Five
Waddesford Keep, Moydenshire
Late spring, 1214
From the muzzy depths of sleep, Juliana heard a baby wailing.
She snuggled deeper into downy softness—the pillows on Mama’s bed? She’d been dreaming of Mama. They sat together in the bed in Sherstowe’s solar, turning the pages of Juliana’s sketchbook, while talking about the drawings: her father’s favorite horse; the stillborn baby boy; and . . . the face of Edouard de Lanceau.
Why, tonight, had she dreamed of Edouard? Why, after all that had taken place between them, couldn’t she forget him?
The baby’s cry came again, shriller this time. This infant wasn’t part of her dream.
Wake up, Juliana! her conscience urged. Little Rosemary is hungry .
Trying to rouse her sleepy mind, Juliana rubbed her eyes. Her lashes were wet, as they were every time she thought of Mama. When she opened her eyes to darkness, her senses wakened, and she recognized the faintly musty smell of her straw pallet in the antechamber of Waddesford Keep’s solar. She’d slept in the small, adjoining room from the day she became Mayda’s lady-in-waiting, to be close by whenever her friend needed her.
Why wasn’t Mayda putting her babe to her breast? At just over a week old, Rosemary needed her mother’s milk.
Mayhap, like Juliana, Mayda was only just rousing to the baby’s cry. Lying motionless, Juliana waited to hear the creak of the large rope bed as Mayda slipped from it, crooning to her child.
The only sound, apart from Rosemary’s crying, was the faint crackle of the fire.
Unease tingled through Juliana. Was Mayda all right? She’d been restless and weepy earlier that evening, but had assured Juliana she was merely tired from being wakened often in the night to nurse Rosemary. A reasonable explanation. In most circumstances, Juliana might have accepted it. However, the arguments between Landon and Mayda had become more frequent over past weeks. The birth of the little girl, when his lordship had wanted a son and heir, had added to the strain.
Juliana pushed aside her blankets, trying not to heed the other suspicions sifting into her mind. But they wouldn’t be ignored. They shoved to the forefront, as demanding as that wretched woman who’d arrived as a guest a short while ago and quickly settled in: Veronique Desjardin. Her rogue of a son, Tye, who looked close to Juliana’s twenty years of age, had also moved into the keep.
When Juliana set her feet on the icy floorboards, her right foot knocked an object in the dark, sending it sliding away with a hiss : her current sketchbook. She’d set it beside the bed before snuffing the candle to sleep. Groping in the blackness, she found the book, and then tucked it under her pallet. She didn’t want to slip on the tome again, especially if she returned to the antechamber carrying Rosemary.
As Juliana walked into the solar, her eyes began to adjust to the shadows, tinged with a reddish glow from the hearth’s embers. Her gaze went to the rope bed. Empty. The bedding on Mayda’s side had been pushed to one side, suggesting she’d left the bed for some reason and hadn’t yet returned. The blankets on Landon’s side appeared undisturbed.
How many nights, now, had he slept somewhere other than the solar?
And with whom?
Juliana’s heart squeezed, for she’d seen the scorching glances between Veronique and Landon—looks that went far beyond a lord being attentive to a guest. Not wanting to upset Mayda, Juliana had kept her suspicions of his infidelity to herself. That had become a kind of punishment, for she’d wondered if she should tell Mayda?
Juliana, though, had no definite proof, and it would be all too easy for Landon to deny all and order Juliana to leave Waddesford; then, Mayda would have no one close to her to help her. In the end, Juliana had chosen to stay silent, while hoping Mayda would discover the affair for herself.
No doubt, that was why Mayda wasn’t here. She’d gone searching
Waddesford Keep, Moydenshire
Late spring, 1214
From the muzzy depths of sleep, Juliana heard a baby wailing.
She snuggled deeper into downy softness—the pillows on Mama’s bed? She’d been dreaming of Mama. They sat together in the bed in Sherstowe’s solar, turning the pages of Juliana’s sketchbook, while talking about the drawings: her father’s favorite horse; the stillborn baby boy; and . . . the face of Edouard de Lanceau.
Why, tonight, had she dreamed of Edouard? Why, after all that had taken place between them, couldn’t she forget him?
The baby’s cry came again, shriller this time. This infant wasn’t part of her dream.
Wake up, Juliana! her conscience urged. Little Rosemary is hungry .
Trying to rouse her sleepy mind, Juliana rubbed her eyes. Her lashes were wet, as they were every time she thought of Mama. When she opened her eyes to darkness, her senses wakened, and she recognized the faintly musty smell of her straw pallet in the antechamber of Waddesford Keep’s solar. She’d slept in the small, adjoining room from the day she became Mayda’s lady-in-waiting, to be close by whenever her friend needed her.
Why wasn’t Mayda putting her babe to her breast? At just over a week old, Rosemary needed her mother’s milk.
Mayhap, like Juliana, Mayda was only just rousing to the baby’s cry. Lying motionless, Juliana waited to hear the creak of the large rope bed as Mayda slipped from it, crooning to her child.
The only sound, apart from Rosemary’s crying, was the faint crackle of the fire.
Unease tingled through Juliana. Was Mayda all right? She’d been restless and weepy earlier that evening, but had assured Juliana she was merely tired from being wakened often in the night to nurse Rosemary. A reasonable explanation. In most circumstances, Juliana might have accepted it. However, the arguments between Landon and Mayda had become more frequent over past weeks. The birth of the little girl, when his lordship had wanted a son and heir, had added to the strain.
Juliana pushed aside her blankets, trying not to heed the other suspicions sifting into her mind. But they wouldn’t be ignored. They shoved to the forefront, as demanding as that wretched woman who’d arrived as a guest a short while ago and quickly settled in: Veronique Desjardin. Her rogue of a son, Tye, who looked close to Juliana’s twenty years of age, had also moved into the keep.
When Juliana set her feet on the icy floorboards, her right foot knocked an object in the dark, sending it sliding away with a hiss : her current sketchbook. She’d set it beside the bed before snuffing the candle to sleep. Groping in the blackness, she found the book, and then tucked it under her pallet. She didn’t want to slip on the tome again, especially if she returned to the antechamber carrying Rosemary.
As Juliana walked into the solar, her eyes began to adjust to the shadows, tinged with a reddish glow from the hearth’s embers. Her gaze went to the rope bed. Empty. The bedding on Mayda’s side had been pushed to one side, suggesting she’d left the bed for some reason and hadn’t yet returned. The blankets on Landon’s side appeared undisturbed.
How many nights, now, had he slept somewhere other than the solar?
And with whom?
Juliana’s heart squeezed, for she’d seen the scorching glances between Veronique and Landon—looks that went far beyond a lord being attentive to a guest. Not wanting to upset Mayda, Juliana had kept her suspicions of his infidelity to herself. That had become a kind of punishment, for she’d wondered if she should tell Mayda?
Juliana, though, had no definite proof, and it would be all too easy for Landon to deny all and order Juliana to leave Waddesford; then, Mayda would have no one close to her to help her. In the end, Juliana had chosen to stay silent, while hoping Mayda would discover the affair for herself.
No doubt, that was why Mayda wasn’t here. She’d gone searching
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