Suzanne Robinson (11 page)

“Mistress, Margery is gone!”

Erbut broke a lute string. Dibbler choked on a nonny—and Pen sprang to her feet.

“When?” she asked.

“I know not, mistress. Sometime between her last feeding and just now, when I went to check on her and muck out her chamber.”

Pen threw down her napkin and bolted for the stairs in the gallery behind the dais. Tristan, who was beginning to feel the effects of the feast, nevertheless shoved his chair aside and chased after her. At his heels scampered Sniggs, Erbut, Dibbler, Twistle, and most of the party in the hall. He caught up with Pen before she reached the stairs and pulled her behind him.

“You’ll not go first. Have you no sense? Cutwell has most likely come for his precious pig and might still be lurking. Did I not warn you of this?”

He ran upstairs to Margery’s chamber with Pen close behind him. The door lay open, and the pig quarters were empty. He glanced up the stairs but saw nothing. Behind them, Pen’s retainers crowded up the stairs and tripped over each other. He heard Sniggs yelp.

“Ouch!” Sniggs snatched off his cap and slapped Dibbler with it. “You watch your ox’s feet, you poxy turd.”

Dibbler thrashed at Sniggs with both hands. “Spavined catamite, get out of my way.”

Tristan let out a bellow. “Quiet!”

The milling crowd stilled. Tristan gritted his teeth and scowled at them.

“How quiet do you think Margery’s going to be with Cutwell trying to hustle her out of the keep?”

Pen frowned at him and put a finger to her lips. Heads cocked to the side. Breaths were held. Dibbler took the opportunity to pinch Sniggs on the arm. Sniggs kicked Dibbler’s shin, and the captain of the guard gave a silent howl. Tristan raised his arm as if to backhand them, and they subsided. Everyone listened.

After a few moments, Tristan heard a far off squeal of protest. “Listen.”

He pointed up toward the top of the tower. There it was again. A high, shrill screech of offended majesty. Tristan bolted for the top of the tower. He hadn’t gone three steps before Pen snagged his sleeve and held tightly. He grabbed her hand and plunged through a doorway that led to the walk along the outer curtain wall. They were just in time to see, through the open doors of the next tower, a Cutwell man-at-arms hauling on a rope. He spotted them and began playing out the rope frantically.

Tristan ran to the wall and peered over it. Below and to the right he saw men-at-arms holding tapers, a rotund person who had to be Cutwell standing in their midst. Their attention was fixed on something halfway down the wall.

Tristan pointed to it as Pen joined him. “Look.”

Her bulk cradled and overflowing a makeshift sling, the pig Margery floated down at the end of the rope. As they watched, her tiny feet paddled the air as the man at the rope lowered her faster and faster.

“No, you don’t,” Pen said. She ran toward the man with the rope.

Tristan grabbed for her and missed, then leapt after her. She was almost upon the man when he reached out, slipped an arm around her waist, and swung her off her feet.

“No, Tristan!”

The man-at-arms saw them, played out the rest of his rope, then grabbed another attached to the battlements. As Tristan dodged Pen’s fists, he vanished over the wall after Margery. By the time Tristan had set Pen down, Dibbler and the rest had arrived and were hurling insults at Cutwell and his men. Pen rounded on him.

“Why did you stop me?”

Tristan swore, but was interrupted, abruptly, when he yawned. “You’re not going to attack a man-at-arms while I’m your protector.”

“You shouldn’t have—” Pen broke off, and smiled at him. “You’re my protector?”

He yawned again. “Of course. Jesu, woman, who else could be in this madman’s haven? Marry, this running about can’t have wearied me.”

“You ate enough for three men. No doubt you’ve jostled your stomach.”

Blinking slowly at her, he yawned. Then he put his hand on the battlements for support, for his head seemed to want to travel in circles.

“ ’Smatter with me?”

Pen sidled up next to him and smiled a too-bright smile. “Too much food. I warned you.”

“Pen?”

“Aye, Tristan.”

“My stomach seems to be trying to climb up my throat.”

“To bed.” She began to guide him back along the wall walk.

“Jesu, don’t walk so quickly. I’ve treacle for ankle bones.”

He swayed and dipped his way back to his chamber,
where he collapsed on his bed and stared up at the painted cherubs. Their red cheeks blurred, and he closed his eyes. The last thing he remembered was Pen’s light voice.

“I’m sorry, Tristan.”

