the final steps, but he grinned triumphantly as he set her down beneath the small porch.
Fresh from her dreams, she gave him a full smile. “Thank you, my hero!”
He stared, and it was as if new lightning sizzled through the air.
A grunt made Petra aware that the door had opened again and the farmer’s wife was staring at them. Petra quickly turned the smile on the woman. “God bless you for your charity, madame.”
The woman wasn’t charmed. “Come in, then.” Her accent was so heavy Petra had difficulty understanding, and she was dirty and missing a number of teeth.
Petra was suddenly reluctant. “I’m sorry you’ll have to sleep in the barn, Robin. Perhaps—”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“You’ll be so uncomfortable.” Petra turned to the woman. “Could my brother—”
“No men.” The woman grabbed Petra’s arm and hauled her inside, slamming the door in Robin Bonchurch’s face.
Chapter 5
P etra almost wrenched it open and ran back out again, but she was being ridiculous. So these people were poor and from the smells, unclean, but they offered what they had. She gathered her manners and thanked her hostess again.
The woman grunted and waved her to a seat.
A table took up half the room, with a crude chair at head and foot and a bench down either side, but some wooden chests against the walls could also be seats. Petra walked to one of those, not liking the way the floor squished. It was covered with rushes, but clearly they lay over earth and the rain was seeping up.
These poor people. At least they had a fire, burning in a hearth that made up most of a side wall. On either side shabby curtains hung over arches that must lead into the other half of the house. They had food, too, for a cooking pot hung over the fire, attended by an ancient, humped-backed woman. The old woman was staring at Petra—if she could see out of eyes so pouched. Her yellowish skin lay thinly over bones, giving her an almost skeletal appearance. Petra found a smile and wished her a good evening.
The woman grunted, swigged something from a flagon, and returned to her pot.
Petra sat, trying to gather her cloak around her, both for warmth and to stop it trailing on the dirty floor. The few windows were high and shuttered and she doubted they had any glass in them, for drafts wavered the solitary candle on the table. From the smell, it was tallow, but there were other smells, and some, she feared, came from the cooking pot.
Madame Goulart went through the left-hand arch and Petra heard muffled voices. For a moment she was suspicious, but she remembered the two women who’d opened the gates. They’d be changing their wet clothing. They’d gone out in the rain to let in distressed travelers, even though fearful because their men were away.
These people were very Good Samaritans, and she must remember that.
Madame Goulart returned bearing a large earthenware jug and a leather pouch. She gave the pouch to the old woman and put the jug on the table. She took down a wooden beaker from a shelf and poured into it, then brought it to Petra.
Petra thanked her but had to ask “What is it?” Travel had taught her that local food and drink could be peculiar.
“Poiré.”
Ah, the pear cider of northern France. Petra longed for good wine or coffee, but this was wholesome.
“Thank you. Most refreshing. I am Sister Immaculata.”
“Where you from, then?” the woman asked, studying Petra with eyes almost as pouched as the crone’s. She was fleshy rather than skeletal, but her skin, too, was sallow.
“Milan,” Petra said.
“That is in England?”
Petra realized she should have given an English place, and was tempted to agree, but it was too strange a lie. “No, madame. It is in Italy.”
Madame Goulart reared back. “Your brother claimed to be English!”
“Oh, we are, madame, but we have no convents in England, you see, so I had to travel to Italy to join one.”
The woman still frowned, and Petra was
Fresh from her dreams, she gave him a full smile. “Thank you, my hero!”
He stared, and it was as if new lightning sizzled through the air.
A grunt made Petra aware that the door had opened again and the farmer’s wife was staring at them. Petra quickly turned the smile on the woman. “God bless you for your charity, madame.”
The woman wasn’t charmed. “Come in, then.” Her accent was so heavy Petra had difficulty understanding, and she was dirty and missing a number of teeth.
Petra was suddenly reluctant. “I’m sorry you’ll have to sleep in the barn, Robin. Perhaps—”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“You’ll be so uncomfortable.” Petra turned to the woman. “Could my brother—”
“No men.” The woman grabbed Petra’s arm and hauled her inside, slamming the door in Robin Bonchurch’s face.
Chapter 5
P etra almost wrenched it open and ran back out again, but she was being ridiculous. So these people were poor and from the smells, unclean, but they offered what they had. She gathered her manners and thanked her hostess again.
The woman grunted and waved her to a seat.
A table took up half the room, with a crude chair at head and foot and a bench down either side, but some wooden chests against the walls could also be seats. Petra walked to one of those, not liking the way the floor squished. It was covered with rushes, but clearly they lay over earth and the rain was seeping up.
These poor people. At least they had a fire, burning in a hearth that made up most of a side wall. On either side shabby curtains hung over arches that must lead into the other half of the house. They had food, too, for a cooking pot hung over the fire, attended by an ancient, humped-backed woman. The old woman was staring at Petra—if she could see out of eyes so pouched. Her yellowish skin lay thinly over bones, giving her an almost skeletal appearance. Petra found a smile and wished her a good evening.
The woman grunted, swigged something from a flagon, and returned to her pot.
Petra sat, trying to gather her cloak around her, both for warmth and to stop it trailing on the dirty floor. The few windows were high and shuttered and she doubted they had any glass in them, for drafts wavered the solitary candle on the table. From the smell, it was tallow, but there were other smells, and some, she feared, came from the cooking pot.
Madame Goulart went through the left-hand arch and Petra heard muffled voices. For a moment she was suspicious, but she remembered the two women who’d opened the gates. They’d be changing their wet clothing. They’d gone out in the rain to let in distressed travelers, even though fearful because their men were away.
These people were very Good Samaritans, and she must remember that.
Madame Goulart returned bearing a large earthenware jug and a leather pouch. She gave the pouch to the old woman and put the jug on the table. She took down a wooden beaker from a shelf and poured into it, then brought it to Petra.
Petra thanked her but had to ask “What is it?” Travel had taught her that local food and drink could be peculiar.
“Poiré.”
Ah, the pear cider of northern France. Petra longed for good wine or coffee, but this was wholesome.
“Thank you. Most refreshing. I am Sister Immaculata.”
“Where you from, then?” the woman asked, studying Petra with eyes almost as pouched as the crone’s. She was fleshy rather than skeletal, but her skin, too, was sallow.
“Milan,” Petra said.
“That is in England?”
Petra realized she should have given an English place, and was tempted to agree, but it was too strange a lie. “No, madame. It is in Italy.”
Madame Goulart reared back. “Your brother claimed to be English!”
“Oh, we are, madame, but we have no convents in England, you see, so I had to travel to Italy to join one.”
The woman still frowned, and Petra was
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