Читать книгу Shadow Rider - Kathrynn Dennis - Страница 11

Gray clouds filled the hazy midday sky and snow floated down, settling on the trees. The air crackled with winter’s bite and the frozen ground crunched as it gave beneath the horses’ footsteps.

Teeth chattering, Sybilla sat close against Sir Guy, unable to resist his warmth, but she kept a close eye on Regalo. Not yet one day old, he struggled through snow drifts as tall as his chest. He showed no signs of fatigue, but it was only a matter of time before his little legs would give out. She would have been right there beside him, had Guy not ordered her to stay mounted, promising he would carry the little beast if needed.

Sybilla pulled her cloak around her shoulders. Mother Mary, what had she agreed to? Was she really a servant now, and officially not the owner of herself, or of Regalo? Sir Guy had saved her life and her foal, and she wasn’t ungrateful, but the bargain they’d struck in the stables was just a ruse. He could not hold her to it. At first chance, when she was far from Cornbury, she would thank Sir Guy and Simon and depart, taking Addy and Regalo with her.

She closed her eyes and let Sir Guy’s solid warmth offer comfort. She hadn’t counted on that slight hitch in her breath every time she touched him or held his gaze too long. Even thinking about him now, the power in his legs and the feel of lap against her backside, made goose bumps ripple up her back. Mother Mary, he was handsome. It would be hard to leave.

Sybilla snapped her eyes back open and straightened.

Such thoughts were ridiculous, of course, and may prove to be dangerous. A penniless freeborn woman on the run from prison should be careful with her feelings, especially about a man she barely knows and one with such an enigmatic reputation.

By late afternoon, the dull gray sky had darkened. They’d stopped to rest deep in the woods, where the frozen trees and thickets offered cover from the worst of the biting wind and from their enemies.

Sybilla stood beside Regalo, her teeth clattering, rattling like pebbles in a box. She rubbed the colt’s neck with her bare hands, attempting to warm him. He stood quietly with his head down, his foggy breath blowing from his nostrils. Guy fed Bacchus, while Simon picked the snow-pack from the great horse’s hooves, and Addy stood quietly with her eyes closed.

A youthful voice pierced the air. “Ho there! I’ve found ye!”

Etienne emerged, jogging from his hiding spot in the woods. Breathless and pink cheeked, he handed Guy the pouch.

Without so much as a word to Etienne, Guy shook the contents into his gloved hand. Sybilla craned her neck to see.

A string of prayer beads spilled out. The shiny black beads, obsidian mayhap, were as dark and glittering as Regalo’s eyes. A delicate wooden cross, covered with mother-of-pearl roses, dangled at the end of a leather cord. Guy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and his fingers closed over the beads. Grief flooded over his face and he mouthed the words thank you to Etienne, before he turned away.

Sybilla lowered her eyes. God’s breath! There was no emerald in his pouch. Had she known the contents were so dear, she never would have ripped the little bag from his possession and hurled it across the darkened stall.

Simon patted Etienne on the shoulder and smiled.

Etienne stroked Addy’s neck reassuringly, but his gaze roamed the woods as if he wasn’t sure he was entirely safe. He’d always been a superstitious lad. He shivered, no doubt as much from fear as from the cold. A Separate, Joan the hayman’s wife, had died not far from here, months ago. Poor Joan had been blamed when Will Talbot’s cow birthed a one-eyed calf. Drunken Will, as he was known, had blubbered to the sheriff that Joan helped with the birthing. She’d been arrested, tried, and branded within an hour. ’Twas the beating that ended her life. Her naked body had been dragged into the woods and left unburied, as an example to anyone who defied the law. ’Twas said the dead woman’s ghost still wandered in the woods, looking for her grave.

The thought of dying here, alone, exposed, and unable to fend off the wolves, made Sybilla tremble.

Guy spoke softly. “Time to leave. Hamon will send more men to search.” He offered her his hand.

On impulse, Sybilla reached out, glad for the comfort of his touch. Suddenly, she halted. She scanned the wooded cove for Regalo. He was never far, but now the little colt stood not fifty feet away, like a hound pointing at a rabbit hole.

His ears pricked forward. He kept his sad eyes focused on the thicket in front of him. He turned his head when Sybilla called his name, but otherwise, he did not move.

Sybilla walked slowly toward him. Beneath the twisted, frozen branches of the thicket, where the wind whirled close to the ground, she caught a glimpse of a human form, or part of one, leg jutting from the snow.

