Читать книгу Shadow Rider - Kathrynn Dennis - Страница 9

Fighting back a scream, Sybilla ducked beneath Sir Guy and knocked the water bucket over, kicking the straw to cover up the muck.

A deep male voice boomed from outside. “Show yourselves. On the order of the sheriff.”

Terror shot through Sybilla. Good saints. ’Twould be better to be accused of fornication than it would to be caught attending to the foal’s birth.

She threw her arms around Sir Guy’s neck and with a flying leap, she wrapped her legs around his waist.

He staggered, struggling to gain his footing. He toppled, taking Sybilla down with him. She landed underneath him. His handsome face directly over hers, he rested the weight of his upper body on his forearms and smiled down at her. He didn’t look at all surprised, or worried. If anything, amusement danced in his eyes.

Footsteps approached, the sound of boots stomping through crunchy snow. The mare and foal skittered into the corner.

Sybilla pressed her mouth to Sir Guy’s and kissed him hard, praying her ruse would be convincing. What did she know of lust and coupling, aside from what she’d witnessed mares and stallions do? She had never lain beneath a man.

Sir Guy took her lower lip between his teeth and gently sucked. “Open your mouth a little,” he muttered against her lips. “’Twill make it look more real.”

Much to Sybilla’s dismay, his tongue pressed its way between her slightly parted lips. He drew his head back for a moment and looked into her eyes. “Mistress Corbuc,” he whispered. “You are delicious. And I have a feeling…” He lowered his head and planted a searing trail of kisses on her eyelids and across her cheeks.

Sybilla’s heart jumped. The stolen kisses from the baker’s son three years ago were never like this—so arresting. Sir Guy’s passion stirred up something deep inside her––an alarming need for more. Instinctively, she lifted her chin and leaned her head back, allowing Guy to explore her neck, to go dangerously lower with his mouth. The heat from his lips set her skin on fire and sent goose bumps rippling down her arms.

God’s breath, what was he doing? What was she doing? The night watch was here!

Limbs flailing, she struggled, but her ill-thought effort only caused Sir Guy to shift. He settled his lower body between her legs, his firm shaft pressed immodestly against her mons. A sudden rush of heat flowed over her, starting from her core, spreading, and arousing more than just a hint of maidenly desire. A low moan escaped her lips.

Sir Guy grinned down at her. “If you are pretending your enthusiasm, Mistress Green Eyes, you should know that I am not. The passion that you stir in me is real.”

The barn doors banged open and a lantern flooded light into the darkness. From the floor, Sybilla could see the feet of three men: a guard’s boots, a priestly pair of slippers, and a finely crafted pair of leather shoes, dyed red, complete with silver buckles.

“What goes here?” bellowed the voice above the red shoes.

Guy lowered his head and whispered into Sybilla’s ear, “Trust me. I will not steal your colt––or your virtue. Remember that.” He jumped up and pulled Sybilla to her feet.

Trembling, Sybilla lowered her chin, hoping to hide her flushed face.

Glancing up, she watched a sardonic smile spread across Guy’s face. He tipped his head at the sheriff. “Good eve, Sheriff. What brings you here?”

The sheriff stroked his pointed black beard. His beady eyes studied Sybilla. “Mistress Corbuc? What businesses have you with this man?” His gaze roamed the length of her.

Sybilla lowered her eyes, wishing she was fully clothed. “I-I…”

Guy stepped forward. “Mistress Corbuc and I arranged a meeting. I wanted to see the colt she had for sale. We were just negotiating the price.”

Sybilla glanced away, alarmed. She’d never witnessed anyone address the sheriff as though he were no more than a beetle on a dung heap.

The sheriff cocked a well-groomed eyebrow. “She has no colt, unless the old mare has given birth. And you, Sir Guy, have no money left, having gambled everything you owned and lost. Unless of course, you plan on paying with a stolen emerald, the one belonging to Lord Hamon.”

Sybilla shot a glance at Guy. Good Lord, the man gambled like her father.

Guy narrowed his eyes. “Lord Hamon’s emerald? His sister stole it. I do not have it. You can check my person. If you dare.” His tone was calm, but the muscles in his jaw were tight.

The sheriff sneered, dimpling his cheeks. “Then you have stashed it somewhere and I intend to find it.” He peered inside the stall. Letting out an irritated breath, he wheeled around to face Sybilla. “The foal is not an hour old, Mistress Corbuc. The mare still has the birth sac hanging from her tail. Were you here, attending the delivery?”

