Shadow Rider. Kathrynn Dennis

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      The blizzard’s fury turned the early day into shades of gray and white. The path ahead appeared more like a sinking, snowbound gully than a road. With her legs wrapped around Addy’s bony sides, Sybilla hunched against the piercing wind. The air smelled sharp and burned the inside of her nose, and she kept her eyes closed for long stretches at a time to shut out the stinging snow. Every now and then, her knee touched Simon’s. He rode beside her, while Guy followed afoot with Regalo slung over his shoulders. He called out every few minutes to make certain she was still astride and not frozen. Simon sat silently on Bacchus, holding the goat close.

      Addy barely moved now, the old horse’s head bent low against the wind. She walked, but each step seemed weaker and slower than the last. Sybilla let her mind wander with the mare’s plodding pace. She relived the warmth of Sir Guy’s kiss, the way he slipped his arm around her waist and held her close. The way his mouth descended on hers, his lips so soft and supple.

      By the saints, if Simon hadn’t entered and interrupted their embrace would she have kissed him back? Or more?

      Goosebumps rippled up her arms and neck. Sybilla tucked her chin into the deep hood of Guy’s cloak. Blessed saints, Guy wore only his shirt and the snow-covered foal on his back was his only source of warmth. Simon looked as frozen as the goat in his lap. His beard and the goat’s were both masks of snow.

      Sybilla turned her head to speak to Simon. “How much farther? Sir Guy is cold and fatigued. He lags too far behind.”

      Snow fell from Simon’s beard as he spoke. “It isn’t far, Mistress Corbuc. Guy’s used to the weather and is as strong as an ox. I’ve seen him haul a tree stump bigger than that foal when his family needed firewood. It’s not the cold or the burden he carries that makes him slow.”

      “What is it, then?”

      Simon glanced back at Guy, as if he wanted to make certain his friend wouldn’t overhear. “Baldwin Manor was his sister’s house. She and her infant son were murdered, nay slaughtered, not far from here. He can’t abide this place, though it belongs to him. Sir Walter had no heirs, and King Richard bequeathed it to Guy as thanks for saving him at Balmont.”

      Sybilla shifted. A sudden surge of sympathy for Guy swelled inside her. She swallowed. “Who would kill his sister and her babe and why?”

      “Don’t know. Marauders attacked at night. We were away, but en route home from fighting Richard’s war.”

      “But Sir Guy must have some idea who did it.”

      Simon turned his head slowly. “Lord Hamon, though we have no proof.”

      Sybilla’s heart twisted in her chest. “Lord Hamon? But why?” She leaned forward and pushed back her hood, heedless of the flurries. “Why would he?”

      Simon glanced back again at his friend before he spoke. “Revenge. He discovered his wife, Lady Morna, proclaimed undying love for a poor knight, Sir Guy of Warwick. ’Twas more than a nobleman of his rank could stomach. The murders were meant as a message for Guy—to stay away from Morna.” His voice faded, as if it pained him to speak about the subject further.

      The wind that swirled around Sybilla made her dizzy. She grabbed Addy’s withers to keep from falling.

      Simon’s mouth clamped shut and the muffled sound of snowy footsteps moved closer.

      Guy’s voice bellowed. “Simon, is the goat still breathing?”

      Simon raised his finger to his lips, signaling to Sybilla to say nothing of their conversation. He turned and rested a hand on Bacchus’ furry rump. “She is, my friend. And your house is just ahead.”

      Sybilla squinted. Through the snowfall, the two-story, buff-colored manor house appeared, complete with a steep snow-dusted roof. A cob half-wall surrounded a small inner yard, a horse barn, a dairy house and other buildings, all timber-framed with crumbling wattle and daub walls, and thatched roofs in bad need of repair.

      She’d not expected such a grand, though neglected, place.

      The nanny goat tucked beneath his arm, Simon drew Bacchus to a halt and dismounted. “Guy’s fair sister caught the eye of an old but landed knight, Sir Walter. ’Twas his place. He took sick and died right ’afore we got home. Roselynn had just given birth a week before she was made a widow.” He lowered his eyes. Snow covered his knees as he trod through the drifts, and wrestled with the hip gate that was hanging askew from a tilted fence post.

      Sybilla couldn’t take her eyes from the looming house with the tall, narrow windows, two on the ground floor, two on the second, and a chimney as wide as it was thick. The walls needed patching, as did the roof. But the chimney alone promised warmth, and the thought of comforting heat made her want to rush inside.

      The goat bleated. Sybilla slid off Addy and patted the mare on the neck. The horse kept her eyes closed. She felt alarmingly stiff and cold beneath Sybilla’s hand. The mare needed rest and shelter as much as did Regalo.

      Simon hollered, “Guy, are you coming or not?” The goat squealed and squirmed in his arms. He set her down and she scampered close beside him, leaping through the snow as if she’d suddenly come back to life.

      Guy didn’t answer.

      Sybilla turned around. Guy stood fifty paces back, staring at the house, his face as cold and dispassionate as the wind. Regalo lifted his head and, for the first time in hours, he pricked his ears.

      Simon took Addy’s reins from Sybilla’s hands. “Go inside and warm yerself, Mistress Corbuc.” He led Bacchus and the mare toward the barn. “I’ll put the animals up and get them fed. If the old steward, Dunback, is still here, send him out to help me, though I’ll bet he’s lost what was left of his wits.” He stopped and watched Guy moving through the snow, his approach reluctant and stalling.

      Simon took a deep breath. He whispered, “I never seen a man rage like Guy did the night we found the bodies, not even in the pitch of battle. I’ll not forget the way Guy broke down when he found his sister and her babe lying in the dirt not far from here, God keep them. Or the way he cradled the lifeless body of his little nephew in his arms and cried. He blames himself for their deaths.”

      The private look Simon gave Sybilla made her heart ache. Sir Guy of Warwick, a hulk of a man, didn’t seem like the kind of man to cry.

      The snowfall faded for a moment, СКАЧАТЬ