The Legend (44 page)

Peyton disrupted him from his
train of thought when she stopped just shy of the twisted joust pole. When she
turned to him, the smile was gone from her face.

"Would.... would you please
remove these for me? I am afraid a servant would hurt himself on the broken
pole. You are the only one qualified to handle it."

He took a hesitant step in her
direction, his eyes studying the once-proud lance. "Where do you wish for
me to put them?"

She passed a final glance at the
reminders of her sorrow, of the tokens of her grief. The ache was still there,
but as a melancholy memory and nothing more. The searing pain was vanished.
Taking a deep breath for courage, she faced her husband.

"Burn them."

Surprised, his eyes focused on
her. "Burn them? Are you serious?"

"Never more so," she
moved toward him, curling her fingers around his massive forearms. "I do
not need them anymore. Will you remove them for me?"

He gazed into her eyes, seeing
complete sincerity. Would he remove the tokens of another man's love? Without
hesitation. Tenderly, he patted her hand and moved across the floor, retrieving
the pole as if it were made of feathers. The break proved awkward to manage,
but he controlled it nicely.

With the bent pole in one hand
and the leather scabbard in the other, he turned to his wife with the most
wonderful of expressions. She could fairly read the depth of emotion in his
eyes and it startled her; if she hadn't known better, she would have sworn the
emotion was.... adoration.

"I shall dispose of them.
You do not need them anymore."

The tears Peyton fought back as
he quit the room were not those of sorrow. They were those of joy.

.... good-bye, James
!         

Alec had the pleasure of
escorting his wife to the brewery after the nooning meal. Infinitely curious
about the secretive brewing process Sir Albert had kept so closely guarded, a
whole new world opened up before his very eyes.

He had seen the ale storehouse
once before, but it was nothing compared to the sharp smell of the brick brewery.
Well-protected and sunk deep into the rich English soil, the brewery was a
fascinating place of copper tubs, presses, heat and stank. Peyton paid little
mind to her surroundings as she went in search of the master brewer, but Alec
was enthralled. He lagged so far behind in his curious observations that she
paused so he could catch up to her.

She grinned at his interest.
"For heaven's sake, Alec, it's just a brewery."

"I have never seen one
before," he stated the obvious. "What's this?"

She looked in the direction he
was indicating. "Those are vats of cooling mush. They've already been
mashed and cooked and are awaiting yeast for fermentation."

He peered closely at the huge
copper vats. "It looks like porridge."

"It is, basically. That
batch will produce pale ale. It's simple barley."

He turned to her. "I know
that St. Cloven produces four types of ale. Is each process unique to create a
different end result?"

She began to walk and he
followed, tightly clutching her hand. "The process does not differ, merely
the ingredients. As I said, barley is used to create pale ale. For dark ale, we
cook a mixture of roasted wheat, barley and molasses. With fruited ale, a
recipe of apples, grapes, barley and molasses is combined. And the hearty ale,
King Edward's favorite I might add, we combine roasted barley, roasted wheat,
oats and honey."

He stared at her as if she had
just recited the secret of life. "Christ, how do you remember this?"

She laughed softly. "I was
born into it, my Alec. I should hope I would remember something."

Marveling at her knowledge, he
gestured toward the great copper vats that were presently steaming with their
contents. "Tell me something of the process. That is, if you feel you can
trust me with the secret."

"The recipes are the secret,
Alec, not the process," she responded to his droll comment.
"Actually, the process is simple; the ingredients are mashed with water
and cooked in the copper tubs you see. Then the mixture is cooled for at least
a day and a night before cakes of yeast are added. In three days time, the
mixture ferments enough so that a head rises, and the head is skimmed away.
Then, it is casked and store for up to three weeks, depending on the strength
of the ale."

"Amazing," he muttered,
glancing about the bricked interior of the brewery. "I am married to a
genius."

"Hardly. I did not invent
the process."

"Nay, but you certain know
your business. No wonder St. Cloven ale is the very best."

Feeling rosy with his adoration,
she looked away shyly. With a faint smile, he brought her hand to his lips and
kissed it, laughing softly when her blush deepened. "I know something of
the ale process, too."