Her heart almost stopped.

She covered her mouth with her hands and stepped back, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight—a woman’s leg, the frozen flesh marred by wolves, the bare foot missing most of the toes. Though she could not see the woman’s face, tufts of familiar coppery-red hair poked through the snow.

A gust of wind broke through the trees and snaked around Sybilla. She fought back a scream, her body shaking.

She wanted to run, to flee as fast as her feet would go to take her to—to where? She was safe nowhere. Not in Cornbury, not anymore, and mayhap not in the neighboring villages, or further. The bishop’s law applied to all of England and news of her near arrest and of Regalo’s strange markings would travel like fire over dried grass.

She felt Guy’s arm wrap around her. He pulled her close, his warmth and strength enveloping her like a blanket. “Come away from here, Mistress Corbuc,” he whispered.

Sybilla’s heart beat hard, so hard she could hear it thumping in her chest. She motioned to the snowy corpse. “’Tis Joan the hayman’s wife. I heard her screaming when they branded her. She was my friend. If I am not careful, there lies my fate.”

Not waiting for his response, she pulled away from him, turned and bolted toward Bacchus. “I must not be arrested.”

Guy mounted Bacchus and pulled her up to sit behind him, Etienne mounted Addy.

Simon glanced at Guy. “Let the boy come?”

Guy nodded and spurred Bacchus onward, toward a path that lead out of the cove and back into the woods. “The ground is frozen solid and Hamon’s men are sure to follow, else I’d bury the hayman’s wife for you, Mistress Corbuc. But know this, you’ve no one to fear. Not while you are with me.”

No one but a greedy sheriff, a superstitious priest, and Lord Hamon, a ruthless overlord who’d have put my head upon a pike before he’d call me daughter.

Sybilla kept a close watch on Etienne and Regalo. Regalo dragged along and Etienne huddled close to Simon. The boy’s body shook when the wind kicked up. He’d not an ounce of body fat on his skinny frame to keep him warm. Guy and Simon, seemingly impervious to the cold, bantered on about great battles, the superiority of Gascon wine, and the merits of the broadsword over the mace. Their deep voices droned on as if they hadn’t a worry in the world.

Her backside stiff and cramping, Sybilla twisted round again to make certain Regalo was still at Addy’s side.

Regalo lagged far behind, a good stone’s throw from his mother. His head hanging low, his stride more languid and wobbly than it was just minutes before, he ambled, losing ground with every step.

Sybilla grabbed Guy by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop. Now!”

Before Bacchus had come to a complete halt, Sybilla jumped off his back and hurried to the colt. She lifted his head and studied the inside lining of his lower eyelid. The flesh there was pale and turning gray. She called to Guy, who was already stomping through the snow and motioning for Simon to follow.

Sybilla called out to Guy. “Mother Mary, I feared this would happen!” Panting, she scrambled to her feet and dragged the drooping Regalo toward Addy. “He needs to nurse, Sir Guy. Pray Addy has some milk.”

Guy wrapped his arms around Regalo and moved him close to Addy. He spoke softly to the colt and nudged Regalo’s muzzle to Addy’s teat. “We are not far from a place we can rest, Regalo,” he said, stroking the colt. “Drink, little one. We cannot linger here.” The colt made no effort to latch on.

Sybilla warmed her hands with her breath and reached underneath Addy’s belly to massage the old mare’s udder. The mare’s teats were flat and cold, and her bag was soft, empty.

Sybilla closed her eyes. “’Tis as I feared. She has no milk. Her udder is collapsed. She needed more than moldy hay these last few months.” Sybilla glanced at Regalo. His glazed eyes gave his face a vacant look, as though he was in another world. Sybilla lowered her head and took a deep breath. She had the heart-breaking suspicion there was more to his affliction than lack of milk.

She raised her gaze to Guy. “We need to find a nurse mare, or a cow. Even a goat would do. Regalo needs to eat and rest.”

“There’s smoke rising over the treetops ahead, a crofter’s house and a fire. We can ask if they have stock. But Hamon’s men will soon be on our trail. We must make haste.”

He cast a warning glance at Simon. Simon turned his face away from Sybilla and wrapped his fingers around his sword hilt. Etienne lowered his eyes, a tinge of pink coloring his pale cheeks.

Sybilla shot a questioning look at Guy. “What lies ahead? Whatever danger, we must risk it. Mayhap the crofter has a cow or goat. Regalo will die without sustenance.” She stood up, noting she could no longer feel her own frozen feet. “Regalo can barely walk.”

