“And the embroidered tapestries. You did
write about the tapestries? It is so damp here. We need something
to warm the walls.”
“I will write the letter, my lady,” Reynaud
said, “but these are expensive luxuries. You would commission a
gold chalice and patten for the chapel? A gold and silver crucifix?
Six carved chairs for the great hall? Three large carved and
painted bedsteads? Some of these things could more cheaply be made
right here at Afoncaer. I’m not sure it’s wise to order them from
London.”
“Guy can afford it,” Isabel said blithely.
“Oh, and Reynaud, when you send the next report to the king, put in
a letter to Queen Matilda. Tell her I want sky blue silk, to have
her lady-in-waiting send it at once. I need a new gown.”
“Another gown, my lady?” Reynaud ventured a
stronger protest. “Surely your wardrobe is already more than
adequate?”
“Not at all. Men know nothing of these
matters, do they, Meredith?” Before Meredith could answer, Isabel
went on in her imperious way. “There will be great feasts when Lord
Guy’s friends arrive. It will not do for me to appear in bedraggled
garments such as this. I wouldn’t want to disgrace him.” Isabel
looked down at her flame red woolen gown, trimmed at neck and
wrists with squirrel fur. Meredith knew her mistress was wearing
the newly sewn gown for the first time.
When Isabel left the main hall for the
women’s quarters, Reynaud cast his eyes toward heaven as if asking
for help. Meredith repressed a giggle, and for just an instant when
their glances met she saw in the architect’s expression a
combination of irritation toward Isabel and sympathy for Meredith
that was far different from his usual cold demeanor toward her.
He was an odd person, Meredith thought, with
his ever-present rolls of parchment and his quill pens. He did so
many different things. He was architect and engineer and he kept
Sir Guy’s household accounts and wrote letters for him. She could
tell Guy respected him. Reynaud treated Thomas kindly, and she knew
Father Herbert disliked him, facts that recommended Reynaud to
her.
On the day Father Herbert loosed one of his
periodic tirades against the Welsh, and particularly the heathen
witches he believed lived in the forest, Meredith had to bite her
lip to keep quiet. She knew Reynaud had seen her anger, and her
fear. When Guy stormed off to the stables, and Father Herbert, much
injured by the baron’s hard words to him, went to calm himself in
the chapel, Reynaud approached Meredith.
“The man is a fool, ignorant and
superstitious,” Reynaud said. “Sir Guy knows that and pays no heed
to him. Anyone with his wits about him knows that witches are no
real threat to a good Christian. One need only hold up a crucifix
or make the sign of the cross and speak a prayer, and the witch is
rendered harmless.”
“He doesn’t know what he is saying. He
doesn’t understand.” She almost added that the people Father
Herbert feared so much were harmless herbal healers, but she
restrained herself just in time. She did not want to give herself
away.
“In a place such as Wales,” Reynaud said
thoughtfully, “it is best not to inquire too closely into people’s
beliefs but rather to accept the appearance of belief and let it go
at that. The folk here will come to true belief in God’s own time,
if we but set a good example for them and do not drive them away
from the Church with harshness. We Normans are few in number here
on the border, and we impose our dominion over the people by force
of arms. There is always the chance of revolt if we press them too
far. It happened before at Afoncaer, under Baron Lionel, and the
Normans lost that battle. We are too far away to expect help from
the king’s armies in case of trouble, and so Lord Guy is in effect
an independent ruler. He can do as he pleases, and he is inclined
to be most lenient toward the Welsh. Rest easy, Meredith, Father
Herbert has no real influence on Lord Guy, and it is that he most
resents.”
“He seems very angry,” Meredith said.
“Sir Guy can keep him in hand,” Reynaud said
reassuringly. “You needn’t worry about your friends.”
Meredith’s startled glance met his, and then
he went away to his work, leaving her wondering just what he knew
about her and her life before she had come to the castle. She knew
about Geoffrey’s attempts to discover information about her
friends. She had protested to Guy.
“That was before I knew who you were,” Guy
said. “For all I could tell, there was an army gathering in that
forest, planning to attack Afoncaer once more.”
“And now?”