She looked to him. "You do?
What?"

He looked rather pleased with
himself. "I know that two hogshead equals one butt, and that four barrels
equal one hundred and eight imperial gallons."

She shook her head slowly.
"Really, Alec. Any drinking fool knows that."

He feigned injury. "I cannot
help what I am. Certainly, I am not as intelligent as you. Pray be kind to me,
madam, and my simple, drinking fool's mind."

She giggled, turning her
attention back to the business at hand. "Are you going to help me
determine the readiness of the pale ale?"

"Absolutely. In fact, 'twill
be a duty I shall excel at."

They passed into the fermenting
room and were immediately met by John Todd. The master brewer grinned broadly
at Peyton, bowing purely out of habit. His eyes were warm upon his lady.

"My lady, how good to see
you," he said sincerely.

"Thank you, John," she
eyed Alec. "I understand you have met the new lord of St. Cloven?"

"Aye, we have met,"
John bowed to Alec, and Alec swore he'd never seen anyone bow so often in his
whole life. The man was permanently bent at the waist. "A pleasure to see
you again, my lord."

Alec nodded silently as Peyton
delved into the subject at hand. "Last week's lot of pale ale should be
ready for sale. I am worried that it has been aged over long."

John led Peyton and Alec to an
armored side door and they exited into the bright sunshine. "I do not
believe so, my lady. After all, it has only been a week exactly."

"It was a week exactly last
night. If the liquor takes on too much of the wood, it will be ruined."

"But it was casked in
beechwood, which should discourage the added flavor," John said pointedly
as they approached the massive storage barn.

Peyton's hair glistened like a
raging fire under the brilliant sun, flickering wildly when she shrugged.
"We shall see."

Alec listened in complete
silence, vowing to learn all he could so that he would not be entirely ignorant
when his wife brought up the subject of ale making. After all, St. Cloven was
his now, and as lord he should know something about the process.

The ale was ready. Almost
over-ready, Peyton thought, but she ordered it distributed and sold. John Todd
whipped the storehouse servants into an efficient frenzy and the casks of pale
ale were lowered onto their sides and the seals broken. Alec watched intently
as the liquid was delegated into various measurements for sale, all flasks and
barrels emblazoned with the St. Cloven crest.

Alec studied the crest,
considering minor changes to add his own House to the seal. Now that St. Cloven
belonged to a Summerlin, it was only correct that the House be added to the
emblem. A very minor change, to be sure, because the seal of St. Cloven was one
of the most recognizable in England. If consumers were to make note of a major
change, they might think the contents changed as well, and Alec would not risk
the reputation of the liquor in such a fashion.

Great wagons were brought about for
the transfer of the ale, men as well organized as any army as they began to
load the product. Alec stood silently, studying every aspect of every job,
watching the careful storage of the ale aboard the wagons and observing the rig
drivers as they roped the barrels and packed straw around them to prevent
damaging the goods.

The brewery steward who kept
records of customers and payment brought Peyton a long list of taverns and
private parties who were waiting for their shipment of pale ale. Peyton passed
a glance at her husband when she saw Blackstone heading the list, but he did
not catch her glance. Approving the tally, she moved to her husband as he
watched the organized commotion.

Alec was enthralled with what was
going on before him, furthermore involved when great barrels of newly-cooled
hearty ale were brought in from the brewery and organized in to a specific
corner of the store house. He watched curiously as the brewery steward's
assistant scratched the date and time on one of the barrels. There was so much
happening that it was difficult to keep track, but his sharp mind absorbed the
chaos like a sponge. All of this was his.

It took him nearly an hour to
realize Peyton was waiting for him to complete his observations. Enthralled as
he was at the entire process, he'd lost track of time. When he became aware of
her patient presence, he smiled sheepishly.

"I have never seen this
before," he said with a weak grin.

"I am sorry to have kept you
waiting."

"You did not," she
wrapped her hands around his muscular elbow and smiled brightly. "But the
last wagon is gone. Have you had enough of the brewery for one day?"