Guy knelt, gathering Regalo up in his arms. “He won’t have to, Mistress Corbuc. But you get back on Bacchus and get warm.”

With a grunt, he hefted the foal over his head, onto his shoulders. Regalo’s spindly legs dangled like broken sticks and he lowered his neck, resting his chin on Guy’s chest. Guy straightened. The muscles in his forehead and jaw tightened, yet his stance did not falter.

He gripped Regalo by the fetlocks and spoke sternly to Sybilla. “Do as I ask, Mistress Corbuc. Get on Bacchus before you freeze to death.”

Sybilla swallowed. Carrying Regalo was an act of strength and gentleness she’d not expected. The deed sparked her curiosity about the soul that made the man.

She stood unmoving, staring at the battle-hardened warrior, a man with legs like tree trunks, a narrow waist, massive shoulders, and a colt slung across his back. Good Lord, could he carry her like that if he had to?

The corners of Guy’s dark eyes creased. “Mistress Corbuc, I do not wish for you to sicken, too. Do as I ask. Hurry.”

Sybilla bit down on the inside of her cheek. He’d asked her, not ordered her to mount. Surely that meant he did not consider her his servant, or intend to hold her to the ill-thought agreement she made in the barn? She was glad to do as he asked.

Sybilla leapt on Bacchus.

As soon as she got to the cottage she and Guy of Warwick would talk.

Smoke curled from the short chimney on the crofter’s dwelling. The place was an oblong cottage with a snow-piled roof, a structure large enough for a family and their livestock. But no one came into the yard as they approached.

Guy lowered Regalo to the ground. The colt was so weak, he promptly lay down and rested his head in the snow. Sybilla dismounted and knelt beside Regalo, stroking his neck, brushing away the icicles hanging from his short mane.

“We’ll have you by a fire, in just a moment longer, and get you milk,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes, and her heart sank while she watched his breathing slow.

Simon and Etienne slid from Addy’s back. “Looks safe, Guy.” Simon stamped his feet and tucked his hands beneath his armpits. “I say we venture inside.” His breath was as thick as fog.

Guy drew his sword, his eyes wary, but before he could answer, the cottage door opened.

A woman stepped across the threshold.

Sybilla stood transfixed.

The woman wore a rich red overdress of fine damask, with dangling sleeves lined with ermine. Her sable hair, unbound, tumbled down her back, framing a regal face with smooth skin and full crimson lips. Dark, arching eyebrows swept upward over luminous brown eyes. She was no crofter’s wife, or huntsman’s woman. Her elegant bearing bore a stark contrast against the humble cottage.

Guy smiled a slow but knowing smile.

The woman held her hand up in greeting as she surveyed the rest of the traveling party. Simon craned his neck to look around her, attempting to see inside the cottage. Etienne turned pink and looked at his feet.

Sybilla endured the woman’s scrutiny. Guy was not a stranger to this woman.

Guy glanced back at Sybilla, a look of contrition on his face, almost apologetic, yet at the same time, asking for her trust.

“Greetings, Lady Morna.” He addressed the woman as though they were at high court.

Sybilla shifted on her feet. So this was the famous Lady Morna—the gifted seer, renowned for her beauty, and cast off by her noble husband? Sybilla had never dared to get this close. ’Twasn’t safe for horse midwife to be seen with a seer who lived on the edge of churchly persecution, too.

Lady Morna smiled.

Turning her gaze to meet the woman’s dark eyes, Sybilla saw the mark––the small, blackened half-moon, no bigger than a thumbprint, burned into her left cheek––the mark of a Separate.

The mark did not mar the Lady Morna’s dark beauty, but a chill rippled up Sybilla’s neck. She clenched her fist to keep from touching her own cheek.

By the saints, what had this gentlewoman done? And how had she survived? By her dress and well-kept cottage, Lady Morna lived far better than most peasants. She had some means, mayhap a wealthy patron of noble birth who did not fear the law. Common folk caught consulting, or bringing food or clothing to a Separate would face a lashing, or worse.

Sybilla shivered. She risked her life by just being in this woman’s presence. Sir Guy and Sir Simon might not be charged for consorting with her, but she doubted she or Etienne would escape punishment if they were caught.

Regalo nickered, a small nicker, so weak it was barely audible. Sybilla stroked his head, wishing he’d been born a month later, when the sun would have been warm and Addy would have had the chance to graze on green grass. He looked so frail now, and he had that distant look in his eyes, one that told her he would worsen.

