Emerald Prince (41 page)

Her thoughts traveled in every direction, studying her options. There must be a way to get away. To her surprise, it was de Lacy who offered it. He shoved his empty tankard into her hand. “The ale wench has not yet returned. Fetch me another, wife.” His brooding glare dared Alianor to defy the command, and she watched his expression relax at her meek reply.

“Of course, milord.” She rose clutching the empty tankard in one hand, and held her breath when de Lacy glanced at her with suspicion. He motioned irritably for his personal guardsman to accompany her, and slumped back in his seat.

Alianor’s heart sang with triumph as she gathered up the hem of her gown with her free hand and returned to the field. De Lacy’s guard accompanied her, but the young man was clearly bored with his duty. Alianor looked around as they entered the milling grounds, but there was no sign of the black knight. She blended into the throng with ease, glad her humble attire did not attract undue notice. Young Roger cleared a path for her.

The colorful revelries flowed between dozens of parti-colored pavilions, troupes of jugglers, tumblers and animal trainers, contrasted with the more sedate offerings of minstrels and stall keepers. She paused at one merchant’s stall, lingering over cloth bolts. De Lacy’s guardsman let a sigh slip out. Glancing at him with a smile, she said, “Roger, isn’t it?”

“Aye, milady.”

“Forgive me for lingering overlong, Roger, but I cannot decide. I think mayhap this shade flatters me, what think you?” Alianor laid a swath of the emerald green silk against her wrist, and the curly-haired young man squinted at it.

“I suppose so, milady,” he mumbled.

“Or mayhap the blue? This topaz silk is also nice.” Alianor feigned dithery female indecision and saw Roger’s attentions drifted. Suppressing a smile, she said, “La, I cannot decide. I must needs peruse a bit longer. But I realize milord husband is impatient for his ale …”

Eager to escape the tiresome chore of fabric shopping, Roger volunteered to wait in line to get the ale while she continued looking at the bolts. Alianor rewarded his offer with a dazzling smile. “How kind of you, Roger.” She handed de Lacy’s tankard to him. With a nod the young man was gone, and Alianor did not linger at the cloth merchant’s, but slipped across the aisle to the booth of the old woman hawking herbal remedies and potions.

The crone was stooped and wrinkled, her thick hair blinding white with one dark, jagged lightning-bolt through it. She had an impressive countenance despite her ragged tunic, and the woman’s shrewd gaze settling upon her seemed all-knowing.

“I am Mother Tassie. How can I serve ye, milady?” the hag asked.

Alianor hesitated, but desperation overcame her reluctance. “I have trouble s-sleeping,” she stammered.

“’Tis easily enough cured,” the woman said with a hoarse chuckle. “Find yerself a good mon.”

Despite her tension, Alianor smiled. “I already have, Mother Tassie, but still sleep evades me.”

Leaning across the rickety table where she displayed her wares, the crone peered at the dark circles beneath Alianor’s eyes. “Och, lassie, I see the evidence for meself. I’ve the notion to cure ye right quick.”

She turned and rummaged through a basket of her supplies, and produced an innocuous-looking little white packet. She offered it to Alianor. “Add this to any drink, milady, an’ ye’ll sleep like a bairn,” she promised.

Alianor examined the packet curiously. It appeared to contain herbs, yet sniffing it she smelled nothing. Dare she trust a wandering herbalist who would be gone on the morrow? She had no choice, if she wished to escape de Lacy and go to Liam. “I’ll take it,” Alianor said, aware Roger might return to her side any moment.

“’Tis six silver pennies, milady.”

Too late Alianor remembered she didn’t have any coins. Her hand rose and touched the silver circlet upon her brow. Mother Tassie offered a toothless grin, as if reading her mind. “Will you barter with me, Mother Tassie?”

“Aye, lass. Though the remedy be dear in price, yer sweet nature appeals to me.”

Alianor bit back a laugh, for the silver circlet was worth most of the woman’s inventory. However, she was in too much a hurry to haggle. She removed the circlet and gave it over with nary a thought. She tucked the packet in the close fitted sleeve at her wrist.

