The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (20 page)

It
was
a beautiful evening, with
a
warm summer breeze dancing through the windows,
a
full
moon silvering the inky dark sky,
the
cri
e
s
of night
birds
e
ch
o
ing
around the tower. The heavy
white habit had grown uncomfortably warm,
and Elspeth had
unfastened part
of the
o
v
e
r
d
r
es
s
in a
vain
effort to
co
o
l
off. Her
husband
seemed
to
have forgotten her
e
x
i
st
e
n
c
e
once
more, including
his
orders
to
burn
her clothes, and
for
that
she could only
be grateful. 
She’d
n
e
v
e
r
been
ov
e
r
f
o
nd
of the heavy white habits
favored by
the Sisters
of
the
Everlasting Martyr
, b
ut
since her sojourn
at
Huntingdon Keep, she found the
familiar
garments comforting.

She
heard
the
sound of the key
in
her door
with
complete 
disinterest. It
w
a
s
doubtless the servant
come to
remove
her
empty bowl
of
gruel. It
was
a good thing
she’d never
paid
m
u
c
h
attention
to the overrated pleasures
of
t
h
e
flesh. But after a
week, gruel was getting slightly wearisome, particularly when the scent of roast
mutton
drifted
up
to
her
window
on
the
warm
n
i
g
ht
air.

Or
h
e
r
visitor
m
i
gh
t be G
illes
De
Lancey.
He’
d
come
every
night and
s
ta
y
e
d
a decorous few minutes, asking after
her welfare,
kissing
her hand,
making
s
ure the
glow
ering Helva was
always
within hearing. But Helva
didn’t
see the
burning promise in his
undeniably
beautiful b
l
u
e
eyes,
didn’t
feel
the pressure
of
his
soft
lips against the back
of
her hand.
Helva didn’t see
what
Elspeth
could see full well:
that
all
she
had
to
do
was ask
and
Gilles De
Lancey
would
spirit
h
e
r
away from this place.

She still wasn’t sure
what had
kept
her
there.
Certainly
not
fear
of
her husband’s revenge.
Everyone had
gone to
great pains
to
inform
her that Alistair was
mad,
dan
gerous,
and
evil.
If
ev
e
n
half the
stories
about
him
were
true, her
time
on
this
earth was
already
nearing
its end. Her
only chance
of survival
was
to
escape.

But
something
kept
her
from
taking
that
step. Perhaps
it was
her
instinctive
distrust of men
who were
too hand
some. Perhaps it
w
a
s
the
unsettling effect
of Alistair’s
kiss.
Or perhaps she
was simply going
as
mad as her new husband
purportedly was.

She
was
standing
in
t
he
window,
staring
out into
the
n
i
g
h
t air,
when
t
h
e
door
opened
.
She
h
a
d
come to a
decision—if
De
Lancey
offered a
means of escape
she
would take
it. To
be
s
u
r
e
,
she’d
been
married
in
the
eyes
of God and
her
church. But
she’d
been miles
away
from
the
ceremony,
completely oblivious
, and while
no
one
had ever
suggested
that
a
bride
had
to agree to
being wed,
it only
seemed
fair
t
h
a
t
she at least be
consulted in
the matter.

The Sisters
of
the Everlasting Martyr might
offer
her
sanctuary from
t
he
sheriff’s
r
a
g
e
and her father’s bullying, though
they
hadn’t
been much help originally. Or perhaps
De
Lancey himself
knew
of
a
place where she
might
hide
until
the sheriff forgot
about his
runaway
bride.

She turned
,
plastering
a welcoming
smile o
n
her
face,
o
n
e
that froze when
she
saw
the black figure of her
husband filling
the
doorway.