Sybilla struck that thought from her head. A warm fire and a little rest and milk could save Regalo. She would take the risk and shelter with a Separate to get him what he needed if that would save his life.

Lady Morna glanced at Regalo, resting at Guy’s feet. She took a deep breath. Her voice tight, she spoke with strained calmness. “Sir Guy, I see you’ve found your horse.”

Guy nodded. “As you said I would, my lady.”

Lady Morna turned her attention abruptly to Simon. “Be at ease, Sir Simon. There’s no guard inside. No one’s waiting for an ambush.”

Simon snorted and looked away.

Etienne shuffled, tossing snow with the toe of his shoe.

“And you, young Etienne,” she continued. “You want to be a knight like Sir Guy? Lurking by my cottage hoping to see me naked is not the way. Go home to your mother. Work hard and grow strong so you will be ready when you’re called from the fields to battle.”

With a sheepish look, Etienne nodded once. As he turned to leave, Guy whistled to call him back. He tossed the boy his overtunic. Delight spread across Etienne’s young face. He pulled the garment over his head and scampered off, the hem dragging in the snow.

Simon sighed. “God’s teeth, Guy. Your cloak to Mistress Corbuc and your tunic to the boy. Do you want to freeze to death?”

Guy ignored his friend. “Lady Morna, your beauty would tempt any man––or boy. You cannot blame the lad for trying. Might we share the warmth of your hearth tonight?” He bowed and with his head down, he winked at Sybilla.

Sybilla pressed her lips together and forced a blank stare. She couldn’t help the twinge of jealousy that squeezed her heart. It wasn’t a rational feeling. She had no claims on the knight who’d come to her rescue and wasn’t even sure she could trust him. Why did it matter if he flirted with the seer?

Sybilla shot Guy her most indifferent look.

Rising, Guy grinned. He took Lady Morna’s slender hand. “I’m sorry we parted so abruptly when last we met. I had urgent business to attend to.”

Her face serene, Lady Morna didn’t answer right away, but her eyes belied calculating insight. She leaned toward Guy and squeezed his outstretched hand, a familiarity that confirmed Sybilla’s suspicions. Guy and Lady Morna knew each other well.

Lady Morna spoke in a low voice. “You are always welcome here, Sir Guy. Few knights would risk the company of a lonely noblewoman who’s fallen far from grace. Bring your colt and your friends inside. But hurry. Lord Hamon’s men are sure to be searching for you.” She lifted her long skirts and made a half-turn toward her cottage.

A look of relief swept across Guy’s face. He knelt and scooped the fading Regalo into his arms.

Her dark eyes alight with understanding, Lady Morna stopped to study Sybilla. “Mistress Corbuc, be kind in your assessment of me. We both do what we must to survive. I know what saving your colt has cost you. Why don’t you tell them what’s really wrong with the foal?”

Sybilla’s knees went weak. “He needs milk,” she replied, shifting from one foot to the other.

Lady Morna shook her head.

Sybilla lowered her eyes. She could name a dozen maladies—twisted guts, water head, jaundice, or navel ill. All grave conditions, but none as lethal as the one she refused to say, the one that was the cause of Regalo’s weakening. It would be better for Regalo, and for her, not to reveal his condition. Guy of Warwick might abandon them both and they’d surely die out here in the cold.

She lowered her eyes. “He was fine until the last few hours. He’s just tired and hungry.”

Lady Morna held her hand out and motioned for her to follow. “Come now, Mistress Corbuc, your knowledge and intuit exceeds those who usually ply your trade. Confess. Tell your friends what the colt’s problem really is. They’ll see it soon enough.”

Sybilla folded her arms to steady her nerves. Lady Morna was right. Soon Regalo would reveal his malady to all. If Guy cast her and colt aside once he heard the news, so be it. She wouldn’t blame him. Villagers would stone a foal with this affliction, and probably her too, for bringing him into the world.

She faced Guy straight on. “Regalo has been elfshot.”

Guy’s mouth gaped open. Simon gasped.

Morna stepped across the threshold, one foot inside her cottage. “Now tell them the rest of it, Mistress Corbuc, so they are prepared.”

Sybilla took a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and locked her gaze with Guy’s. “By midnight Regalo will be sitting on his haunches, barking like a dog and staring at the stars. Pray he lives the night.”

Guy ran his hands through his hair and let out an exasperated groan. “Elfshot! How? And how long have you known, Mistress Corbuc?”