“Now Geoffrey is too busy with other duties
to pry into local affairs.” Guy grinned. “I daresay he misses the
supply of ale I once granted him. Have no fear, Meredith, Rhys and
Branwen, and you, are safe enough while I am baron here.”
Meredith did not like Geoffrey at first
because she resented what she saw as his spying. She treated him
with cold disdain until the day Geoffrey, tilting at the quintain
set up in the practice yard, misjudged his timing. The quintain
spun around, knocking Geoffrey off his horse. For a squire, garbed
in well-padded clothing for this exercise, such falls usually
resulted in little more than bruises and hurt pride, but on that
day Geoffrey somehow tangled with his own lance and broke his right
leg.
“An act of God,” Father Herbert intoned, as
the white-faced, bleeding squire was carried into the great hall.
“A sign from heaven. You reached too high above your station,
Geoffrey, wanting to be a knight. That leg will surely heal
crooked. You will never ride again. Resolve now to dedicate
yourself to the Church. Resign yourself to this chastisement with
courage and humility, offering your pain to God in expiation of
your sins.”
Meredith wanted to shout at the priest to be
silent. Could he not see the pain Geoffrey was in? Had he no
kindness in his heart for a wounded young man who was not much more
than a boy? Meredith hung back while Isabel examined the leg.
“Father Herbert is right, I’m afraid,” Isabel
said as Geoffrey moaned under her rough touch. Meredith could not
tell if it was distress of mind or body that caused the sound, but
her heart went out to him.
“The leg must be removed before the wound
festers and causes your death,” Isabel added. “I know of nothing
else to do when there is an open wound as well as a broken bone.
I’m sorry, Geoffrey. Joan, send for the barber-surgeon.”
Meredith saw tears in Geoffrey’s eyes before
he turned his head away. She saw Guy looking down at his squire
with pity. Then Guy looked at her, and there was a plea in his blue
gaze. He would not reveal that she was a healer. He would keep her
secret as he had promised, but she thought he was asking for her
help. She stepped forward.
“My lady,” Meredith said. “I have a little
skill in treating broken bones. Will you let me try to help
Geoffrey?”
“You?” Isabel’s surprise was apparent. “What
could you possibly do that I cannot?”
“Let her try, Isabel.” Guy was all innocence.
“You have so many duties. Let Meredith take on this one. Let her
tend Geoffrey.”
“Perhaps you are right. Let Meredith do it.
One thing is certain, Geoffrey will lose his leg no matter who
cares for him. I give him over to your offices, Meredith. Tend him
well.” Lady Isabel gathered her blue silk skirts about her and
swept out of the great hall into the women’s quarters.
“Meredith,” Joan said, “tell me what I can do
to help you.”
“I’ll need wine, hot water, clean linen, and
as much comfrey as you can find.”
“Comfrey. I’ve heard of that remedy.” Joan
nodded her agreement. “I’ll get everything you need.”
She disappeared on her errand, and Meredith
knelt beside Geoffrey, feeling the now-swelling limb with gentle
hands. Geoffrey stiffened at first, but relaxed as he realized
Meredith’s touch would not add to his pain. When she was finished
Meredith sat back on her heels. She wished she had some of Rhys’s
mixture of willow bark, hemlock, and thorn-apple sweetened with
honey to feed to Geoffrey. It would put him to sleep while she did
what must be done to align the broken bones correctly.
“Geoffrey,” she said, “I believe I can make
your leg heal properly, but for a little while you must endure
great pain and perhaps a high fever. Are you willing?”
“Can you make me fit to ride again?”
Anguished brown eyes probed her face.
“I will try my best. The wound has bled a lot
but it’s not as bad as it looks, and it is a separate thing from
the break. The bone has not come through the skin. That’s a good
sign.”
“Do whatever you have to,” Geoffrey told her.
“If there’s a chance I can ride again, I can bear any pain.”
After Meredith cleaned the open wound
carefully and rinsed it with wine, Guy sat on the floor and held
Geoffrey’s head and shoulders. They put a piece of linen between
his teeth for him to bite on, and with Joan and one of Guy’s
soldiers to help, they pulled the leg until the bones were in
place. Geoffrey groaned only once as they tugged on him. While the
others held the leg steady, Meredith splinted it between two long
pieces of wood, placing comfrey leaves between the skin and the
linen wrapping. Then they raised it, to help the swelling go away.
