the night to bed her?”
Emma managed a small, wan smile. The village had been all
atwitter with the story of Ivo’s comeuppance, less from the paltry wound on his
arm than from the beating his wife had given him when he’d slunk home. Her
smile died. The village women had held her responsible, Ivo’s wife telling her
at the village well that Emma was to keep her hands off Ivo from then on, as if
she’d issued the knave an invitation. “You champion me. ‘Tis the only reason we
survive.”
“Nonsense. Now, I’ll ‘ear no more o’ this. I’ll send a
pottage by way of the baker’s lad and a poultice for yer wound. Ye’ll never go
hungry as long as I’m about.”
Emma thanked her friend, grateful there was no mention of
marriage to her son. They decided on a time for Emma to hand over the trimming
so Widow Cooper could deliver it to the abbey when she and her son went to the
nearby port of Lynn. They parted company with promises to meet in a few days.
Emma stared after the widow. Widow Cooper’s son had a cast
in his eye and was missing the fingers on his left hand. She did not really
hold his infirmities against him. ‘Twas the whispers that he’d beaten his first
wife at the slightest offense that made her cringe. With sadness, Emma hoped
the widow never learned what was whispered about her son.
Angelique had curled into a ball on the pallet and her soft
puffs of breath filled the lonely silence. Gently, Emma stroked her daughter’s
back, watched the small thumb disappear into the rose-petal lips. “Believe in
no man, Angelique. Expect lies and you will never be played the fool. Believe
only in the power of God’s love and in the power of nature.”
She felt a need to give instruction to her sleeping child,
more to reassure herself than to impart wisdom. “Revere the plants that yield
the glorious color for my dyes. Respect the gift of the wool given by the
sheep. Honor nature’s gifts. They give us life.”
She looked at the rough stone wall that formed the back of
her hut, the castle’s outer wall. His wall. “There are mysteries and
forces greater than I can understand, my angel. Lord Gilles, he is one of the
mysteries. He appears mortal man, yet mayhap if we were to meet again—
“Forget this foolish musing! Wild dogs will not beset us
again just to assure his lordship’s attention! I am surely mad to think such a
man might notice us, crouched here at the base of his walls.” In truth, she was
not sure she wished any man to notice her ever again.
Emma’s stool sat before an upright loom, but it was to the
hand loom she looked. Made from a flexible branch crotch cut from a tree, ‘twas
the loom on which she had made the trimming sold to the Abbot. It was in the
weaving of trimming and beltwork that her mother had excelled and ‘twas her
legacy to Emma.
She plucked up the hand loom and stroked her fingers along
the smooth wood that had seen years of work from both her and her mother. A
glimmer of an idea ran over and over in her head. “’Twould be audacious.
Presumptuous, even, Angelique, to weave Lord Gilles a gift. But what else have
I to give in thanks for our lives?”
She moved back to her daughter’s side, leaning down and
kissing the dainty cheek. “I’ll need alder bark, winter berries, bedstraw to
make the dyes,” she whispered to her daughter. “We shall borrow a kettle from
Widow Cooper. The stink will be terrible, but worth it.”
The scent of lavender soap lingered in Angelique’s hair.
Stroking her fingers through the curly mop, Emma tried to draw into her
nostrils the scent that would forever remind her of that luxurious bath in his chambers.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a shadow crossed the
beaten floor of her hut. Emma could barely restrain herself from squeezing
Angelique. William Belfour crossed her hut in a single stride and dropped to
one knee. He scowled down at Angelique.
“What do you want?” Emma cried, clutching at her daughter.
“I saw
Emma managed a small, wan smile. The village had been all
atwitter with the story of Ivo’s comeuppance, less from the paltry wound on his
arm than from the beating his wife had given him when he’d slunk home. Her
smile died. The village women had held her responsible, Ivo’s wife telling her
at the village well that Emma was to keep her hands off Ivo from then on, as if
she’d issued the knave an invitation. “You champion me. ‘Tis the only reason we
survive.”
“Nonsense. Now, I’ll ‘ear no more o’ this. I’ll send a
pottage by way of the baker’s lad and a poultice for yer wound. Ye’ll never go
hungry as long as I’m about.”
Emma thanked her friend, grateful there was no mention of
marriage to her son. They decided on a time for Emma to hand over the trimming
so Widow Cooper could deliver it to the abbey when she and her son went to the
nearby port of Lynn. They parted company with promises to meet in a few days.
Emma stared after the widow. Widow Cooper’s son had a cast
in his eye and was missing the fingers on his left hand. She did not really
hold his infirmities against him. ‘Twas the whispers that he’d beaten his first
wife at the slightest offense that made her cringe. With sadness, Emma hoped
the widow never learned what was whispered about her son.
Angelique had curled into a ball on the pallet and her soft
puffs of breath filled the lonely silence. Gently, Emma stroked her daughter’s
back, watched the small thumb disappear into the rose-petal lips. “Believe in
no man, Angelique. Expect lies and you will never be played the fool. Believe
only in the power of God’s love and in the power of nature.”
She felt a need to give instruction to her sleeping child,
more to reassure herself than to impart wisdom. “Revere the plants that yield
the glorious color for my dyes. Respect the gift of the wool given by the
sheep. Honor nature’s gifts. They give us life.”
She looked at the rough stone wall that formed the back of
her hut, the castle’s outer wall. His wall. “There are mysteries and
forces greater than I can understand, my angel. Lord Gilles, he is one of the
mysteries. He appears mortal man, yet mayhap if we were to meet again—
“Forget this foolish musing! Wild dogs will not beset us
again just to assure his lordship’s attention! I am surely mad to think such a
man might notice us, crouched here at the base of his walls.” In truth, she was
not sure she wished any man to notice her ever again.
Emma’s stool sat before an upright loom, but it was to the
hand loom she looked. Made from a flexible branch crotch cut from a tree, ‘twas
the loom on which she had made the trimming sold to the Abbot. It was in the
weaving of trimming and beltwork that her mother had excelled and ‘twas her
legacy to Emma.
She plucked up the hand loom and stroked her fingers along
the smooth wood that had seen years of work from both her and her mother. A
glimmer of an idea ran over and over in her head. “’Twould be audacious.
Presumptuous, even, Angelique, to weave Lord Gilles a gift. But what else have
I to give in thanks for our lives?”
She moved back to her daughter’s side, leaning down and
kissing the dainty cheek. “I’ll need alder bark, winter berries, bedstraw to
make the dyes,” she whispered to her daughter. “We shall borrow a kettle from
Widow Cooper. The stink will be terrible, but worth it.”
The scent of lavender soap lingered in Angelique’s hair.
Stroking her fingers through the curly mop, Emma tried to draw into her
nostrils the scent that would forever remind her of that luxurious bath in his chambers.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a shadow crossed the
beaten floor of her hut. Emma could barely restrain herself from squeezing
Angelique. William Belfour crossed her hut in a single stride and dropped to
one knee. He scowled down at Angelique.
“What do you want?” Emma cried, clutching at her daughter.
“I saw
Similar Books
