She lowered her head. “I beg forgiveness for my carnal weakness, Father, but that is my only sin tonight.”
The ease with which she lied amazed her. Guilt stabbed at her stomach as she glanced at Guy’s bemused face.
In the momentary silence, Etienne and his mother strode into the barn, the determined Margery in the lead. She was a small woman, with button eyes and a severe mouth permanently puckered with determination. Her mouse-brown hair was thin and her eyes were sunken, like someone who had not had a decent meal in months. She pushed her way between the men and pulled her tattered woolen shawl around her frail shoulders.
Sybilla swallowed. Margery was never one to hold her tongue. Even when she tried to help, she had a way of making the situation worse.
Margery pointed at the priest. “You said, sir, that I should pray for a way to feed my children, that God would help me. Well, he did. He sent the Mistress Corbuc here to deliver this mare of a colt that was trapped inside her. She is my mare, Father. Mistress Corbuc an’ me, we struck a bargain. She said I could have the mare iffin I would give the ’orse shelter in my barn until the foal was weaned. The old mare woulda died, had not Mistress Corbuc helped with the birthing. My mare,” she repeated, “the one that’s gonna feed my children.”
A chill washed over Sybilla. Addy to slaughter? Margery had never mentioned that.
Margery knelt and bowed her head before the priest. “God bless the Mistress Corbuc. Have mercy on her. She’s saved more souls tonight than you have in a multitude of sermons.”
Sybilla groaned inwardly. Margery, say no more!
Father Ambrose’s face turned the color of a pomegranate. “She has broken the law.”
The sheriff nodded to the guard. “And so we have a witness, Mistress Corbuc. The widow Margery has just confirmed your crime. From this hour on, you will spend your days in Gambolt prison and await your trial.” He lifted the manacles from the guard’s hands. “If you are convicted as a Separate, you know what happens next.” He clucked as if he were disappointed. “Pity, to mar that lovely face.”
Margery’s mouth dropped open. “Corpus bones, Mistress Corbuc. I dinna mean to tell ’em what they wanted to ’ear.”
Sybilla squared her shoulders. “It’s all right, Margery. Sooner or later, they would have arrested me. I’ve long been like a burr beneath the Father’s cassock.”
Chains rattled. Iron cuffs opened wide.
Guy grabbed Sybilla’s wrist. “Hold, Sheriff. You have no say here.”
The sheriff glared at Guy. “By order of the bishop, I do, Sir Guy. I keep the law in Cornbury for the church and for Lord Hamon. And what’s this woman to you? As of this moment, she’s in my custody and the colt goes with me until he’s weaned. But, I am a fair man. Not unkind. I will let the Mistress Corbuc keep her dress and shoes. She will be transported to the prison first thing in the morning. She should be grateful she will not go there naked. I’ve a right to strip her now and drag her there before her trial, so egregious is her crime.”
He held the manacles out as if he expected her to put them on herself.
Guy kept his grip on Sybilla, but moved his other hand to his sword, his face stark with determination. He stepped toward the sheriff, the movement a calculated threat. “The disposition of Mistress Corbuc is not under your jurisdiction. The foal is nearly worthless, marked as it is. But she agreed to sell him to me for a half a shilling. And Mistress Corbuc has conscribed to work for me. I’ve employed her for three years’ worth of room and board. Her life is already mine, as is the foal’s. And I agreed to send a shilling to the widow for the old mare.”
Margery looked up, her eyes wide, her head bobbing in agreement.
Sybilla’s palms turned clammy. Sir Guy of Warwick just claimed her foal, and he had just claimed her––as his indentured servant—for three years!
God’s breath. She’d sworn to her mother she’d never be a servant. She’d seen the scars on her mother’s back, scars from a brutal master who’d beat her senseless and left her in a ditch to die. Bless the wicked master’s God-fearing wife. The woman feared her husband had committed murder—and demanded he set her mother free as penance. Her mother had kept the blood-stained servant’s dress in a chest for years thereafter as a reminder of what servants had to endure.
Sybilla shuddered. Sir Guy of Warwick could not truly expect her to give up her freedom. And she’d not part with Regalo, the colt who was her future, not for any price.
“No!” she blurted.
The word slipped out before Sybilla saw Margery’s pleading eyes. The poor woman looked stricken, as if she’d been given a brief reprieve, then ordered to the gallows. Addy wasn’t worth a shilling, even by the pound, but with that kind of money in her pocket, Margery could feed her family for a year.
Sybilla drew a deep breath and bit down on her lip. Giving up her freedom would save Addy, Margery, and her children. And it was the only way, at the moment, to avoid a stint in Gambolt prison. Her parents had died in that disease-infested place. They had not been criminals, just poor folk who could not pay their debtors. God’s bones, even if she lived through Gambolt prison, she’d be sentenced as a Separate. She’d not the courage or the strength for that.
Her heart raced. ’Twas best to play along with this ruse and survive.
She squared her shoulders and looked at Sir Guy. “I mean, no, Sir Guy, you agreed to give the widow Margery two shillings, not one.”
A sly grin spread across Sir Guy’s face. He spread his hands apologetically, as if he was sorry he had tried to cheat.
Sybilla bowed her head, feigning acquiescence. “And give her the half a shilling for my foal. I owe her for the hay.”
Guy opened his mouth as if in protest. He snapped his jaw closed and shrugged. “As you wish, Mistress Corbuc.” He nodded to Simon. “Sir Simon, pay the widow Margery. Use my winnings from the gaming tables, the coins I gave you for safe keeping last night.”
Simon swore an oath beneath his breath. He cut the small leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to Margery. “You’re lucky that he saved some back, but it’s all he’s got.” He shot a look at the sheriff, as if the last few words were meant for him.
Sybilla arched an eyebrow, surprised.
The sheriff folded his arms. “Sir Guy, I’ve orders from the bishop to arrest the Mistress Corbuc and Lord Hamon commands I find his stolen necklace. What do you suppose I should do?” He drummed his fingers on the leather purse buckled to his silver belt and cast a furtive glance at the priest. The priest bowed his head as if preoccupied with prayer.
Guy’s eyes locked with the sheriff’s. “Tell the bishop he will no longer be troubled by Mistress Corbuc. She has found employment as a servant to Sir Guy of Warwick and she will be leaving Cornbury. Tell Lord Hamon you could not find his necklace. You searched everywhere, even through the hay bales and the stall.” He said those last words slowly, hinting. He pointed his sword at the sheriff’s heart. “But know that I’m no thief, Sheriff. I do not take such accusations lightly. If you or Lord Hamon dares to challenge me on this, I relish the opportunity to settle, sword to sword. Man to man. No need to wait until the fighting season.”
The sheriff stepped back. “I will search the bales and stall myself. I promise I will find that necklace, Sir Guy. And if you and Mistress Corbuc are still in Cornbury at morning’s light, I’ll send ten men with pikes to hunt you down, if Hamon and his guard don’t