That same night, in the spacious apartment next to the stables at Much Cutwell, Sir Ponder watched his pig man empty slops into Margery’s trough while he patted her back. As the pig man left, Ponder’s ears filled with the glorious sound of a prize pig engaged in her favorite activity. He sighed, left the pen, and closed the gate. Leaning over it, he beamed at Margery. She’d recovered from the distress caused by being trussed in a harness and lowered over the walls of Highcliffe.

The door of the pig shed banged open. His guest stalked over to Ponder, a tall black shadow illuminated by the lanterns hanging from support posts. Ponder tried to ignore the boiling gaze, but failed. Hunching his shoulders, he wished the man would speak and relieve the agony of waiting.

“Your antics have caused the woman to shut up the castle,” the young man said. “By our lady, I can’t get in, even to talk.”

Ponder rubbed his plump hands on his fur-trimmed gown and cleared his throat. “I had to get Margery back before they made her sick. Do you know how hard it is to physick a pig?”

“By the Trinity, I do not!”

Ponder jumped at the rage hurled at him. His guest snarled at him, then whipped a dagger from concealment
and stuck it beneath the lowest of Ponder’s three chins.

“I told you to make peace with the woman. There isn’t much time before my villainous friend arrives, and this matter must be dealt with before that happens.” The tip of the dagger touched the end of Ponder’s nose. “If not, I assure you my friend will make you wish it had been.”

Stuttering and sweating, Ponder tried to nod, but the point of the dagger stopped him. “M-mm-m—Marry, I will.”

“You’ll begin at once, this morn,” the guest said. “Send some placating message. Beg pardon.”

“Beg!” Ponder shuffled backward and out of reach of the dagger. “Why should I ask pardon of a woman who’s spurned my hand and then stolen from me?”

The young man regarded Ponder as though he were a bloated snail before fading into the depths of a shadow near his host. His voice floated in the air, disembodied, sedate.

“You’re well recompensed for the use of this conveniently secluded hole of pestilence, Cutwell, well paid even according to your rapacious needs. But I grow weary of your loutish pursuits and protestations. Mayhap I should spare myself your company.”

The guest paused, and the air filled with the sound of Ponder’s labored breathing. “After all, it’s near pig-slaughtering time. You’d look a wondrous sight hanging from a tree limb with your throat cut.”

“I can ask pardon. I can.” Ponder wiped sweat from his chin. “Upon the morrow. At sunrise. Before.”

“I have great faith in it, my dear Cutwell. Great faith.”

•   •   •

After seeing Tristan to his bed, Pen made sure that several of the village boys manned the wall walk in case Ponder returned. Next, she gave certain orders to Dibbler and saw to it that they were carried out. Then she crept back to Tristan’s chamber. Pressing open the door, she poked her head into the darkened room. The hangings around the bed had been drawn, but she heard him sigh and turn in his sleep.

She waited until deep, even breathing replaced the sighs, then retreated. Once outside the chamber, she fled quickly downstairs and out of the keep. She drew her heavy cloak around her as she sped out of the castle, heading for the line of torches marching toward the cliffs. She caught up with them just as Dibbler set down a rope-bound packet at the edge of Dead Man’s Point.

Greeting Wheedle and Erbut carrying their own bundles, she came upon a cart drawn by Turnip and pushed by Sniggs. She joined Sniggs in shouldering the cart down the path toward Dibbler. The cart was laden with bundles like those carried by the others. Pen gave a last shove at the cart. Straightening, she brushed her hands and pushed back the hood of her cloak.

Dibbler came up to her bearing a torch. “That’s the lot, mistress. But it be a terrible waste, for all you’re so skittish about them things.”

“Let’s turn the cart,” Pen said. “We need it to face the other way for unloading. And don’t complain. I let you save some. Did you put them in the haystacks?”

“Aye, mistress.”

Sniggs gave a harrumph. “I put them in the haystacks. You just sat on your arse and watched.”

Pen laughed at Sniggs, for she knew Dibbler took every opportunity to repay the fairy incident. She
grasped a bundle from the wagon. The rest grabbed bundles of their own.

“You’ll have to throw hard,” Pen said. “No, wait. Dibbler, you and Turnip throw one bundle between you. Sniggs and Erbut will do the same. I’ll count to three. Ready? One. Two—”

“Three,” said Tristan.

Dibbler yelped and dropped his end of the bundle. Pen whirled around to face black-eyed fury. She was so goggled, she tried spreading her cloak to conceal the parcels of swords at her back. Behind her back, she waggled her hand at the others, who scurried forward to block Tristan’s view of the cart.