“Wait, milady.” Apparently feeling a twinge of conscience over the uneven barter, Mother Tassie pushed something else at her. A curious little figure of straw and cloth.

“What is it?”

“A love poppet. ’Twill keep yer mon ever loyal. Hold it ’neath his breath while he sleeps, and bury it in a fallow field by the light o’ the next full moon.”

Alianor chuckled. “Keep it, Mother Tassie. Give it to a lass who doubts her beloved. I do not.” As the crone grinned at her, Alianor stepped away and almost ran into de Lacy’s man.

“Roger, there you are. I think I’ve decided, at long last,” she said, grabbing the guardsman by his sleeve and tugging him back to the cloth merchant’s stall. “I’ll take them all.”

Alianor beamed and so did the merchant as the tally was made, and half a dozen bolts were stacked upon the table. “Send the bill to Lord de Lacy,” she said.

“Of course, milady. Shall we have the cloth sent to you?”

“Gracious, No. Or I will never have my gowns finished before Twelfth Night.” She turned to Roger with a smile. “Methinks a great, strapping lad like you can easily carry my purchases.”

Roger blushed at the compliment. “Aye, milady,” he stammered.

“Your hands will be full, however. Let me carry the ale.” Alianor plucked the tankard from his hands before he might protest, and soon Roger staggered beneath the heavy bolts, trying to juggle them all without losing his grip.

Alianor easily lost Roger for a minute in the crowd on the way back to the stands. Behind one of the pavilions, she paused and retrieved the packet from her sleeve. She emptied the contents into the ale, swirling the liquid about to make certain it dissolved. She felt a prickle of fear, but reasoned it was worth the risk. Knowing de Lacy was impatient by now if not downright surly, she waited for Roger to catch up with her before she returned to the stands.

“It took you long enough, wife,” de Lacy said by way of greeting, his eyes narrowed as he examined her flushed countenance.

“I’m sorry, milord. The line was long at the ale stand. I also did a little shopping, since my present attire does not please you.”

De Lacy glanced at Roger, who laid down the bolts and wiped his sweaty brow.

“Next time I shall pick the cloth, Alianor. I will dress you as I see fit.”

“Of course, milord.” She presented Quintin’s tankard with a little curtsy, praying he did not see her knees shaking. He snatched it from her hand, took a swallow and spit it out with a disgusted face. He swore, long and loud. “The ale has turned, bitch.” He flung the remainder at her, and Alianor could not step back fast enough to prevent it from splashing her. “Fetch me another,” he growled.

Turning at the commotion, Queen Isabella gasped with dismay at his actions. She handed Alianor a square of silk from her purse and Alianor blotted at the drenched fabric. She feigned distress while secretly rejoicing — he had given her yet another excuse to leave the stands and search out Liam.

“I cannot remain here like this, Your Grace. What an unsightly mess.”

“Aye.” Isabella’s brow furrowed. “I’ll send Lilith to fetch another gown, Nora; meanwhile, you can retire to one of the pavilions. I shall accompany you.” She nodded at her maidservant, and while Lilith rushed off on the mission, the pregnant Queen rose beside Alianor.

De Lacy protested. “My wife does not require a change of wardrobe, Your Majesty. ’Tis but a small stain, all but unnoticeable on that black sack she’s wearing.”

Isabella looked at him indignantly. “Shame on you, milord. Do you maintain a wife should not look her best on her bridal day, with hundreds looking on? Lady de Lacy’s appearance reflects upon you, as well.”

It was the right thing to say and Alianor quelled the urge to hug Isabella. De Lacy subsided, muttering to himself, low enough not to be heard by the Queen, but Alianor could well interpret the swearing under his breath. The two women turned to go and de Lacy rose too. He swayed and clutched at the railing, unsteady on his feet. Alianor wondered if he truly was so drunk he could hardly stand, or if he merely pretended. “I am going with you,” he declared.

Isabella arched an eyebrow. “Do you distrust your Queen, Lord de Lacy?” She sounded chill and dignified.