Her whole body shook with denial. “No. I was only—”

The priest crossed himself. “Saints preserve us. The foal has four white socks. A familiar if there ever was. And Mistress Corbuc here delivered it, of that I can be certain. The watchmen checked the smith’s shed where she’s been sleeping and she was not there. That was an hour ago.”

The priest pushed his black hood from his head. It was Father Ambrose, who somehow had managed to grow fatter over the winter. He glared at Sybilla, his face flushed, his horse hair undershirt visible at the neckline of his black cassock. He looked warm and not at all like he was suffering a penance.

Indignant, Sybilla scooped up her blue dress and pulled it on over her head. She smoothed her tangled hair and faced the sheriff. “Good sir, the foal was born before the sun went down. He was already here when I checked after my supper. The afterbirth is there, but some mares will carry it for hours.” She pointed to Guy. “And the only devil I have cavorted with…is him. I confess. I left my bed an hour ago. He wanted to see the foal, having heard I would sell it. I did not know he had no money, or I never would have met him.”

She lowered her head. “I beg forgiveness for my carnal weakness, Father, but that is my only sin tonight.”

The ease with which she lied amazed her. Guilt stabbed at her stomach as she glanced at Guy’s bemused face.

In the momentary silence, Etienne and his mother strode into the barn, the determined Margery in the lead. She was a small woman, with button eyes and a severe mouth permanently puckered with determination. Her mouse-brown hair was thin and her eyes were sunken, like someone who had not had a decent meal in months. She pushed her way between the men and pulled her tattered woolen shawl around her frail shoulders.

Sybilla swallowed. Margery was never one to hold her tongue. Even when she tried to help, she had a way of making the situation worse.

Margery pointed at the priest. “You said, sir, that I should pray for a way to feed my children, that God would help me. Well, he did. He sent the Mistress Corbuc here to deliver this mare of a colt that was trapped inside her. She is my mare, Father. Mistress Corbuc an’ me, we struck a bargain. She said I could have the mare iffin I would give the ’orse shelter in my barn until the foal was weaned. The old mare woulda died, had not Mistress Corbuc helped with the birthing. My mare,” she repeated, “the one that’s gonna feed my children.”

A chill washed over Sybilla. Addy to slaughter? Margery had never mentioned that.

Margery knelt and bowed her head before the priest. “God bless the Mistress Corbuc. Have mercy on her. She’s saved more souls tonight than you have in a multitude of sermons.”

Sybilla groaned inwardly. Margery, say no more!

Father Ambrose’s face turned the color of a pomegranate. “She has broken the law.”

The sheriff nodded to the guard. “And so we have a witness, Mistress Corbuc. The widow Margery has just confirmed your crime. From this hour on, you will spend your days in Gambolt prison and await your trial.” He lifted the manacles from the guard’s hands. “If you are convicted as a Separate, you know what happens next.” He clucked as if he were disappointed. “Pity, to mar that lovely face.”

Margery’s mouth dropped open. “Corpus bones, Mistress Corbuc. I dinna mean to tell ’em what they wanted to ’ear.”

Sybilla squared her shoulders. “It’s all right, Margery. Sooner or later, they would have arrested me. I’ve long been like a burr beneath the Father’s cassock.”

Chains rattled. Iron cuffs opened wide.

Guy grabbed Sybilla’s wrist. “Hold, Sheriff. You have no say here.”

The sheriff glared at Guy. “By order of the bishop, I do, Sir Guy. I keep the law in Cornbury for the church and for Lord Hamon. And what’s this woman to you? As of this moment, she’s in my custody and the colt goes with me until he’s weaned. But, I am a fair man. Not unkind. I will let the Mistress Corbuc keep her dress and shoes. She will be transported to the prison first thing in the morning. She should be grateful she will not go there naked. I’ve a right to strip her now and drag her there before her trial, so egregious is her crime.”

He held the manacles out as if he expected her to put them on herself.

Guy kept his grip on Sybilla, but moved his other hand to his sword, his face stark with determination. He stepped toward the sheriff, the movement a calculated threat. “The disposition of Mistress Corbuc is not under your jurisdiction. The foal is nearly worthless, marked as it is. But she agreed to sell him to me for a half a shilling. And Mistress Corbuc has conscribed to work for me. I’ve employed her for three years’ worth of room and board. Her life is already mine, as is the foal’s. And I agreed to send a shilling to the widow for the old mare.”

Margery looked up, her eyes wide, her head bobbing in agreement.

Sybilla’s palms turned clammy. Sir Guy of Warwick just claimed her foal, and he had just claimed her––as his indentured servant—for three years!

