Page 38

T he day dawned bright and fair. Ali peeked out a window in the guest hall and wondered if she might actually have another tolerable day.

The condition of the sky boded well for it.

The day before had been passed happily enough with a goodly amount of training with her sword—and who would have thought she would come to enjoy that—a fine meal with the comfort of the lady Isabeau’s presence nearby, and no hint of Sir Etienne doing anything foul.

Of course, he’d caught her eye a time or two as he’d stood near either Sybil or one of her ladies, but she’d only nodded in understanding, then turned away.

She had decided that ’twas best to go along with him at present until she could divine a way to be free of him.

Having him lean over Colin at supper, however, had been something else entirely.

She’d felt a panic sweep through her, though she couldn’t have imagined how he would have dared such a brazen attack.

The saints be praised that Colin was the warrior he was.

He’d made Sir Etienne look the fool, and he’d managed to yet again keep her from the man’s clutches.

And now that the folk from Maignelay-sur-mer were there, she had hope that the torment might end soon. They would take Sir Etienne with them when they left and hopefully the tale would be finished. He would have her coins for his trouble and perhaps that would suffice him.

That he could still reveal her to Colin was unsettling, but perhaps by then Colin would be safely wed and not care who she was.

Perhaps.

Mistress Berengaria certainly thought Colin to be harmless.

Ali wasn’t sure she herself had the same faith in his ability to forgive.

Then again, perhaps by the time Sir Etienne had departed and Colin was saddled with Sybil, she would have already bid everyone a fond adieu and been well on her way to some other occupation.

Or mayhap she would find herself forever serving as Colin’s man, passing her days learning strokes of offense, and endeavoring to walk, talk, and carry herself in a very unladylike fashion.

A month ago, such a thing would have been unthinkable.

That it sounded less repulsive by the day said a great deal about the sorry state of her life at present.

Before she could plunge herself into fouler humors thinking on the unpleasant prospects for her poor life, the door burst open and a monk suffering a case of very undignified excitement burst into the hall.

“They’re here!” he shouted.

Colin frowned. “Who?”

“Your sire! His company! They’ve arrived!”

Ali looked quickly at Colin to judge his reaction. His visage had lost all expression.

Indication enough, she supposed, of his distress.

She stood back and watched as Reginald of Berkhamshire swept into the great hall with the haughtiness of a king.

He deposited greetings upon Sybil’s parents, then looked the rest of the company over as if they’d been nothing but errant servants loitering about on benches, neglecting their duties to him.

He spared only a brief glance for Colin, but ’twas a glance of complete non-interest.

Ali looked again at Colin for his reaction, but saw none. Perhaps he was accustomed to this kind of treatment from his sire.

Pity for him welled up inside her. Had the man never known love from his parents? Even after her father had wed Marie, she’d known that deep inside him, he still harbored fond feelings for her. And her mother? Ali blinked suddenly. Those ten years of great love had given her a lifetime of comfort.

Poor Colin, had he not been blessed with that same comfort?

Perhaps ’twas little wonder he was as harsh as he was.

Soon the only person present with more bluster and arrogance than Reginald himself swept into the chamber.

Ali watched in fascination as Ermengarde pecked her father into a semblance of compliance.

He was shepherded into a chair, given food and drink, then he submitted with a surprising lack of irritation to being berated for having left her so long with such impossibly unmanageable company to see to.

Ali wondered if Ermengarde had taken her mother’s place at such an early age that Reginald had succumbed to her rather forceful ways simply because she’d worn at him so long.

Ermengarde saw the important members of the company, including her father, herself, and Sybil and her parents, seated at the high table.

Colin was left standing at the side of the hall, his arms folded over his chest, the very lack of expression on his face warning anyone with any intelligence whatsoever that he was not to be toyed with at present.

For herself, Ali sought cover on the opposite side of the hall, using Jason as a shield.

She had no desire to be anywhere near Colin when his father finally forced him to the altar.

She had no doubt he would not go quietly.

Thinking on the temper his bride would face that night was enough to make her knees unsteady beneath her.

Her pity for him aside, she found herself rather relieved she wasn’t going to be that bride.

Once Reginald had eaten and drunk to his satisfaction, he called the company to order with an imperiousness that any monarch would have been proud to call his own. Peter and Agnes were brought to stand before the table.