Sybilla couldn’t lie. “From the moment he was born, but I had hoped he was just a sprite and gifted.” She took a deep breath. “It happens when a foal is stuck in the birth canal too long. ’Twas no fault of his own, or mine, Sir Guy.”

Sir Guy looked mournfully at the foal. The great knight’s shoulders slumped like a man whose hope dissolved before his very eyes.

Sybilla rested her hand on Sir Guy’s arm. No need to tell him Regalo would soon be as addle-brained as a rabid sheep, prone to wandering and howling at the moon and barking like a dog. Even Addy had begun to distance herself from her foal. She hadn’t whinnied for him since they’d left the road in Cornbury.

Sybilla pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. She should have prepared for this as soon as Etienne told her there was a problem with the birthing. But what could she have done to prevent it? In the end, she could not have changed the outcome.

She braced herself for what was sure to come.

Guy of Warwick would surely cast her and Regalo off. Then what would she do?

Guy locked his gaze on hers. “I don’t believe in elves, Mistress.” She watched as he knelt and lifted the ailing Regalo into his arms. “Come inside with us. There’s food and a fire.”

A wave of relief washed over Sybilla, and she quickly fell in step behind Lady Morna, Guy, and Simon.

She scanned the dimly lit interior. A comfortable place, with a finely carved oaken table; thick candles sputtered on the mantle and a graceful tall-back chair and spinning wheel sat beside the hearth. Oaken chests lined the walls and in the far corner, goats baa’d and stuck their heads between the slatted fencing that formed a livestock pen.

Guy set Regalo down by the fire, and Simon led Addy to the pen. The scent of spiced hot stew and warm bread mingled with the smell of animals and herbs.

Guy’s deep voice boomed above the livestock noises. “Mistress Corbuc, sit down and eat.” He pointed to the table. “A meal will warm you.”

Vaguely aware of the steaming bowl of stew Lady Morna thrust into her hands, Sybilla lowered herself to the bench. She watched the foal lying on his side next to the fire, his feet paddling aimlessly. He smacked his lips like a fish and blinked, his eyes staring at nothing. Her heart sank. If Regalo died tonight, all she had to live for was lost.

Guy removed Sybilla’s snow-soaked cloak and wrapped a heavy blanket around her shoulders. Warmth settled over her, but she set the bowl aside. Fatigue had claimed her appetite.

Guy stoked the fire, fanning the kindling with a bellows. “Simon would you milk the goat? It’s for Regalo.”

Simon choked on his spoon. He looked up from his steaming bowl of stew. “Me? Milk the goat? I’m a knight, Guy. Why do I have to—” He clamped his mouth shut, his complaint cut short by Guy’s beseeching look.

Guy came to the table and rested his big hand on Sybilla’s shoulder, his touch reassuring.

“You rest. I’ll feed him, Mistress Corbuc. He’ll get better. Wait and see.” He reached for a fur coverlet resting on a stool. He tossed the fur over Regalo.

Lady Morna’s gentle voice drifted from the darkened corner. “He won’t take milk from you, Sir Guy. He’s chosen her.” She pointed to Sybilla. “’Tis the way for a colt who’s been elfshot. He’s lost affinity for the mare and bonded to another—her.”

Guy spun around. “Only Mistress Corbuc?”

Lady Morna nodded. “He’ll only let her feed him. For days, mayhap weeks. Who knows?”

Guy shot a befuddled look at Sybilla. Sybilla lowered her eyes. What Lady Morna said was true. ’Twas a common thing for an elfshot foal to reject the mare and bond with someone, or something else. She had seen an elfshot foal become attached to a wine barrel.

The goat brayed. Squirting milk hit at the bottom of a pail while Simon grumbled and Lady Morna spoke softly to her animals, and to Addy, though the old mare seemed indifferent.

Guy swore beneath his breath. “Then come, Sybilla. I’ll prop him up while you feed him.”

The winter chill chased away by the fire’s heat, Sybilla could actually feel her toes and fingers. Guy had shown nothing but kindness to her, the least she could do is do what he asked. He seemed just as determined to save Regalo as she.

Sybilla eased from the bench. “His affliction was an act of nature. You know that don’t you?”

Guy grunted. “I’ve no fear of the foal or of you, mistress, if that’s what troubles you. Rest assured, I’m not of mind to put you or the colt aside. But if what Lady Morna says is true, as I suspect it is, I will require your company for weeks.”

