It would be so simple to kill him, Peter thought. To slash through his throat and send his head flying. As he'd seen William kill so many times before. Infidels, he'd said. Worthless enemies of Christ who deserved to die. And in such inventive ways.
"No wine."
"Surely you don't think I'm going to let you take the girl and walk away? Not after I've gone to so much trouble to get you here. If you hadn't set that wretched Adrian to watch over me I would have cut your throat the first night out. You're damnably hard to kill, Peter."
"I always have been."
"But not this time." William gave a sudden hard jerk on the rope he held in one soft hand, and Eliz-abeth collapsed at his feet. A moment later he was on his knees beside her, holding a knife to her throat.
"She bleeds quite easily, Peter," he said cheerfully. "I was thinking I would cut her in a thousand places and watch the life blood drain from her."
It was Peter who felt cold, bloodless. "Let her go, William."
"Think of it this way. If you hadn't given that order no one would have set fire to the seraglio. All those women and children screaming into eternity, weighing on your conscience. Don't you think the only fair trade is to lose the woman who, inexplicably, is so important to you? You're a great one for sacrifice and denial. Why not make the greatest sacrifice of all. Her life as payment for the lives of all those women."
"I believed the seraglio was empty when I ordered it burned. You know that."
"Of course I do. Because I was the one who told you no one was inside. You were so pathetic, trying to rouse the other crusaders into stopping the fire. There was no way to stop it—the building was dry as dust. The people inside died far too quickly."
"But you didn't."
William pressed the knife against Elizabeth's throat, hard enough that a trickle of blood snaked down her pale skin. "No, I survived. As a grotesque, impotent creature, a monster, not a man."
"No, William. You were a monster long before I flung you into the fire."
He smiled, a saintly expression. "If you try to save her you'll be condemning her. Come any closer and I'll plunge the knife into her throat and watch her strangle on her own blood."
"You'll kill her if I don't try."
"But you can't be certain of that. As long as she still lives there's hope." He dipped his finger in the blood on her neck and brought it to his lips. "Which do you love more, Peter? Your immortal soul? Or this wretched female?"
"Let her go. You'll have a great deal more pleasure killing me."
"No, I won't. You'd sacrifice yourself for anyone—it's what you've been trying to do since you returned from the Holy Lands. No, this time you'll have to watch your loved one die, and the only way to stop it is to kill me. When I know that you can't break your holy vow." William put his hand on her chin, drawing her bruised face up to his. "Let's see, where shall I begin?" He put the bloody tip of his knife blade against her pale lips.
"Don't!" Peter's voice was anguished.
"You can't do anything about it, Peter. One of England's most gifted killers, and your holy vow is more important than your lady fair. Shame on you. Did you really think to argue her freedom? Appeal to my better nature? I have no better nature."
"No," he said.
"So tell me, which do you choose? Your immortal soul, or your lady?" He drew the knife down her cheek to the pulse below her chin.
"The lady," Peter said. And he flung the knife, straight and true.
The look of shock on William's angelic face would have been comical, if it weren't for the knife embedded in his throat.
And then he smiled. "I won," he choked, slashing the knife he still clutched toward Elizabeth's throat.
But she rolled away, and he pitched forward, driving the knife deeper in, and his own weapon skittered across the stone floor.
Peter picked it up, moving slowly across the room to cut the ropes that bound Elizabeth's wrists. He didn't even look at her, but past her to William's corpse. The blood pooled beneath him, spreading upward, around him like a halo.
He stared down at the lifeless victim and raised his voice. "Adrian!"
He'd been waiting, alert. "You've finished it, then?"
"Yes."
"What's to be done?"
"Take Elizabeth back to Saint Anne's. I'll see to the body."
"And the men?"
"We'll leave them be, trussed and helpless. Sooner or later they'll free themselves, and when they discover their lord is dead they'll disappear."
"And you?"
Peter looked at him blankly. "What about me?" He walked over to Elizabeth and put his hand beneath her chin. His skin felt like ice, like that of a man already dead. His eyes roamed her face. "There used to be a woman living near the market cross not far from here. If she's still there she could tend to her wounds. If not, get her back to Saint Anne's as fast as you can and she should be fine."