Joan heated wine and Meredith added sage to it from the household
stores, to soothe Geoffrey and drive away the fever he would soon
develop, and chamomile to help him to a natural sleep. When he had
taken the wine, Geoffrey lay quietly while Guy sat beside him,
talking of pleasant things until his squire slept.
“Well done,” Reynaud said.
“Have you been watching all this time, sir?”
Meredith finished rolling up a strip of leftover linen. It could be
used as a smaller bandage for a cut finger or toe. She did not like
to waste anything, and flax took a long time to prepare and weave
into linen.
“I have watched with admiration,” Reynaud
told her. “You have great skill in your hands, Meredith.
Remarkable, in fact. How did one so young as yourself learn so
much?”
Meredith shrugged her shoulders and tried to
look unconcerned. She was saved from making an answer by Guy, who
joined her and Reynaud.
“He’s asleep,” Guy said. “Geoffrey is dear to
me, Meredith. He is not just my squire but the most loyal of
friends. So, it seems, are you. I thank you for helping Geoffrey.”
He raised her hand to his lips and held it there.
Reynaud moved discreetly away, leaving them
alone in the midst of the busy hall. The tables were being set up
for the evening meal; the men of Afoncaer’s garrison who were off
duty wandered in and out. Father Herbert, after muttering a while
about interference with God’s holy will, but unable to find
anything to complain about in Meredith’s treatment of Geoffrey,
finally took himself off to the chapel. Edith and Margaret began to
carry in platters of bread and cheese. There would be no meat
tonight, for it was Friday. And still Guy held her fingers against
his lips.
“My lord, people are looking at us,” Meredith
whispered.
“I would not have them gossip about you.” He
dropped her hand. “But they will know you have my gratitude,” he
added.
He took his place at the high seat, and
Meredith went to help Lady Isabel tidy herself for the meal. She
had his friendship and his gratitude. He had said so. She dared not
ask for more.
Being young and in superb physical condition,
Geoffrey recovered quickly once his fever subsided. In a few days
he was hobbling about on a crutch one of the carpenters made for
him. Within two weeks it was obvious that, given enough time, his
leg would heal true and he would ride again.
“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me,”
he said to Meredith as she rewrapped his bandage after inspecting
his leg and packing it with fresh comfrey leaves. “I want so much
to continue as Guy’s squire.”
“He’ll be glad to have you back, as soon as
you are able. Even on crutches, he’d be happy to have you,” she
teased. “I’ve heard he’s none too pleased with that clumsy fellow
from the guards he has taken on as temporary replacement for
you.”
“A man in his position should have more than
one squire,” Geoffrey said, “though he will probably have me for
all of my life. I doubt I’ll ever be able to afford armor and two
horses so I can be knighted. But if it is God’s will that I remain
a squire, then I’ll do the best I can to serve Guy.”
“Perhaps you’ll be knighted on the
battlefield,” Meredith began, then stopped abruptly, realizing what
that would mean. If Geoffrey were involved in battle, so would Guy.
Battle would mean danger and perhaps harm to Guy. She would not
wish for that.
“At least I have the best of masters,”
Geoffrey said.
“You are fortunate,” Meredith replied,
wishing she could say the same about her mistress.
Isabel was plainly jealous of the attention
Meredith had received for healing Geoffrey, and of the new respect
with which the servants and Guy’s men treated her. Isabel became
spiteful and very clever at finding unpleasant tasks for Meredith
to do. Her demands kept Meredith so busy that she had little time
for herself. Only occasionally toward day’s end, when Isabel was
conferring with Joan about her wardrobe, could Meredith slip away
for a while.
One evening, when the masons had finished
their work for the day, she climbed the partially completed spiral
staircase of the new tower keep to the wooden platform at its top.
As she went up she saw first a few dressed stones laying on the
platform, ready for the next morning’s work. There was a wooden
tool box, closed now against nighttime moisture so the tools would
not rust, some rags, a trowel left carelessly to one side. Three
steps higher and she could see over the top of the incomplete wall
of the keep to trees and a glimpse of river. Meredith ran up the
last few steps and stood on the platform, taking in all the
view.