wouldn’t bring attention to the one thing she didn’t want, her dark hair and flawless complexion? Impossible.
Sybil had never considered herself attractive. Not in the usual sense. She’d have to be touched in the head to think anyone would look twice at her with the two half sisters she’d been raised with. Both older women had golden-red hair that rippled to their waists, and lush frames that drew every man’s gaze. Sybil was slighter, her hair a dark sable shade, and had large, worried, silver-toned eyes that were probably her best feature.
She kept them downcast on the slate of her hall as she followed Isabelle to the solar and tried not to look toward and note the spot Vincent had been in when she’d first heard him play his flute. Useless. All of it. She’d been stupidly looking for help with her dilemma and forgotten everything she already knew.
Nobody was ever there to help her.
So…since Vincent wasn’t here to be her unwilling savior, she’d just do it without him. That was even better. She wouldn’t have to endure the physical reality of the love act and would still gain what she needed.
She told herself the twinge that struck through her, making her stumble a step, was nothing, and then made herself believe it.
Sybil’s stepmother was in the solar, looking thin and wan, and sitting beside the warmth of a fire. The windows weren’t letting any warmth into the enclosure, and despite the tasty fare Sybil prepared, she couldn’t get Lady Eschon to gain much girth about her. Sybil cast her eyes to the sky outside, noted it was still clouded over and raining, and had been all day. Then she looked back. The lady wasn’t alone.
She had the dwarfish Sir Ian with her, looking even more ridiculous than usual in a kilt that seemed as deficient in size as he was. The large white ruffles they’d sewn on to his shirt looked near to giving up as a collar since his beard was in the way of most of the fastening ties.
It was ill-fitting, despite how much it probably cost. She supposed if he had a wife, she’d take care of such things as ridiculous-looking attire. He was heavily decorated with medals, too.
The Stewart king was known for settling grand gestures upon his nobles, even if they came with little in recompense. If the amount of decorations were to be believed, this Ian fellow was probably a court favorite. Or maybe they gave medals for being the court jester.
Sybil smiled slightly at her own thoughts and watched as Sir Ian showed the effects of too much ale or lack of manners as he remained seated during her entrance. His wife would be the recipient of such ill manners, too. All of which went through her mind and cemented her resolve to do all in her power to make certain that if he took a lady to wife, it was anyone except her.
He was sitting in one of the heavily tufted and horsehair-packed seats, and she noted his feet were dangling above the floor. Sybil wondered how he’d managed to get up that far without an assist, and looked about for one of his men. She spotted two of them behind the wooden panels that could be used to separate and enclose the room. This would make telling her tale more difficult, but the worst—the absolute worst—that could happen was that she’d be tossed out and left on her own.
So be it.
Sybil raised her head and looked at both of them, and then curtseyed.
“Sybil! I’m so pleased to see you…and looking so well.” Her stepmother put an emphasis on the words, leaving Sybil in no doubt about how effective the white wimple and light mauve-colored gown were with her coloring. She made it worse as she blushed slightly.
“You asked to see me, my lady?”
“I have the grandest thing to import! Sir Ian Blaine has asked for your hand. In wedlock. Isn’t that wondrous?” And then Lady Eschon clapped her hands as if it really were great news.
“I—” Sybil started to answer.
“Of course, you’re properly grateful. And modest, as well. You see, Sir Ian? My daughter is overcome at your offer.”
“I do see.”
Sybil glanced at him in time to see him wipe at his lips with his sleeve as he appraised her, just as she did on occasion, such as when she’d been attempting to decipher the reason behind why a wasp didn’t die upon stinging, but a bee did. Exactly like that. Only worse. She’d never survive a wedding night with this man crawling all over her.
Sybil sucked in a breath. “I am overcome with this offer, Stepmother. It just…it’s a bit late, I’m afeared.”
“Late?” They said the word in tandem and with nearly the same inflection.
Sybil swallowed the fear away. “I understood that Sir Ian wished a pure maid to wife. I am sorrowed that I am no longer a maid.”
“What?” Lady Eschon was on her feet first, but only because Sir Ian had to shove himself to the edge of his seat before he could hop down. Then they were both directly in front of her with accusing eyes.
“How is this possible? You see no one.”
“But—you sent him, my lady,” Sybil stammered, putting the slightest touch of confusion in her voice. “Yestereve.”
“I dinna’ send any man to your chamber! I would na’…” Her voice dribbled to nothingness. Sybil knew why, and smiled slyly as Lady Eschon remembered.
Unfortunately, the dwarf man caught her expression. She watched as he considered it. Sybil made her features go completely blank.