"And you?" This time it was Elizabeth's turn to ask.
The faintest of smiles curved his lips. "Goodbye, sweet scold." And he walked away, out of the hall, out of her life forever.
* * *
Chapter 27
It was on the very edge of summer. The apple blossoms had fallen away to bright green leaves, the sweet scent of lilacs filled the air, and the Shrine of Saint Anne bloomed with early roses and sweet william. And Elizabeth waited.
She'd lost count of the days since that terrible night when Peter had walked away, the blood of Prince William staining his monk's robes. No one spoke of him, and she asked no questions. She simply spent her days at the convent, doing her best to follow the order of the house, quiet and obedient for the first time in her life.
The disappearance of the bastard prince was quickly forgotten. Queen Isabella was with child again, and there would be no untimely falls to bring an early end to the pregnancy. A true heir would be born, and England would thrive.
And Elizabeth moved through the cloistered halls, meek and silent, a ghost of Peter's sweet scold.
She was living in a state of uncertainty, her mind blank, her heart numb. She knew she should make her vows, take the veil and all it involved, but even that step was too strenuous for her. She spent her time in the gardens, tending to the tiny shoots that were peeking forth from the rich soil, and Sister Marie Felix, the head gardener, set her to work, asking no questions, letting her grieve in silence.
Queen Isabella was not the only one with child. Joanna and Adrian were married before they left the shrine, and within a month she was already pregnant. Elizabeth could imagine her, glowing with joy, but imagination was enough. Nothing could make her leave the safe haven of the cloister, the daily round of prayers and duty. There was no child for her, as she'd known there wouldn't be, but for some reason she almost wept when her monthly courses came. But she wasn't one to weep.
The summer days grew long and hot, and still Elizabeth toiled beneath the sun, tending the garden, letting her pale skin burn beneath her short hair. It was slowly growing back, the same stubborn red she'd hacked off. Perhaps when it grew back completely she would stop thinking about what she must not think of, and make up her mind.
It rained for the first half of June, almost drowning the tiny plantlings. The first day the sun came out Elizabeth finished her morning prayers. It would still be too wet to garden, and she was lost.
She was sitting in her room, staring absently at the tiny barred window, when Mother Alison knocked at her door.
"You look like a ghost, child," she said. "Haven't you mourned long enough?"
"I'm not mourning," she said. "No one has died… have they?" Sudden terror filled her. Had Peter's despair overtaken him at last, and had he put an end to his life? Ensuring the eternal damnation he was so convinced he deserved?
"No one has died, child," Mother Alison said. "Only your spirit."
"I was always told I had too much spirit. Surely it's better that I finally learned to be meek."
"Are you longing to inherit the earth, my chil
d?"
"I have no wishes."
Mother Alison shook her head. "You worry me, my dear. I think it's past time for you to make up your mind. Do you feel the fire calling you, to join us as a holy sister? Or do you think your lot is a different one?"
"I have no other choice."
"You always have a choice. If you did, what would you choose? The veil, or the world?"
"The world is full of violence and pain," Elizabeth said.
"It is. It is also filled with joy and love."
"Not for me."
Mother Alison made a clucking sound. "I forget how very young you are," she said. "Wounds heal. Things change."
Unconsciously Elizabeth touched the mark on her throat William's knife had made. She could no longer feel the faint trace beneath her fingers, and its loss was somehow like a knife wound to her heart.
"I would join the holy sisters and live my life in obedience to the rule," Elizabeth whispered.
"Would you, indeed? We would welcome you with all our hearts, child, if that is what you truly wish. But why not think about it a bit longer? The rain has stopped, the sun is shining. Go for a walk in the orchards—there will be no one there to bother you, and you can think in peace."
"I would rather stay inside…"
"And I would rather you walk to the orchard," she said firmly. "If you plan to practice obedience then now is the time to start. The walk will do you good."
There was no way she could protest. "As you wish, Mother."