Sybilla sat down beside the foal and slipped her finger between his velvet lips. He stopped smacking for a moment and made a weak attempt to suckle, his soft lips pursed and his tongue curled at the edges. She sat back on her heels, surprised and relieved he hadn’t lost that vital reflex.

“Blessed Mother,” she said, her voice more animated than she intended, “he’s trying to drink.”

Guy propped Regalo upright and Sybilla held a wine skin filled with goat’s milk to the foal’s mouth. He slurped and dribbled, spilling as much as he took in.

Lady Morna donned her red velvet cloak. “We’ll need more firewood.” She slipped on her deerskin gloves.

Guy turned to Simon. “Simon, could you––”

Simon held up his hand. “Help her? Why of course,” he answered, then mumbled, “Milk the goat, fetch the wood…” He pulled his cloak over his shoulders. “Guy of Warwick, if you hadn’t saved my arse at Balmont I’d refuse. But the ladies tell me it’s a good arse and I’m glad to have it still, thanks to you.” Simon winked at Sybilla and followed Lady Morna out the door.

A sharp blast of winter wind sliced through the cottage before the door slammed shut.

Guy nudged Sybilla with his elbow. “Let me try to feed Regalo. You’re exhausted and there’s still hot stew and fresh bread on the table.”

Sybilla shook her head, though the very thought of warm brown bread and rabbit stew made her woozy. “He’ll not let you.”

Guy took the wine skin from Sybilla’s hands and held it to the foal’s lips. Regalo closed his mouth, his head weaving, his eyes glazed and vacant. He spit the spout from his mouth and rested his chin on his knees, ignoring Guy.

Guy’s brow furrowed. He handed the wineskin to Sybilla and watched, his expression thoughtful.

Sybilla put the spout into Regalo’s mouth. He suckled ’til the wineskin had emptied. Apparently satisfied, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Sybilla rubbed the foal’s ears, acutely aware of Guy’s nearness, of the way he watched her, the way he knelt so close beside her, their shoulders touching.

Reaching across the foal, she pulled a deerskin cover over his haunches. At the same time, Guy reached across her lap for the emptied wineskin. The tip of his nose grazed her cheek.

Startled, she drew back and parted her lips to say, “I’m sorry.”

His mouth covered hers before she uttered a single word.

His lips warm and pliant, caressed her, the taste of him pleasingly rich. His arm slipped around her waist and as he drew her closer, her back arched. Her breasts crushed against his solid chest, she could feel his heart thudding, pounding as hard as her own.

His breath quickened and his hand skimmed up her back and came to rest on her shoulder.

Lord help her, but she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and bury her face in his warmth.

Just as quickly as he’d swept her up, he broke their embrace and drew back.

The door banged open and in stomped a snow-dusted Simon, his arms filled with wood. His eyes flashed with bemusement—and with warning. Lady Morna came in behind him, her dark gaze focused on Sybilla.

Sybilla wiped her mouth and turned away, unable to meet Lady Morna’s eyes or to look at Guy. Mother Mary, why had he kissed her? What was it about this man that drew her in?

She gulped. He was now her employer, some would say her master—which she intended to address, and soon. But, he hadn’t introduced her to Lady Morna as his servant.

She touched her lips with her fingers. She could still taste him, a wonderful taste, rich and smoky, all man, a taste that left her wanting more.

Would he expect more?

Heat crept up her neck.

Simon cleared his throat. He dumped the wood beside the hearth and stretched his arms over his head. He yawned. “If I’m done with all my chores now, I’ll be turning in.” He bedded down, his makeshift pallet a long wide chest stashed against the wall, opposite the goat pen.

In the silence, Lady Morna looked at Guy. “I see,” she said, softly, her face impassive. She glanced at Sybilla. “Get some rest if you can. You must all leave here before the dawn.”

Guy turned slowly to face the beautiful seer, his eyes apologetic, like a child who’d been caught with his hand in the sweetmeats. “I’m sorry, Morna. We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

She nodded. Without another word, she ascended the ladder to the loft like an angel dressed in red, with her long dark hair shimmering in the firelight.

Still reeling from his inexplicable kiss, Sybilla steadied her tingling nerves by pulling her knees beneath her faded blue skirt and hugging her legs to her chest. Guy kept his eyes on the loft. When the rustling above ceased, he lowered himself beside her and stared into the fire. Only the sound of Regalo’s tiny wheeze breached the silence in the room.

