LITMIR.BIZ

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the toe of his shoe.

      “And you, young Etienne,” she continued. “You want to be a knight like Sir Guy? Lurking by my cottage hoping to see me naked is not the way. Go home to your mother. Work hard and grow strong so you will be ready when you’re called from the fields to battle.”

      With a sheepish look, Etienne nodded once. As he turned to leave, Guy whistled to call him back. He tossed the boy his overtunic. Delight spread across Etienne’s young face. He pulled the garment over his head and scampered off, the hem dragging in the snow.

      Simon sighed. “God’s teeth, Guy. Your cloak to Mistress Corbuc and your tunic to the boy. Do you want to freeze to death?”

      Guy ignored his friend. “Lady Morna, your beauty would tempt any man––or boy. You cannot blame the lad for trying. Might we share the warmth of your hearth tonight?” He bowed and with his head down, he winked at Sybilla.

      Sybilla pressed her lips together and forced a blank stare. She couldn’t help the twinge of jealousy that squeezed her heart. It wasn’t a rational feeling. She had no claims on the knight who’d come to her rescue and wasn’t even sure she could trust him. Why did it matter if he flirted with the seer?

      Sybilla shot Guy her most indifferent look.

      Rising, Guy grinned. He took Lady Morna’s slender hand. “I’m sorry we parted so abruptly when last we met. I had urgent business to attend to.”

      Her face serene, Lady Morna didn’t answer right away, but her eyes belied calculating insight. She leaned toward Guy and squeezed his outstretched hand, a familiarity that confirmed Sybilla’s suspicions. Guy and Lady Morna knew each other well.

      Lady Morna spoke in a low voice. “You are always welcome here, Sir Guy. Few knights would risk the company of a lonely noblewoman who’s fallen far from grace. Bring your colt and your friends inside. But hurry. Lord Hamon’s men are sure to be searching for you.” She lifted her long skirts and made a half-turn toward her cottage.

      A look of relief swept across Guy’s face. He knelt and scooped the fading Regalo into his arms.

      Her dark eyes alight with understanding, Lady Morna stopped to study Sybilla. “Mistress Corbuc, be kind in your assessment of me. We both do what we must to survive. I know what saving your colt has cost you. Why don’t you tell them what’s really wrong with the foal?”

      Sybilla’s knees went weak. “He needs milk,” she replied, shifting from one foot to the other.

      Lady Morna shook her head.

      Sybilla lowered her eyes. She could name a dozen maladies—twisted guts, water head, jaundice, or navel ill. All grave conditions, but none as lethal as the one she refused to say, the one that was the cause of Regalo’s weakening. It would be better for Regalo, and for her, not to reveal his condition. Guy of Warwick might abandon them both and they’d surely die out here in the cold.

      She lowered her eyes. “He was fine until the last few hours. He’s just tired and hungry.”

      Lady Morna held her hand out and motioned for her to follow. “Come now, Mistress Corbuc, your knowledge and intuit exceeds those who usually ply your trade. Confess. Tell your friends what the colt’s problem really is. They’ll see it soon enough.”

      Sybilla folded her arms to steady her nerves. Lady Morna was right. Soon Regalo would reveal his malady to all. If Guy cast her and colt aside once he heard the news, so be it. She wouldn’t blame him. Villagers would stone a foal with this affliction, and probably her too, for bringing him into the world.

      She faced Guy straight on. “Regalo has been elfshot.”

      Guy’s mouth gaped open. Simon gasped.

      Morna stepped across the threshold, one foot inside her cottage. “Now tell them the rest of it, Mistress Corbuc, so they are prepared.”

      Sybilla took a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and locked her gaze with Guy’s. “By midnight Regalo will be sitting on his haunches, barking like a dog and staring at the stars. Pray he lives the night.”

      Guy ran his hands through his hair and let out an exasperated groan. “Elfshot! How? And how long have you known, Mistress Corbuc?”

      Sybilla couldn’t lie. “From the moment he was born, but I had hoped he was just a sprite and gifted.” She took a deep breath. “It happens when a foal is stuck in the birth canal too long. ’Twas no fault of his own, or mine, Sir Guy.”

      Sir Guy looked mournfully at the foal. The great knight’s shoulders slumped like a man whose hope dissolved before his very eyes.

      Sybilla rested her hand on Sir Guy’s arm. No need to tell him Regalo would soon be as addle-brained as a rabid sheep, prone to wandering and howling at the moon and barking like a dog. Even Addy had begun to distance herself from her foal. She hadn’t whinnied for him since they’d left the road in Cornbury.

      Sybilla pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. She should have prepared for this as soon as Etienne told her there was a problem with the birthing. But what could she have done to prevent it? In the end, she could not have changed the outcome.

      She braced herself for what was sure to come.

      Guy of Warwick would surely cast her and Regalo off. Then what would she do?

      Guy locked his gaze on hers. “I don’t believe in elves, Mistress.” She watched as he knelt and lifted the ailing Regalo into his arms. “Come inside with us. There’s food and a fire.”

      A wave of relief washed over Sybilla, and she quickly fell in step behind Lady Morna, Guy, and Simon.

      She scanned the dimly lit interior. A comfortable place, with a finely carved oaken table; thick candles sputtered on the mantle and a graceful tall-back chair and spinning wheel sat beside the hearth. Oaken chests lined the walls and in the far corner, goats baa’d and stuck their heads between the slatted fencing that formed a livestock pen.

      Guy set Regalo down by the fire, and Simon led Addy to the pen. The scent of spiced hot stew and warm bread mingled with the smell of animals and herbs.

      Guy’s deep voice boomed above the livestock noises. “Mistress Corbuc, sit down and eat.” He pointed to the table. “A meal will warm you.”

      Vaguely aware of the steaming bowl of stew Lady Morna thrust into her hands, Sybilla lowered herself to the bench. She watched the foal lying on his side next to the fire, his feet paddling aimlessly. He smacked his lips like a fish and blinked, his eyes staring at nothing. Her heart sank. If Regalo died tonight, all she had to live for was lost.

      Guy removed Sybilla’s snow-soaked cloak and wrapped a heavy blanket around her shoulders. Warmth settled over her, but she set the bowl aside. Fatigue had claimed her appetite.

      Guy stoked the fire, fanning the kindling with a bellows. “Simon would you milk the goat? It’s for Regalo.”

      Simon choked on his spoon. He looked up from his steaming bowl of stew. “Me? Milk the goat? I’m a knight, Guy. Why do I have to—” He clamped his mouth shut, his complaint cut short by Guy’s beseeching look.

      Guy came to the table and rested his big hand on Sybilla’s shoulder, his touch reassuring.

      “You rest. I’ll feed him, Mistress Corbuc. He’ll get better. Wait and see.” He reached for a fur coverlet resting on a stool. He tossed the fur over Regalo.

      Lady Morna’s gentle voice drifted from the darkened corner. “He won’t take milk from you, Sir Guy. He’s chosen her.” She pointed to Sybilla. “’Tis the way for a colt who’s been elfshot. He’s lost affinity for the mare and bonded to another—her.”

      Guy spun around. “Only Mistress Corbuc?”

      Lady Morna nodded. “He’ll only let her feed him. For days, mayhap weeks. Who knows?”

      Guy shot a befuddled look at Sybilla. Sybilla lowered her

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