“Agnes, my only command for you is to keep your knees together,” he said bluntly.

“Papa!” she gasped.

“You may go,” he said, waving her away.

“But Papa—”

“I’ve found no mate for you yet. Go, and endeavor to keep your virtue intact.”

Agnes went, her face in flames. Ali stared at Colin’s father, appalled yet somehow unsurprised by his lack of compassion. ’Twas no wonder Colin found himself at Blackmour instead of his father’s keep of Berkham. She would have done the same thing, in his place.

Reginald looked at Colin. “Come. Stand here by your brother.”

Colin gave his sire a look that should have made the man rethink his demand. Either Reginald was too old to fear his son, or he had more courage than anyone else in the hall, for he merely snorted with impatience and beckoned again.

“Now. I’ll see the both of you before me.”

Colin pushed off from the wall and sauntered across the hall. He stood next to his brother then folded his arms again over his chest.

“Finish out your drama, Father,” he said coldly. “I’ve business to attend to this day.”

“Indeed you do,” Reginald said, “but likely not the business you think.” He stood, smoothed down his tunic, then took up his cup, as if he prepared to regale them with tales far into the night.

“Now, as you all might imagine, I have spent years trying to assure myself that my illustrious line will continue after my death. Unsuccessfully, so far,” he added, with a withering look thrown Colin’s way.

Colin didn’t reply.

“And having despaired of ever finding myself with a properly wedded heir who would provide himself with an heir, I took it upon myself to assure myself of the same.”

Ali wondered how it was that Colin could content himself with a mere sigh. His sire was insulting in the extreme.

“And so,” Reginald continued, waving his cup benevolently toward the assembled company, “we find ourselves here, enjoying Harrowden’s hospitality, conveniently near the appropriate marrying authorities.”

Colin’s sigh was rather gustier that time.

“The marriage contract did specify that the lady Sybil of Maignelay-sur-mer was to be wed with Berkham’s heir,” Reginald said, “and so she shall.” He paused, apparently for the drama of it, though all eyes were upon him just the same. Then he set his cup down. “Peter, step forward.”

Peter blinked. “Father?”

“Come forward, you witless pup,” Reginald barked. “Come forward and claim your inheritance.”

“But—”

“All I own!” Reginald said triumphantly. “The lady Sybil. The keep. All my gold, all my silver, all my baubles. Yours, the whole.”

“What?” Colin thundered.

Ali looked at Peter to find that he was teetering rather substantially. He continued to sway until he’d swayed right into his brother. Colin held him away with a very stiff arm.

“You’ve lost your wits,” Colin growled. “You cannot disinherit me.”

“Peter will wed with Sybil,” Reginald insisted. “And he will inherit my lands and gold.”

“I’m a priest,” Peter said weakly.

“Not yet, and not anymore,” Reginald said briskly.

That, oddly enough, seemed to bring Peter out of his swoon. He stood up on his feet, slapped his hands on the table before him and put his nose near his sire’s. Not too near, but near enough.

“I’m going to be a priest!” he shouted.

“They don’t want you here.”

“They do too!”

“I’ve ceased all monetary gifts to the abbey. Unless you’ve coin hidden in your robe, you’re no longer of any interest to these mercenary brothers here.”

Peter began to sway again. Ali didn’t have long to wonder if Colin would help him. Colin did, by pushing him out of the way with such force that he sent him sprawling onto the floor.

“I will not accept this!” Colin bellowed, leaning over the table with his nose much closer to his sire’s than his brother’s had been.

“It isn’t yours to accept,” Reginald bellowed back. “I’ve waited until I’m fair in my grave for you to manage to keep a bride I procured for you and I’ll wait no longer!”

“You won’t have to wait any longer,” Colin said, stepping back and drawing his sword. “I’ll send you to your grave now!”

Reginald wisely took a pace or two backward. He glared at his son. “Slay me and you’ll be hanged.”

“If it means you’re dead, I’ll go to the noose happily!”

“The gel is for Peter, not you,” Reginald said, looking about him—likely for possible exits from the hall.

“I’ll have her myself, or die in the attempt!” Colin shouted.

And Sybil, predictably, pitched forward into the little mound of food she’d managed to place before herself on the table, in a dead faint.