Guy reached to stroke Regalo’s cheek. “I apologize to you too, Mistress Corbuc, for kissing you. You’ve not invited my attentions. I was glad to see Regalo drink, that’s all.”

Something in his tone told Sybilla he was glad to see Regalo rally, but he wasn’t sorry for the kiss. Now that her fate and livelihood were intertwined with his, she best set some boundaries. Her heart told her ’twas time to be on guard.

“Sir Guy, I wish to make it clear, I cannot stay in your employment for three years. I would have agreed to anything in front of the sheriff to avoid arrest. Surely you don’t hold me to the agreement we made in the stables. I cannot be your servant.”

Guy straightened his legs. Hell to the devil. He’d planned to set Sybilla Corbuc free once they were safely out of Cornbury. But he intended to keep the colt and she was the only one who could feed the little beast. Releasing her was out of the question. And then there was that kiss, that incredibly delectable kiss…

He took a deep breath. “Mistress Corbuc, I consider our arrangement binding.”

Sybilla’s mouth gaped. “But I am a freeman. Pay me an honest wage and I will willingly take care of Regalo while I earn enough coin to buy him back.”

The fire crackled and Regalo stirred, switching his tail.

Guy stared at Sybilla. Pay her? Buy Regalo back? How could she be so determined, but uncomprehending?

He leaned toward her. “I can’t release you from our bargain. I intend to keep the colt and only you can feed him. I cannot pay you, mistress. I’ve no coin. No wages until the fighting season starts. Even then, I’ll not sell Regalo. Not to you, nor to anyone. I’ll provide a roof over your head, clothes, and food, and you will live with me as my servant. For three years. I’ll keep my side of our agreement. You are honor-bound to keep yours.”

Guy’s words felt like a dagger twisting in her heart. Sybilla sucked in her breath. God’s breath, the man had saved her life and Regalo’s. She owed him for that, but three years of servanthood and giving up Regalo?

She rose to her knees, shaking. “Why is my horse so important to you?”

Simon’s snoring skipped a honk.

Guy leaned toward her. “He is the horse Lady Morna says will help me find the murderer I seek. What can be more important than that?”

“I need him. His stud fees will pay the collectors who’ve claimed my family’s horse farm. Without him, I’ve no way to live. No hope of ever buying back what I have lost.”

Guy held up his hands. “No hope? No way to live? Mais je vous ai sauve, non? But I have rescued you, no? For three years you will be provided for, and you can help me train the colt. By then he’d be big enough for me to ride and you will have your freedom. But, I will not sell him even then.”

Sybilla fumed. His smattering of French annoyed her. She folded her arms. “But he is mine and I was born a freeman. I don’t know how to live any other way.”

Guy rolled a dazed Regalo into an upright position. “Then you must learn, Mistress Corbuc. It is not too much ask. I saved your life. Now help me save his.” He patted Regalo. “Roselynn and baby John were murdered. They were innocents, Mistress Corbuc. Help me avenge their deaths,” he added softly.

Sybilla sank down. She was indeed indebted to Sir Guy of Warwick for saving her life, and she sympathized with his loss, even felt the grief in his words. But three years?

A sense of obligation filled her heart. God’s bones, Sir Guy of Warwick had a way of persuading her to agree to things she should not. She pushed the spout of the wineskin into Regalo’s mouth. “Three months. Regalo should be weaned by then. Agree I have repaid my debt in three months.” She lifted her chin.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Lift your head like that, slightly to the left with your chin jutting out. You do that every time, just before you say something you know I will not like. It is not the mannerism of a servant. Best not to do it.”

Sybilla wiped at an imaginary smudge on her cheek with the back of her hand, a habit she had when she was agitated. “Sir Guy, I implore you, give me leave in three months’ time. Agree my debt to you is paid by summer’s end.”

Regalo stopped suckling.

Guy took a deep breath, his face pensive. “Six months. More time to wean him. But you must understand—six months, or six years from now, I will not sell the colt. And you cannot practice horse midwifery while you live with me at Ketchem Castle. The law there is no more forgiving. For six months you will simply be my servant.”

Sybilla felt the blood pool in her feet. “Ketchem Castle? You are taking me there?”

Guy nodded. “It’s where I live and train. I am a knight in service to my lord. Where did you think I would take you?”

Sybilla tossed the wineskin aside. Her empty stomach suddenly felt like it was filled with lead. She glowered at Guy. “I hadn’t thought that far. I cannot live in a castle. The stink, the noise, the walls. Six months at Ketchem is too much.”