She gave Tristan a desperately blazing smile. “Good e’en to you, Tristan. I thought you’d gone to sleep.”

Tristan stalked to her, and as she saw him more clearly, she cringed. He seemed to froth and boil, seethe and bubble with anger. He lifted a stiff arm and pointed at her.

“You poisoned my food.”

“Oh, no.” She tried to smile again, but couldn’t in the face of blistering contempt. She cleared her throat. “It was only All Heal, valerian, to help you rest.”

“Luckily, I’d eaten far more than you expected. I don’t think you used enough, and you’re a bleeding liar.”

She winced and bit her lip. He wasn’t just angry with her, he was in as great a rage as she’d ever beheld. Never had she thought his anger could be so frightening. She jumped out of the way as he pushed her aside and loosened a bundle.

Swords clattered and slithered against each other. He picked up one, discarded it, then chose another. Testing the weight and heft in his right hand, he gave
it a preliminary swipe or two. The blade danced in his hand. As he plied it, Pen grew weak with the knowledge that she witnessed unparalleled skill. This man was no clerk. Next he retrieved a scabbard from the pile at his feet, put it on, and sheathed the sword.

Then he turned on her. “Even a bawdy-house drab has more honor than you do.” Looming over her, he swept his arm about, indicating her retainers and the swords. “Have you looked at what you’ve wrought? Do you know you were about to dump hundreds of swords into the sea? The sea! God’s breath, I do think you’re mad. Nay, possessed. You belong in Bedlam, where you can bang your head against walls and bite your own fingers and toes.”

Pen felt the sting of tears. He was treating her like folk had in England, and without even knowing her secret. She grew cold as she realized she’d never thought it could be herself rather than her gift that people disliked.

Tristan was still railing at her, but she remained stunned as another, even more frightening realization came to her. Never had she thought his good opinion would matter to her so. And, dear God, it was important to her because she loved this furious, sensual man.

The skin around her eyes ached from holding back tears. Her throat grew sore from trying not to cry. She heard him order Dibbler to drag the weapons back to the castle.

Dibbler kicked at a bundle. “We’re the mistress’s men, not yours.”

“Dibbler,” Tristan said. “I’m going to pull out your tongue and make you eat it.”

Pen swallowed, trying to hold on to her composure
in the face of her discovery, and managed to speak. “Content you, Dibbler. There is no purpose now that he’s discovered us. Do as he says.”

As she finished, she lost the battle to hold back her tears. Oh, God, he was coming for her! She threw out her hands to ward him off, but he gripped her upper arms and drew her to him.

“I hate traitors.”

He shoved her from him and was about to continue, but she stopped him with a half sob.

“No, I pray you. No more.” She paused to swallow another sob and desperately tried to keep hold of her reason. “I beg your pardon for my—oh, God, I never thought I’d fall in love with you!”

Tristan’s expression went blank. Aghast at herself, Pen whirled around, gathered her skirts, and ran. She heard him call to her, but raced for the castle without turning. Soon his voice faded in the distance. She ran all the way to the castle, gained the keep, and stumbled into her chamber. Throwing herself on her bed, she fended off the alarmed inquiries of Twistle and Nany. Upon her orders, they left her alone.

She lost track of how long she cried. It hurt to weep so violently, but she couldn’t stop the sobs. She hadn’t realized she’d been so lonely, until Tristan came. He’d forced her to understand her real nature, swept her into a maelstrom of love and desire. And now she’d lost him. She burrowed her head under a cushion and stuffed a fist in her mouth while she gulped and sobbed at the same time. Dear God, he hated her without truly knowing her.

And she’d shamed herself before everyone at the cliffs just now, assailing him with mawkish looks and blurting out her feelings. The thought of everyone from Turnip to Nany pitying her was like a malignant
growth in her heart and made her cry harder. She was trying to curl into a ball, when the pillow she’d stuffed over her head suddenly jumped out of her hands.

Gasping, she reared up on the bed to find Tristan standing over her with it in his hands. Her misery caused her to snatch the thing and hurl it at his head.

“Go away!”

Tristan dodged the pillow and sat on the bed. He dropped several kerchiefs before her. Taking them, she scrambled away from him to crouch near the bedpost. There she busied herself in sniffing, wiping tears, and blowing her nose on the kerchiefs. She jumped when he began to speak with unlooked-for gentleness.