The tiny nun made the sign of the cross on her forehead, an unexpected gesture. "Go in peace, child. I'll expect you when I see you." it was going to be a warm, sultry day, and Elizabeth pulled off the light veiling she usually wore as she made her way down the neatly marked paths of the herb garden. She usually kept her devil's hair well covered, but today she wanted to feel the damp wind in it.
She passed no one as she made her way up the hill that led to the bounteous orchards. It was sext and the household would be at worship. How unlike Mother Alison, to send her out at such a time. She was a stickler for attendance, and yet she'd set Elizabeth free.
The apple and pear trees spread out over the top of the hill, sweet smelling in the bright sun. Small green apples had begun to appear, a bounteous crop. Perhaps by the time the apples ripened and fell she'd be over her pain.
She would go sit beneath an apple tree and think about her future. The ground would be wet from the rains, it would soak through her plain robe, and maybe she'd catch cold and die and then Peter would be sorry.
Ridiculous, she thought, trying to smile, but her face felt stiff from lack of trying. It was too hot a day to catch cold, and she was made of stronger stuff than that, and he'd forgotten all about her.
Except that he stood at the top of the hill, waiting for her.
She halted, her heart suddenly hammering in her breast. He was wearing leather and wool, no longer the humble monk's robe and not the vain garb of a prince. He stood there watching her, his face still and unreadable.
She moved again, coming forward. He wouldn't be able to see how fast her heart was beating, she told herself. He must have come for a reason.
"You look like a ghost. Mother Alison was right. Have you been eating?"
"You've been talking with Mother Alison?"
"She sent you here, did she not?" he countered. Now that she was closer she could see the difference in him. The shadows in his eyes had faded. Not gone entirely, but no longer owning him.
"Yes, she sent me here. What I don't understand is why."
"It's time for you to choose."
"Choose what?"
"The veil, or life."
She said nothing, staring at him. "There's no need for this," she said in a quiet voice. "Clearly I'm not with child."
"I didn't think you were."
"Then why are you here?"
"To give you a choice. You can take the veil, or you can come with me, back to the place where you nearly died, and make a new life."
"Why?"
"I owe it to you."
Wrong answer. "I choose the veil," she said in a cool voice, turning away.
"Is that all you have to say?"
"It is," she said over her shoulder. Why did she have to start crying, now of all times'? After months of dry eyes and a dead soul, why had everything burst into life once more?
Because he was here. She kept walking, head down, tears spilling onto her robe, furious at him. At herself and her stupid weakness. When she looked back, he was gone.
She sat down in the middle of the path and let out a howl that could wake the dead. No one would hear, and the hell with them if they did. She was desperately, hopelessly in love with him, and she'd been fool enough to send him away. She should have taken what he had to give, even if he didn't love her. Maybe she loved him enough for the two of them.
She was crying so loudly, with such enthusiastic gusto, that she didn't hear his horse until it was right beside her. He didn't climb down, he simply sat there looking at her tear-stained, woebegone face.
"Give me your hand, Elizabeth."
She stopped crying. She rose to her feet, holding up her hand, and he pulled her up in front of him. "I thought I'd marry my red-haired witch, not a weeping maiden," he said in a gruff voice.
She took a deep, shaky breath, a little fight still left in her. "If you think I'd marry such a lying, deceitful wretch who'd abandon me when I most needed him and spends all his time brooding…"
His smile stopped her. "I think you will do just that. Where else can you find a man who loves you and is willing to take such abuse?"
"It's only because you enjoy abuse that you… you love me?"
"As you love me. Though I expect you're not going to want to admit it as long as you can berate me."
"If you marry me I'll berate you for the rest of your life."
"I expect no less."
She caught his dear face in both her hands and kissed him. The touch of his mouth was heaven, and she closed her eyes. "Perhaps I won't berate you right now," she said with a happy sigh. "Give me a year or two."
"A day or two. I love you, sweet scold. Though I don't deserve you."
"You're right about that. But you can spend your life trying to be worthy."
And his laugh rang out on the hot summer day.
Anne Stuart, Hidden Honor
(Series: # )
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