The High Sheriff of Huntingdon

The High Sheriff of Huntingdon

The Prophecy

White and
black they shall combine

Pure
as snow, as blood-red wine

Flame and fire
destroy them
both

Death and rebirth, blood
their troth

In thunder, rain, brought right again

And all shall
be as God’s design

1

“Where
is my
bride?”
Alistair Darcourt, the
high
sheriff
of Huntingdon, bellowed, his voice thundering
through
the
great hall, all conver
sation stopping
mid-spate.

His second in
command, Gilles De Lancey,
glanced up idly, his
beautiful
blue eyes
bright with
malice. “Why
should you care, cousin? It’s
not as
if you’ve
e
v
e
n
seen the woman.
Have you suddenly developed
a
lifelong
passion for
the
wench?”

Alistair leaned forward and shoved the
crockery from the
table
with
a
loud crash. The jug
of ale
upended
on
Gilles
,
who
leapt
to his feet with a curse.

“Don’t
try my patience,”
Alistair snarled. “I’m
not a
patient man.
I’ve been
a bridegroom
for
more
than a
week now, and I’ve
y
e
t to
see my
bride.”

“She has a
ways to travel,” Gilles said, brushing at his damp clothes
with maddening calm. “And
you have no idea how she’s going to
respond to the notion that she’s been married by proxy. After all, she’s been in the convent of the Sisters of the Everlasting Martyr since she
was fourteen
years
old. She might prove a bit intractable.
You
know how
wo
m
e
n are.”

Alistair Darcourt leaned
across
the cleared table, fixing his cousin with his odd, golden
eyes. Eyes that had been attributed
to
a
legacy
from
h
is
mother, the witch. Eyes of a madman.
“She wouldn’t
dare,” he said simply.

Gilles
laughed. “True enough.
Your
reputation pre
cedes you,
cousin.
No
human, male
or female,
would
dare
to
stand up
to
you.
I
i
ma
g
i
n
e
she’ll
arrive
at
Huntingdon
any
day now.
It’s
always possible that
s
h
e’
l
l be
worth
the long delay
.”

Alistair flung
himself
away
in
disgust
.
“I’m tired of
waiting
.
I’m celebrating
my wedding night, and it’s
a
great deal
too
bad that
my b
ri
d
e isn’t
here
to
participate.”
He gestured
toward a
p
l
u
m
p
young
girl
whose ripe
breasts were
spilling
out
of her
soiled red dress.
“You there,”
he
said,
s
na
p
p
i
n
g
his
fingers.

Gilles
watched them disappear,
no expression
on
his
e
xtremely
handsome
face. He’d
planned to take
that
particular girl
to
bed
that
night
himself.

But his
cousin
was
t
h
e high
sheriff
of Huntingdon,
and
his
power
was
absolute,
not
merely
t
h
a
t
of
a powerful
magistrate.
He
ruled with an
iron
fist,
and
Gilles was
only
his
lowly
vassal.
The
woman
could
wait. And then
he
would
p
u
n
i
s
h
her for
h
i
s
disappointment.
That
thought
made
the
wait all
the
more exciting.

Alistair’s bride was
g
o
ing to
be
an
interesting addition to
the
w
i
l
d
tenor
of Huntingdon Keep.
De Lancey seriously
doub
t
ed
whether
a
former
holy
sister
would
make much
o
f a difference to
the
controlled chaos
of D
a
r
c
o
u
rt
’
s
h
o
u
sehold.
Licentiousness
and violence
were part of
their daily
fare,
as mu
c
h
as
brown
ale
and
coarse bread.

Once
his
impatience
was satisfied
,
Alistair
w
o
u
l
d
take
no notice
of
Lady
Elspeth of
Gaveland.
He’d
married
h
er
for
a
piece
of
land,
and
t
h
e none-too-pressing need
for an heir. The bride
w
o
u
l
d
be
lucky
if
she
survived
t
h
e
f
i
rst
n
i
g
h
t
of Alistair’s rapacious demands,
much
less the
first year.

It would make
life
very
colorful, De
Lancey mused, and
usefully
distracting,
to
view the marriage of
a
holy
sist
e
r to a man
who
was generally
considered
to be the spawn
of a witch and
the
devil himself.

Very
distracting
indeed.

Lad
y
Elspeth had spent
the
first
three
d
a
y
s
of
the journey with
her
wrists
tied and
her mouth
gagged.
Her
e
steemed
father had
grown
tired of
her
shrieks
of
fury, her
calls
on
God
to
protect
her,
an
d
ordered
the
gag
for
his
own comfort.