He returned her smile and
shrugged, glancing about the empire he had acquired. The amazing process of ale
making was still going on about him, a procedure refined by generations of de
Fluornoys, now to be his. He could scarcely believe it all belonged to him. It
almost made the pain of his estrangement bearable.

The dark sorrows that had
constituted the previous day threatened him once again, almost stronger than
before. But he fought back the grief, refusing to allow it to dampen his joy.
Gazing down at the head of his wife, he knew he had finally found his place in
life.

No longer was he the coward son,
The Legend who had laid down his sword in dishonor. A disinheritance long in
coming did matter anymore. He did not need it.

He was Alec Summerlin, Lord of
St. Cloven. Patting Peyton's soft hands, he led her out into the sunshine.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Jubil was a bat for nearly a
week. She continued to hang upside-down in the solar, shut away from the rest
of the world as Peyton raged her irritation and then, finally ignored her. Alec
went to the solar one evening after the meal and seated himself next to the
hanging woman, pelting her with gentle questions as to why she must remain a
bat.  All she would tell him was that she must be made aware of the danger, and
it puzzled him. He knew better than to ask Peyton for clarification; she
thought it all a load of silly nonsense.

When Jubil finally descended from
her cloud of toxin-induced visions, she could not walk and could barely speak.
Toby had carried the woman to her bower where she proceeded to sleep for three
days. In truth, Peyton was very concerned for her aunt and spent a good deal of
time by her bedside in silent vigil, ready to offer watered ale or a bit of
food should Jubil desire it.  One moment she'd be terribly angry with her aunt
for the self-abuse, but in the next moment she would pray for her recovery.
She'd never seen Jubil so drained.

As Jubil recovered from her
experience, Alec delved deeper and deeper into the workings of St. Cloven. His
days were filled with ale-making and his Saracens, and his nights were filled
with his wife. His life seemed to hinge on the bright red-gold head, eager to
catch a glimpse of her as he went about his duties, more than eager to taste of
her with a stolen kiss or a lingering embrace.

Peyton occupied every corner of
his mind that wasn't busy learning about the ale process or focused on his foaling
mare. There was so much to learn and be joyful of that he had little time to
linger on the family he had left behind.

But linger he did. Sometimes at
night after Peyton had fallen asleep, he found himself thinking on his sister's
fate. Had she indeed married Colin? Or had his father shown an ounce of courage
and denied the petition? God only knew how badly he wanted to contact his
father, to apologize for actions he was not sincerely remorseful for
committing. But he would apologize all the same, simply because he was sorry he
had defied his father. He had never taken pleasure in the disobedience, but he
knew in his heart that he had to do what was right.

Thrust into a new world he had
fallen in love with helped ease the ache of separation from his tightly-knit
family, but he still felt as if a piece of his life was missing.   

The days were growing cooler.
October was approaching and the winds of fall were upon them. The trees in the
surrounding forests were changing with the season, turning colors of brilliant
orange and yellows, and the animals were beginning to store their food for the
winter.

One night, Alec and Peyton had
spied a family of raccoons moving to a warmer hovel, and Peyton had taken
delight in counting the five babies. He had simply taken delight in her,
wishing he could summon the courage to tell her of his love. More than ever,
his emotions for the woman were consuming and he cursed himself for not being
strong enough to confess, strong enough to confront her rejection.

As fall deepened, so did his
adoration for his wife and there were several times when he had literally
bitten his lip raw in an attempt to keep from admitting his feelings. There
were frequent moments when her gaze would scream of deeper emotion, a depth of
caring he had never before witnessed, and he was quite content to believe that
it was love. But he could not be sure.

Alec liked autumn. The days
passed and he went about his usual duties, which now included shadowing the
brewery steward to better understand his job. Moving across the bailey with the
servant on his heels, he passed a glance into the nearby cluster of woods and
noticed that some of the leaves were the color of his wife's hair.  His mind
wandered to Peyton for the hundredth time that day as the brewery steward, a
thin man with the unlikely name of Job, rattled on about a delinquent account.

