LordoftheKeep by Ann Lawrence

smile fled. “Who defends me at the well?”
    Widow Cooper blew into Angelique’s small palm and set the
child to giggling and kicking her feet. “Humpf. The women are just jealous.
They’ve not the backbone to take their men to task for sniffing about yer
skirts and so must place the blame elsewhere. A woman alone be prey in this
place. Brainless, the lot o’ them.”
    “The women or the men?” Emma quipped.
    They shared a laugh; then the widow spied Emma’s bandaged
ankle. “Sweet heaven, child. What is this?” She settled Angelique on Emma’s
straw pallet and lifted the hem of Emma’s skirt.
    “I was gathering in the woods and was set upon by dogs.”
    “How many times must I tell ye not to go about such business
alone?” the widow scolded.
    “I am alone. You have your son and his five children to help
and cannot be rushing off each time I need to gather a few berries, or barter
some cloth, or…or draw water!” Emma knew life was hard enough for the widow
whose daughter-by-marriage had perished birthing her last babe. Secretly, Emma
suspected the widow was grooming her for her son’s next wife. In her weaker
moments, she considered it herself.
    “Well, I’m glad yer not torn to pieces.” She tutted over the
bruise on Emma’s temple.
    “Don’t fuss, please.”
    The widow withdrew her hand. “Have ye finished the last of
the trim for the Abbot?”
    “Almost.” Emma reached up into the thatching of her hut. She
drew down a narrow wooden box. Inside lay a long strip of trimming that she’d
labored hard upon. She desperately needed the pennies she’d earn for it.
Usually, her weavings earned naught but bartered food.
    The widow stroked the intricate design. “‘Tis very fine. The
Abbot will be well pleased.”
    “Angelique needs warm winter wrappings for her feet and
hands.” Emma hoped the trimming would allow her to purchase the necessary wool
to weave something that would earn her more than food. She was loath to part
with her few pennies. “I was grateful for the work. We’ve been blessed with
mild weather, but ‘twill soon be winter.”
    The two women watched Angelique tumble about from pallet to
loom to pallet. Neither voiced their common fears that Angelique would not
survive without food and warmth. Emma knew that she might look more kindly on
becoming the mother of five young children if it meant Angelique did not
starve. The thought of the conjugal privileges she must then give Widow
Cooper’s son made her shiver. Her one time with a man had made her sure she did
not wish to repeat the effort. She had fended off the Widow’s hints with
reminders that although her husband did not acknowledge her, she had made vows
and considered herself wed. How she wished she’d made those vows on the church steps
instead of in private.
    “Ye’ve a melancholy look. Are ye in pain?” Widow Cooper
touched Emma on the knee.
    “Nay. Oh, aye. The stitching hurts. Pray ‘twill not fester!
But nay, ‘tis not my wounds that ail me.” She whirled to her friend. “How could
I have been so blind? Why did I not see him for what he was?” Her voice broke;
tears flowed down her cheeks. “How could I have offered myself to the first man
with smooth cheeks and a sunny smile that paid me attention?” The tears spotted
her woolen gown, her only gown. “I acted the fool for a man’s honeyed words.
Snared by poetry! Fool. Fool.”
    “Now, now.” The widow rose and wrapped an arm about Emma’s
waist. “‘Tis not like ye to feel sorry for yerself like this. Yer not the first
to be taken in by a fine figure and pleasin’ face. I think ye were lonely, in
need of love. Yer uncle were a vile man to have the care of a young maid. ‘Tis
not the end of the world.”
    “Isn’t it? Look about you. I barely keep us fed.”
    The widow grasped Emma by the shoulders and shook her. “Now,
none o’ that! What has happened to ye? Where’s the strong maid who took her
knife to Ivo when he come sniffin’ in