“The blond man? The one the guards spotted? This is who you allowed into your bed? The man you allowed to…to…!”
“I could na’ prevent him, my lady.”
“He forced himself on you?” Lady Eschon asked.
Sybil was treading on unsteady ground now. She knew it as the dwarf man glared at her and gripped what was a squire-sized sword at his side. It could still kill, or he wouldn’t be wearing it. She had no doubt.
“He…is a large man,” she whispered. She tried to say it without the inference it was bound to have, but knew she’d failed as Lady Eschon gasped and that was drowned out by the sound of a sword being pulled. Sybil backed out of range, in the event he had a temper. She watched as the blade lowered again.
“This man forced himself on my be
trothed?” he asked in a high-pitched, childish-sounding voice.
“I am…nae one’s betrothed, sir,” Sybil replied.
“You are now,” he replied, even louder.
“Wait! I am of little value in any event! I am but a bas—”
“Sybil!” Lady Eschon screeched the name, stopping her.
“Words dinna’ change what occurred. And I will na’ take insult lightly.”
“There was nae insult! You canna’ say so.”
“I do say it. And this man will die. By my hand. I vow it.”
“See reason, Sir Ian.”
“I have been insulted by this man, and you request reason?”
“’Twas no insult intended! He was sent to my chambers. I was there. He thought I was his for the taking! I swear!” Sybil was losing patience. It sounded in her voice.
“Dinna say another word, my lady. Na’ one.”
“Wait!”
The sword came up again, this time to the level of her throat. Sybil looked down the gleaming length at that black face and couldn’t find one bit of compassion or reason anywhere within it. She couldn’t believe she’d evaluated that killing piece of steel as squire-sized. It was capable of taking off her head.
“Escort her to her rooms. See that she stays there. Lady Eschon? Come with me.”
Sybil lowered her head so he wouldn’t spot the anger she’d barely had time to assimilate. Nothing had gone to plan, and it was her fault. She’d made everything dire and horrid, and he had no right to order her about. None! She heard his path out of the room, with her stepmother trailing.
And then she saw the four boots belonging to her escort.
“My lady?”
Sybil lifted her head and favored each of them in turn with what she hoped was disdain and contempt. “Dinna’ touch me or come within arm’s length of me, or you will regret it.”
Her answer was a shove as one of them reached for her arm to propel her out into the hall. He was going to be the first to receive her poison hyacinth leaf dust. That was what he was getting, she decided.
Chapter Nine
“What is the yellow powder for?”
At the first bit of voice, Sybil yanked back from contemplation of the blue-cast smoke she’d created. Then she was on her feet and facing the man that should have been in the next glen, the next dale, or at least in the next room. He’d spoken even before he finished entering her chamber through what was supposed to be a guarded door. And then he made it nearly impossible to answer as he took up the space right in front of her.
“Well?”
“Where’s…Waif?” she asked instead.
“Move aside.” He was curt, almost angered, although he wasn’t saying so. He was also shivering with damp, if the way he dropped beside her fire was any indication. “And stoke this fire. What flames burn blue?”
“Vision-cast ones,” she replied automatically.
“Seek visions later. Get this one warm. Now.”
“Why dinna’ you come in sooner? It’s been raining all day.”
“Because some wench sent me a packet designed to put me to sleep for the span of a day, and she dinna’ seem to care that I’d be outdoors and unable to find a way out of the cursed rain. But thank you for bringing all of that up. Now, stoke the fire. ’Tis cursed cold.”
“Keep your voice low, please.” Sybil was moving to do his bidding, finding one of her oil-soaked logs because it would burn faster and brighter.
“Why? There’s naught to hear me.”
“I have guards. Just outside the door.” She motioned with her head toward the door.
“You dinna’ have anyone. I already checked.”
“You checked?”
“In my current state, I dinna’ find this way easily. You dinna’ have guards. What you have is scratching, moaning bodies. Three of them. At the bottom of the steps. What did you give them?”
“Dried and ground hyacinth leaf,” she replied automatically.
He grunted. “Serves them right. You warn them first?”
“Aye.”
“Fair enough.”
“Wait a moment. How do you ken these things?”
“I had a dream-induced sleep, lady. I learned many things I only suspected afore. Could you put a bit of quickness to the stoking of your fire? I’m still cold and wet, and unless you have another plaide in this room, in a moment I’m going to be naked.”
He was already putting deed to word as he unfastened the brooch at his shoulder holding the feile-breacan in place.
Sybil’s mouth dropped open.