Increasingly disinterested with
the steward's chatter, he began to seriously consider seeking out his wife for
an afternoon encounter. But both men were abruptly cut short from their
pressing thoughts when a shout erupted from the fortified wall.

Riders were approaching.

St. Cloven possessed no moat, nor
portcullis within her broad walls, but the gate securing the complex was over a
foot thick. The two heavy slabs of oak were already closed per Alec's command,
since he did not feel comfortable with the bailey open and exposed, and he was
therefore unconcerned with the manse's safety as he mounted the ladder to the
narrow battlement. Joined by his sentries, he peered down the wooded road.

The south-facing thoroughfare was
lined with brilliantly changing trees, but he could clearly make out one horse
and two riders.  It took Alec all of a split-second to recognize the charger;
bounding from the wall, he sent a soldier running for Peyton.

Ali and Ivy were returned.

The heavy gates rolled open with
steady rhythm, yawning wide to greet her native daughter and new husband. Alec
was standing at the gates as they rode in.

"Ali!" he shouted,
motioning the gates closed before the destrier came to a halt. "You have
returned!"

Ali brought his steed to a jerky
stop, raising his visor with a dazzling smile. "My wife couldn't stay
away. She hated France."

Alec put his arms up for Ivy, who
slid into his brotherly embrace and pecked him dutifully on the cheek. She
smiled brightly at him. "Where's Peyton?"

"Probably breaking her neck
on the stairs in her rushed attempt to greet you," he said drolly, but he
was smiling. "You look ravishing, love. I see that married life agrees
with you."

Ivy flushed prettily as Ali
dismounted and put his arm around her affectionately. They gazed sweetly at
each other. "She is my wife, Alec, in the eyes of God and England."

Alec looked puzzled. "What....
what do you mean?"

Ali's smile faded somewhat and he
kissed Ivy on the forehead. "My wife would not be satisfied with a
common-law ceremony, so we sailed to Calais and were married in a small
monastery. 'Twould seem the French are more apt to accept a man of my color.
They were more than happy to join us in matrimony."

Alec blinked, startled by the
news. "You were married in a church?"

Ali looked a bit sheepish as Ivy
gazed up at him in support. "I was willing to overlook my hatred of the
religion in order to please my wife. She wanted to be married in a church, and
we searched until we found a priest who would agree to baptize me into the
religion. Simply because God does not recognize me as an English knight does
not mean that he cannot recognize me as a Catholic husband."

A surprised pause was followed by
a slow smile. Alec reached out and took Ali's gloved hand into his own, a
handshake of friendship and congratulations. "My best wishes, Ali. You
cannot know how glad I am to hear this."

Ali opened his mouth to reply but
was thwarted when a loud shriek suddenly pierced the cool air of the bailey.
Peyton, her red hair waving like a wild banner, raced from the manse like a
madwoman.

Ali jumped back as she plowed
into her sister, cries of welcome and grunts resulting from harsh embraces
filling the air. Alec and Ali stood together, observing the touching scene
between the two sisters.

"Christ, Peyton, Do not
break any bones," Alec admonished softly, grinning. "Let the woman
breathe."

Peyton ignored him, but she did
release her sister long enough to step back and take a good look at her. "You
are back! Why have you returned so soon?"

Ivy thrust her left hand in
Peyton's face; a gold and garnet band glittered brightly on the third finger
and Peyton studied the ring with pleasure.

"We were married by a priest
in France," Ivy said happily.  "There was no reason to stay away. The
Warringtons cannot dissolve a marriage performed by the church."

Peyton's mouth opened in surprise
and glee. "You are truly married? How marvelous!" she hugged her
sister tightly before turning to Ali.

The dark soldier was the
recipient of a warm embrace from his redheaded sister-in-law. "Welcome
home, Ali."

Ali was truly touched. For a man
who had known rejection his entire life, it was enough to bring tears to his
eyes. Although their initial reaction to the dark warrior had been moderately
resistant and hardly surprising, Ivy and Peyton had differed from the rest of
the female populace in that they had been able to move beyond the aesthetics.
Never had he met women who judged him not by his appearance, but by what lay in
his heart. As if his dark skin did not matter. They came to understand that he
was a man like all the rest and his thanks went beyond words.

