to the training field. I have a surprise for you.”
Now what? She smiled. “Aye, of course.”
“I will be waiting.” He turned with a squeak of leather and walked away.
Zipporah slipped into her father’s room. She barred the door and wondered when Peter would arrive for the day. She had to admit, if she had to choose, she would take Peter’s company over Gilburn’s any day.
She sat in a chair by her father’s bed. The shutters were open and the sun poured over him in dusty rays. There was a half-finished goblet of wine on the side table near his bed. His eyes were closed. She was disappointed that he had woken up for her mother and not for her.
Zipporah tucked his blankets around him, then sat back and pulled out Peter’s letter. She didn’t open it. She’d already read it a dozen times the night before. Leaning forward, she slipped her free hand into her father’s. His hands were once so strong. At times they were firm, and at others gentle.
“I should have told you about Katrina,” she said. “Forgive me. I was so ashamed of myself, and so angry at Peter. I did not know what to do.” She rested her cheek against his chest, her fingers still in his. His breath was shallow. “Maybe I should have let you protect me. I would be married to Peter by now. Rumors would have spread, and rightly so. But what is gossip compared to family.”
She lifted her head. He didn’t move. Tears blurred her vision. “So I’m telling you now.” She looked down at the letter. “I had a child. I brought my mother into my crimes, swearing her to secrecy. She helped me hide. Remember that winter when I was ill? Mother told you I was infectious. I refused to see your physician, saying it was due to my maidenly shyness, and that I would only see a woman for my care. And so Mother called in the midwife.
“You believed us. I think you never questioned it because Mother had never lied to you before. Do not blame her. She loves us both.” A single tear rolled off her chin, landing on his face. “I love you. Please forgive me.”
Zipporah rubbed her thumb over the parchment of Peter’s letter. “If you can hear me, please, please help me, Father. I need you now.”
Zipporah willed him to awaken. Minutes passed and she knew he hadn’t heard her. Standing, she wiped the moisture from her tears off his pale face. She tucked Peter’s letter back into her pouch. Her heart weighed on her as she left the room.
Taking the narrow spiral staircase to the ground floor, she exited through the door that led into the private castle gardens. She took her time, walking beneath the shady branches of her mother’s apple trees. The garden gate squeaked as she passed beneath the stone archway.
Numbly, Zipporah followed the gravel path to the lists. It wasn’t until the training field loomed before her that she started to feel something again.
That idiot. What was he thinking?
Sir Gilburn had had the field dressed for Mêlée, complete with striped tents for recovering knights who might need medical attention. The stands were sprinkled with the family and friends of the men who planned to participate. Knights in chainmail readied themselves and their horses for competition, metal clanking and sun glinting off helms.
John trotted up on his charcoal destrier, vaulted from the saddle, and pulled off his helmet, grinning. His hair was the same color as Peter’s. So were his eyes. It was clear they were brothers.
“Johnny,” she said with a surge of childhood affection. She hadn’t seen him in three years. He was a little shorter than Peter, and had the same build. They were not tall men, but carried themselves in such a way that made it clear they did not require anything they did not already possess. John was known for being able to subdue an opponent with a single look.
“My lady.” He passed his horse to a lad and turned back to her. He took off his gauntlet and she stretched out her hand to him. “It is good to
Now what? She smiled. “Aye, of course.”
“I will be waiting.” He turned with a squeak of leather and walked away.
Zipporah slipped into her father’s room. She barred the door and wondered when Peter would arrive for the day. She had to admit, if she had to choose, she would take Peter’s company over Gilburn’s any day.
She sat in a chair by her father’s bed. The shutters were open and the sun poured over him in dusty rays. There was a half-finished goblet of wine on the side table near his bed. His eyes were closed. She was disappointed that he had woken up for her mother and not for her.
Zipporah tucked his blankets around him, then sat back and pulled out Peter’s letter. She didn’t open it. She’d already read it a dozen times the night before. Leaning forward, she slipped her free hand into her father’s. His hands were once so strong. At times they were firm, and at others gentle.
“I should have told you about Katrina,” she said. “Forgive me. I was so ashamed of myself, and so angry at Peter. I did not know what to do.” She rested her cheek against his chest, her fingers still in his. His breath was shallow. “Maybe I should have let you protect me. I would be married to Peter by now. Rumors would have spread, and rightly so. But what is gossip compared to family.”
She lifted her head. He didn’t move. Tears blurred her vision. “So I’m telling you now.” She looked down at the letter. “I had a child. I brought my mother into my crimes, swearing her to secrecy. She helped me hide. Remember that winter when I was ill? Mother told you I was infectious. I refused to see your physician, saying it was due to my maidenly shyness, and that I would only see a woman for my care. And so Mother called in the midwife.
“You believed us. I think you never questioned it because Mother had never lied to you before. Do not blame her. She loves us both.” A single tear rolled off her chin, landing on his face. “I love you. Please forgive me.”
Zipporah rubbed her thumb over the parchment of Peter’s letter. “If you can hear me, please, please help me, Father. I need you now.”
Zipporah willed him to awaken. Minutes passed and she knew he hadn’t heard her. Standing, she wiped the moisture from her tears off his pale face. She tucked Peter’s letter back into her pouch. Her heart weighed on her as she left the room.
Taking the narrow spiral staircase to the ground floor, she exited through the door that led into the private castle gardens. She took her time, walking beneath the shady branches of her mother’s apple trees. The garden gate squeaked as she passed beneath the stone archway.
Numbly, Zipporah followed the gravel path to the lists. It wasn’t until the training field loomed before her that she started to feel something again.
That idiot. What was he thinking?
Sir Gilburn had had the field dressed for Mêlée, complete with striped tents for recovering knights who might need medical attention. The stands were sprinkled with the family and friends of the men who planned to participate. Knights in chainmail readied themselves and their horses for competition, metal clanking and sun glinting off helms.
John trotted up on his charcoal destrier, vaulted from the saddle, and pulled off his helmet, grinning. His hair was the same color as Peter’s. So were his eyes. It was clear they were brothers.
“Johnny,” she said with a surge of childhood affection. She hadn’t seen him in three years. He was a little shorter than Peter, and had the same build. They were not tall men, but carried themselves in such a way that made it clear they did not require anything they did not already possess. John was known for being able to subdue an opponent with a single look.
“My lady.” He passed his horse to a lad and turned back to her. He took off his gauntlet and she stretched out her hand to him. “It is good to
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