God’s breath. She’d sworn to her mother she’d never be a servant. She’d seen the scars on her mother’s back, scars from a brutal master who’d beat her senseless and left her in a ditch to die. Bless the wicked master’s God-fearing wife. The woman feared her husband had committed murder—and demanded he set her mother free as penance. Her mother had kept the blood-stained servant’s dress in a chest for years thereafter as a reminder of what servants had to endure.

Sybilla shuddered. Sir Guy of Warwick could not truly expect her to give up her freedom. And she’d not part with Regalo, the colt who was her future, not for any price.

“No!” she blurted.

The word slipped out before Sybilla saw Margery’s pleading eyes. The poor woman looked stricken, as if she’d been given a brief reprieve, then ordered to the gallows. Addy wasn’t worth a shilling, even by the pound, but with that kind of money in her pocket, Margery could feed her family for a year.

Sybilla drew a deep breath and bit down on her lip. Giving up her freedom would save Addy, Margery, and her children. And it was the only way, at the moment, to avoid a stint in Gambolt prison. Her parents had died in that disease-infested place. They had not been criminals, just poor folk who could not pay their debtors. God’s bones, even if she lived through Gambolt prison, she’d be sentenced as a Separate. She’d not the courage or the strength for that.

Her heart raced. ’Twas best to play along with this ruse and survive.

She squared her shoulders and looked at Sir Guy. “I mean, no, Sir Guy, you agreed to give the widow Margery two shillings, not one.”

A sly grin spread across Sir Guy’s face. He spread his hands apologetically, as if he was sorry he had tried to cheat.

Sybilla bowed her head, feigning acquiescence. “And give her the half a shilling for my foal. I owe her for the hay.”

Guy opened his mouth as if in protest. He snapped his jaw closed and shrugged. “As you wish, Mistress Corbuc.” He nodded to Simon. “Sir Simon, pay the widow Margery. Use my winnings from the gaming tables, the coins I gave you for safe keeping last night.”

Simon swore an oath beneath his breath. He cut the small leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to Margery. “You’re lucky that he saved some back, but it’s all he’s got.” He shot a look at the sheriff, as if the last few words were meant for him.

Sybilla arched an eyebrow, surprised.

The sheriff folded his arms. “Sir Guy, I’ve orders from the bishop to arrest the Mistress Corbuc and Lord Hamon commands I find his stolen necklace. What do you suppose I should do?” He drummed his fingers on the leather purse buckled to his silver belt and cast a furtive glance at the priest. The priest bowed his head as if preoccupied with prayer.

Guy’s eyes locked with the sheriff’s. “Tell the bishop he will no longer be troubled by Mistress Corbuc. She has found employment as a servant to Sir Guy of Warwick and she will be leaving Cornbury. Tell Lord Hamon you could not find his necklace. You searched everywhere, even through the hay bales and the stall.” He said those last words slowly, hinting. He pointed his sword at the sheriff’s heart. “But know that I’m no thief, Sheriff. I do not take such accusations lightly. If you or Lord Hamon dares to challenge me on this, I relish the opportunity to settle, sword to sword. Man to man. No need to wait until the fighting season.”

The sheriff stepped back. “I will search the bales and stall myself. I promise I will find that necklace, Sir Guy. And if you and Mistress Corbuc are still in Cornbury at morning’s light, I’ll send ten men with pikes to hunt you down, if Hamon and his guard don’t find you first.” He thrust his fist at Sybilla and rattled the manacles. “Good riddance, Mistress Corbuc—that is, until we meet again. Given that you have cast your lot with this man,” he said, gesturing to Sir Guy, “you are just one step short of prison. You know the price for what you’ve done. You have escaped it, for now.”

Sybilla inwardly cringed, but she forced herself to stay composed.

The foal emerged from the shadowy corner. He sniffed the sheriff’s red shoes, spun around, flagged his tail and farted.

Sir Guy smirked at the sheriff. “Voilà. It appears my colt holds a rather low opinion of you, too.” He bowed with a flourish and touched the flat side of his sword to his forehead in mock salute.

The priest, Margery, and Etienne froze in silence, but Simon doubled over, hooting as Sybilla pressed her hand across her mouth to hide her grin.

The sheriff spat and planted both hands on his hips. “That colt is as common as a mule, Sir Guy. I know the rumors planted by the seer. She’s a Separate and a heretic. And Mistress Corbuc here has swindled you, for certain. The colt’s not magic and with four white socks, he is as worthless as she is. But ’tis a satisfying way to end my night. ’Tis clear you and Mistress Corbuc deserve each other. Get out of Cornbury before the cock crows.

With that he spun on his heels and left, the indignant priest stumbling behind him, scratching at the hay stuck in the seat of his cassock.