Regalo flopped back onto his side.

Guy’s eyes darted to the foal. “Three months then. Three months you will stay and work at Ketchem as my servant, and then you are free to leave.” He leaned back, crossed his ankles and stared into the fire. “In three months take your leave, go to Scotland, or to Ireland where it’s safe to ply your trade, or take a husband if you choose…”

Sybilla looked up, alarmed. Marriage was as bad a fate as servanthood as far as she was concerned. Her mother labored on the farm while her stepfather gambled away everything they earned. And the day the collectors came, she’d sent her fourteen year old daughter from her arms and climbed into the debtor’s wagon along with the man she said she loved. That kind of love Sybilla would never understand. She’d never marry, never put her heart, or her fate, in a man’s hands.

She sat down, tucking her feet beneath her. “I’ve no interest in a husband, Sir Guy. I’m better off alone. I’ve lived on my own since I was girl. It hasn’t always been easy, but I am not afraid of hard work. With God’s grace and the generosity of Margery, the smith and others, I’ve survived. I’ve still got my freedom.”

Guy’s gaze swept over her and he raised his eyebrows, as if to say he’d seen beggars who were better off.

Sybilla straightened her shabby blue gown, a sackcloth compared to Lady Morna’s garments. Shame tugged at her pride. There’d been a time when she’d owned two fine dresses, and her family had inhabited a cottage much like this one, with a stone floor and finely carved furnishings.

Guy arose. “I’ll see that you get a new dress once we arrive at Ketchem.”

Sybilla felt her cheeks flush. By the saints, as if she cared if he thought her poorly dressed.

He pulled her to her feet and spun her round to face the table. “You need to eat, Mistress Corbuc. And rest. I’ll wake you to feed Regalo. We leave for Ketchem at morning’s light and not an hour later.”

Sometime in the wee hours of the night, Guy raised his heavy eyelids. After his last swig of ale, he’d laid his head down on the table, but even when sheer exhaustion plagued his wakefulness, sleep evaded him.

He rubbed his bleary eyes and focused. The fire had long grown dim, and Regalo still slept, his form obscured by shadows. Mistress Corbuc sat next to him, slumbering with her arms sprawled across the table, her chin resting next to a half-eaten bowl of stew and her fingers still clutching a spoon. Her eyes were closed, and thick, pale lashes lay against her fair cheeks. Her golden hair spilled down her shoulders.

She was not much older than his sister, Roselynn, who had been so fair of face she’d captured the attention of a wealthy, landed knight. Sir Walter Highthorn was too old to be her husband, but he was kind and rich and when he offered for her hand in marriage, Roselynn accepted. Like Mistress Corbuc, she’d had the same fiery spirit, and the same sense of pride.

Guy studied the faint freckles scattered across Sybilla’s nose. He denied the impulse to touch her, to run his fingertips across her smooth, white cheeks. Part of her appeal was her dogged independence. So like his sister, who’d been insistent she could take care of herself and her son after Sir Walter died. The old knight’s heart had simply stopped while he slept by the fire one evening.

It wasn’t long thereafter when raiders came, riding in on the cloak of night, hiding in the darkness while they did their murderous work.

At that thought, Guy’s belly burned. He grabbed his gut. He’d brought death to his sister and his beloved nephew as if he’d killed them with his own hands. He’d been too long at war, eight years in France in the service of the king. Morna had begged him not to go…

He should have been at home watching over Baldwin Manor.

His heart heavy, Guy eased up from the table and he let his gaze roam the smoky cottage. An eerie sense of foreboding filled the air and his senses stood on guard.

Morna had predicted this strange little foal would lead him to the killer. He’d stop at nothing to keep the colt alive and in his possession. He hadn’t expected to be so drawn to the horse midwife who assisted with the foal’s birth and refused to let him go. Blessed saints. Why ever had he kissed her? Simon was right. Dangerous women always found him, or rather, he found them.

Regalo stirred, rousing Guy from his thoughts. The colt’s lips parted with a little grunt and he squeaked. Then a second squeak followed the first, the next deeper. Guttural. The colt sat upright, his front legs extended, his hind legs crooked beneath him. His ears pricked forward and he swung his head around to stare at Guy as if to say help me.

Regalo barked. Once. Then again. His eyes rolled back in his head and he lifted his nose, continuing to bark, the eruptions interspersed with dog-like whines that sounded much like howls.

Hell to the devil. The colt was howling and barking like a dog.