“What? Dinna’ tell me you have qualms over nakedness. And expect me to believe it, anyhow,” he remarked with a glance at her.
Sybil had to turn away and spent the time rolling the blue-ash-covered log onto its side in order to put her oil-soaked one on. Not only would it burn brighter and warmer, but it lasted longer if she treated it, too. She pretended the whispering sounds behind her weren’t clothing being removed, but when she tipped her head sideways to check, she couldn’t help gasping.
Vincent Erick Danzel was the most glorious man she’d yet seen, and he was in profile to her, with one thigh bent forward while he rubbed himself with what looked like one of her sack dresses. At her involuntary sound, he looked over, and then winked.
“It seems to me the women of this clan have had the run of the keep for overlong. I am about to change that.”
“You…are?”
“Of course I am. I dinna’ spend an entire day in dream-induced sleep learning naught. Now. Hand over that wimple.”
He’d finished rubbing himself and had tied the garment about his hips in a haphazard fashion. It didn’t do much to disguise him, especially as he’d left it loose enough that it hung low, barely covering what it was supposed to. He hadn’t much hair to mute any of it, either. Sybil was afraid of what expression was on her face, and when he lifted himself to his full height and puffed out his chest, making everything taut, she knew he’d seen whatever it was.
“You doona’ just get to stare at me. You ken? I’m here. To give you what you require. What you need.”
“Oh dear…sweet…God.”
“I dinna’ think He has much to do with what it is you’ve put into being and have spouted lies in order to bring to fruition. Now, does He?”
“How…do you ken all of this?” Her words were being choked through a lump the size of her fist that had possession of her throat.
“A fox told me. How else?”
Sybil shook her head. “Nae.”
“Now, what is this accursed yellow powder for?”
He lifted his right hand and showed the stains. Then he was walking toward her, and showing how ineffectively he’d tied her sack dress as a covering since it was meandering to the roping of muscle about his hip. Sybil had to look at something else, anything else, or her tongue wasn’t going to work. It felt swollen to double in her mouth, where it was becoming a worse problem than the lump still in her throat.
“And why won’t it come off?”
“Oil.”
“Nae. ’Tis powder. And a more difficult substance I’ve yet to come across. What is it for, anyway?”
“Protection,” she replied.
“Protection? Oh. You’re going to be in need of protecting, lady. You should have had more guards.”
She shook her head.
“What? You think me easily fooled?”
“Nae. The yellow powder is for protection.”
“What are you supposed to do with it? Pitch it into an enemy’s face? I canna’ see any use for such.”
He was rubbing his stained digits on the side of his wrapping and pushing it further awry each time. Sybil’s eyes wouldn’t move from the sight and she gave them the order to do so.
“It has to wear off.”
“How long does that take?”
“A day. Two.” She shrugged. “I dinna’ ken for certain. I’ve na’ tested it.”
His eyes widened. “You s
ent it to me untested?”
“Nae. ’Tis tested. I’ve just na’ asked the particulars of the test.”
“Riddles. It’s always riddles with you. Step aside. That blaze is looking nice and warm. And I’m for feeling it.”
Sybil hadn’t any control over her body yet. Her eyes were still ignoring the command not to look at him. So he simply picked her up with a hand on each shoulder and put her to one side. The spots tingled, even as she told them not to. And then he was on his haunches with his hands stretched toward her blaze, showing a span of back-flesh that had more muscle than she’d ever seen and was filled with scarring.
Sybil dropped to her knees beside him. “These…are whip marks,” she whispered.
“So?” he replied. “Whips leave marks. Always did.”
The shrug he accompanied the words with lifted his back in front of her and then settled it right back down. Sybil reached out and traced one zigzag path and then another. She had the movement of his flesh as warning before he swiveled his head to look back and down at her.
“Did they send up anything for your sup?” he asked.
“Sup?”
“Sleeping the day away does tend to make one hungry. And wet. And cold. And angered. And did they bring you a sup or na’?”
She nodded.
“Did you save any?”
“Aye.”
“What is it?”
She hadn’t had an appetite. They’d sent up an entire bread trencher full of venison stew, potatoes, and all sorts of vegetables. It was warm, but barely. She went through the ingredients as she rose to her feet.
“Good. Fetch it. Put a kettle on your fire and roast it again.”
“Roast it? Again?”
“Aye. Food that sits out and gets cold is na’ only unappetizing, but it sickens more than all else. Besides, a bit of heat might assist with any potions you felt fit to season it with. In the event I managed to get back into your chamber and you wished to send me to sleep again.”
