Part Four

Peter swung off his stallion and tethered him to a fallen hazel tree. The palomino war horse swung his neck around to nuzzle Peter companionably.

“We’ll head home soon, Ervin,” Peter said, patting the horse’s neck with one hand while wiping horse slobber off his cheek with the other. “There’s something I need to do first.”

The stallion tossed his head, pawing the ground as Peter walked off. Ervin had been his constant companion over the last three years. Peter had purchased him in Antioch after his first warhorse had fallen in battle. Ervin had been little more than a colt at the time, and overwhelmed by the lot he’d found himself it. Ervin—like the rest of them—had had to settle into the realities of war. In many ways, Peter and his horse had done that together.

Peter left the forest, emerging onto a narrow beach overlooking a lake. He was standing on the boundary line between Ravenmore and Havendell. Peter’s father and Zipporah’s had earned their land through knightly service to the king. Peter and his brother John had grown up with Zipporah and Edward.

Peter used to get Zipporah into so much trouble, sneaking her out of the castle to fish at the lake. Sometimes they’d wander the forest like feral children. As she’d gotten a little older, her father had had a guard posted to keep her from escaping. That hadn’t stopped them. They’d found other ways.

Her father’s guard had been posted at her door after all. No one had considered her window.

Somehow, Peter had managed to blunder his way through lovemaking with this perfect girl, who hadn’t seemed to mind him at all.

He’d become addicted to her after that. He was a mangy dog looking for a hot meal. He’d found himself sleeping in her chamber more often than not, wondering why she wanted him, afraid to ask. Thinking, maybe, it could last forever.

It had lasted six months. He’d had to Crusade with John and Edward. He would have been branded a coward if he hadn’t. Peter knew he should have spent his last night home with Zipporah, but he’d spent it with the other lads, drinking too much and boasting about what heroes they would be.

He’d never even said goodbye.

Peter propped himself against a lumpy willow tree, gaze fixed on the rippled, earth-brown water. A breeze worked the edges of his flaxen tunic. He let the steady rhythm of the waves numb his mind. That was what he needed. To numb himself.

Pity it was only temporary.

A twig popped in the thicket behind him. Peter slid back behind the tree. After three years at war it was hard not to be paranoid. His hand came to the familiar leather-wrapped hilt of his long sword.

A moment later, she appeared.

Peter was shocked into stillness. After several breaths he found the wherewithal to smile. He was pretty sure it was a stupid one, but it couldn’t be helped. Zipporah did that to him. His hand moved away from his sword.

The breeze picked up. Her skirts whipped around her legs, forming against her curves—teasing him. Being apart from her… it was an acute kind of torture. Like being at sea during a dry spell, when all the rain barrels are empty and there’s nothing to drink, even though you’re surrounded by water.

She bent to pick up a stone and threw it in the water. Move, he told himself. Try again. You have to.

Peter leaned back against the willow instead, waiting for the right moment, or maybe he was waiting for the right words. 

He waited some more.

Nothing came.

She would just have to bear him as he was then.

Part Six