"Thank you, Peyton," he
said softly.

Alec was smiling at his friend,
knowing Ali's feelings all too well. As Ivy and Peyton had come to accept Ali,
Alec had come to accept their approval without reservation. Once he had been
hesitant, reluctant to believe their sincerity. But the hesitation was gone and
he couldn't remember feeling such relief on Ali's behalf. It was better than he
could have ever hoped for.

Just as the moment grew overly
warm, Alec suddenly looked stricken as if a terrible thought had just occurred
to him.

"Christ!" he boomed.
"I just realized that you are my legal brother."

Ali mirrored his horrified look.
"And you are mine. Alec, I do not know if I can show my face in public. I
shall be the laughing stock."

While Ivy and Peyton giggled,
Alec scowled and put his hands on his hips. "You insolent whelp. Being
related to me is the answer to your prayers."

Ali snickered and put his arm
around Ivy. "Sorry, Alec. My prayers have indeed been answered, but not by
you."

Alec lifted an eyebrow in
agreement and pulled Peyton into his embrace. "'Twould seem that God had
been watching out for the both of us when he led the hideous Lady Peyton and
her deformed sister to our doorstep those weeks ago."

"Hideous?" Peyton
repeated with outrage.

"Deformed?" Ivy echoed
on her heels.

"Aye, hideous and
deformed," Alec insisted, looking between his wife and her sister. "I
seem to remember women with white faces, blacked out teeth, and circled eyes
acting a pair of fools."

Peyton and Ivy looked at each
other and grinned. "Ah, yes. Hideous and deformed," Ivy agreed.

Ali shuddered, as if remembering
the appalling visions. "And I seem to recall a woman who picked her nose
and scratched her arse like a man. Frightful."

Ivy pretended to slug him and he
laughed his deep, throaty laugh. "My tactics were not too terribly
frightful. They caught your attention, did they not?"

Ali cocked a black eyebrow.
"Was that a sample of your feminine wiles? 'Tis no small mystery why you
were unmarried at a proper age, then."

Ivy slapped at him again, much to
Peyton's amusement. "Enough, Ali,” Ivy commanded. “I am tired and wish to
take a bath."

He fought off a grin. "Of
course, sweetling. Care for company in your bath?"

"Mayhap later,
darling," Ivy cast him a flirtatious glance, one that surprised and amused
her sister and brother-in-law. However, the promise only served to inflame her
eager new husband.

"Later?"

She nodded coyly, turning with
her grinning sister towards the manse.

Ali could hardly wait.

Later that afternoon while Peyton
and Ivy were else occupied, Alec took Ali on a tour of the compound. His ebony
friend was mightily impressed by the workings of the complex and Alec expressed
an interest in having Ali solicit new customers. Although St. Cloven was hugely
successful, it could be even greater with an overseas market. Pondering that
very question, the two men paced the floor of the storehouse as another lot of
fruited ale was brought in from the brewery to age.

"How did your father react
to your disobedience, Alec?" Ali asked him softly.

Alec's head came up sharply and
he focused on his friend. They had been speaking on foreign markets not a
second before and now he found himself unbalanced with the change of subject.
He wasn't sure he wanted to speak of it yet, even to Ali. "Then, I take
it, you disagree that Ireland would be a profitable market?"

Ali smiled faintly. "Not at
all. The Irish are extremely fond of liquor. But I agree that you are in a
great deal of trouble. You have not mentioned your father once since I have
arrived and I can stand it no longer. What happened?"

Alec stared at him a moment
longer before turning away, raking his fingers through his short hair.
"Christ, Ali, do we have to talk about this now?"

"We do," Ali said
firmly, his smile fading. "What happened?"

Alec did not say anything for a
moment. Then, he lowered his massive body onto a sturdy barrel and pondered his
hands. "A bloody mess is what's happened. After my elopement with Peyton
and my subsequent abduction of Ivy, my father saw fit to disinherit me. But
there is so much more to it than that."