“Not at all, Your Grace. ’Tis my wife whom I distrust. She is an expert at using clever ploys to escape me.”

“May I remind you, milord, ’twas
you
who flung the drink upon Nora.” Isabella gave him an icy look, her youth giving way to a persona commanding great respect. “Yet I suppose I cannot dissuade you, if you distrust your Queen enough you feel inclined to shadow your lady wife.”

Despite looking a trifle abashed by the Queen’s comment, de Lacy insisted upon going. He followed the women as they retreated to the field and entered a large pavilion set aside for the knights who were competing to store gear and weaponry.

The Queen’s guards quickly emptied the tent of others to give Alianor privacy. When de Lacy looked as if he would enter with her, Isabella’s look stayed him. So Alianor entered the tent alone, as the Queen remained outside with de Lacy. Instead, only his voice followed her inside. “If you will hand me the soiled gown, my dear, I need not fear you running off.”

She laughed. “Do you presume I would do so in my smock, Quintin?”

Her using his name pleased him, and imagining such a scene caused his manner and voice to ease somewhat. “If so, you’d draw much attention and I do not think you’d get far.”

Would you like to wager upon it, milord? Alianor thought.

Chapter Twenty-eight

A
LIANOR GLANCED OVER THE
contents inside the tent. She spied a pile of discarded clothing by men who were competing in the games. Those who could afford it changed clothing between events.

She stripped and handed her soiled gown through the tent flap to de Lacy. His low rumble of laughter irritated her as he took it. Bastard, you think you’re so clever, Alianor fumed. She sifted through the pile of clothing until she found something plain and loose enough to conceal her distinctly feminine curves.

First she changed into the brown braies and matching tunic, and stuffed her hair into an apprentice’s cap, careful no long strands were missed. Weapons of every sort lay scattered about the long tables. She chose a rondel dagger and a short bow with a quiver filled with arrows, slinging the latter over her shoulder to rest upon her back. At the rear of the tent she knelt and used the dagger to slice an opening big enough for her to crawl through. She heard a group of loud, laughing men approaching. When they passed she slipped out and rose to melt into their midst, tugging the cap low over her brow.

Her anxious gaze searched for Liam amidst the throng, paying little attention to the other men crowded close about her. But when the group stopped and the men fanned out into various positions she was forced to take heed of her whereabouts. They had entered the archery arena where quintain targets were set up for the bow competition. They readied their weapons and Alianor decided it was time to move on before someone noticed her.

Too late — a gruff-looking man approached her. “’ere, lad.” He shoved a wooden cup at her. “You need to draw yer lot.”

Hesitantly, Alianor drew a stick from it, hoping he would move on.

“Devil’s luck! The lad goes first,” another man standing beside her cried out, giving her a good-natured slap on the back. “Let’s see what the stripling can do.”

Male laughter echoed about her. Their eyes took her measure, watching, waiting. Alianor had no choice but to step up to the mark. She pulled an arrow from the quiver hanging on her back, nocked it and examined the target fifty yards distant. The game was timed for speed as well as accuracy. Long years had passed since she competed, and back then, she had posed as a boy as well.

Alianor steadied her aim. A signal was given and she released the arrow. It landed true, thudding squarely in the center of the target, where a man’s heart lay. Those watching gawked, open mouthed in surprise. They had not expected a mere youth to display much skill.

She drew each successive arrow and aimed. In less than a minute, half a dozen arrows were spent and the straw heart was filled with feathered shafts. The men were silent, and Alianor worried they knew she was an imposter. They burst into excited talk and laughter.

“Another King’s archer in the making.”

“Buy the lad a drink.”

“If’n he’s weaned from his mam’s tit yet, I might.”

Alianor couldn’t help but chuckle at the crude banter but feared she might buckle under the hearty back pounding she received. Their jubilance was nearly her undoing.

“Who’d have thought a wee lad could shoot so true?”

Another added, “An’ he’s a pretty one. Best watch yourself, laddie. There’s some ’ere who prefer pretty boys t’ the pretty girls.”