“You, too,” Mauger said to Giles. “Remove
that hood.”
For Giles there was no need of concealment.
He did not think the watchman would recognize him or find anything
unusual in his visage. Like Hugh, Giles had sewn scallop shells to
his clothing in proof of his visit to the famous shrine at
Compostela, for both men had in fact stopped there on their way to
England.
Giles lowered his hood, aware that the
watchman would see light brown hair, mustache and beard, all of
which were in sore need of trimming as befitted a weary pilgrim who
had been on the roads for weeks, and blue eyes surrounded by lines,
the result of many years spent squinting against the glare of a
desert sun. While the watchman stared at him and then looked once
more at Hugh, Giles was conscious of the woman’s gaze on his face.
Her rather blank expression did not alter, but Giles thought he saw
a flicker of anxiety in her eyes.
“All right,” Mauger said. “You look harmless
enough. If there’s any trouble later, it’s on your head,” he added
to the woman.
“If you will come with me, good sirs.” The
woman turned and began walking across the lower bailey, her cat
like a gray shadow at her heels.
It was a crowded, busy place, reeking with
the odors of horses and dogs and unwashed men. Stables, the
kennels, and storehouses were all built with their backs against
the inner walls. Late in the day though it was, the castle
blacksmith was hard at work, the heat and light from his forge and
the ringing sound of his hammer reaching the bailey through the
open door of his workshop. Hugh paused to look inside for a moment
before hurrying after Giles and the woman. For his part, Giles
tried to remember to move as if he were in pain from the wound in
his side, while at the same time he took careful note of sights
once familiar to him but half forgotten in the passage of
years.
“Your horses will need stabling,” the woman
said, stopping at the stable entrance. She called to a youth
inside, “Robin, I have need of your aid.”
“My lady Mirielle.” The boy came running and
went down on one knee as if he were a page at the royal court and
the plain, middle-aged woman were a princess. “Whatever you ask, I
will do.”
“It is but a small favor, Robin.” The woman’s
smile was sweet, lighting her face with warm affection, making her
look much younger. “These two pilgrims have just arrived and their
horses need care and food.”
“It shall be done, my lady.” Robin took the
reins to lead the horses into the stable.
“A moment, lad.” Hugh reached to take the
saddlebags and to unfasten the long staff that had drawn the
watchman’s attention. “We will need these. Be kind to the horses,
boy. They have carried us far today.”
“Gentle sir, you need not worry,” Robin
answered. “I will personally see to them as my lady has bidden
me.”
“For that we thank you.” Giles looked from
the earnest face of the boy to the woman in gray, wondering why the
watchman had treated her as if she were a common servant while
young Robin knelt to her and called her my lady.
“All questions will be answered at the proper
time,” Hugh murmured beside him, as if he had read Giles’s
thoughts.
“So you have often told me,” Giles
responded.
Lady Mirielle did not appear to hear this
exchange. She guided them to the inner gate where, in contrast to
their reception at the main gate, half a dozen men-at-arms gave
them scarcely a glance. Then they were inside the second ring of
stone walls and crossing the inner bailey toward the very heart of
the castle. Here there were not so many people as in the outer
bailey and more of them were women and children. At one side a
wooden palisade blocked casual entrance to the herb garden and to
the formal garden that were the domain of the lady of the
castle.
The lady of the castle. Giles wondered where
she could be. It had been so very long since he had looked upon her
perfect face and her golden hair. He had not taken a woman for
months, since before his visit to Compostela, yet he felt no
quickening in his loins at the thought of beautiful Alda.
Up the narrow steps of the tower keep they
went behind Mirielle. Two-thirds of the way up there was a landing
and the stairs angled to the right. Some years earlier Lord Udo had
ordered the stairs rebuilt in this way, jesting to the stonemasons
that he relished the thought of sending invaders plummeting off the
landing to break their necks or skulls on the hard-packed earth
below. Once Udo had been renowned for his warrior’s skills and his
courage. Now his remains lay in the crypt below the chapel. Giles’s
lips tightened on that thought.
“Here we are, good sirs.” Mirielle led them
through the entrance and into the great hall.
Giles looked around, fascinated. Bright
tapestries hung on the walls. Twin fireplaces built into the walls
on opposite sides of the room sent out a pleasant warmth that could
not quite banish the day’s dampness. The great hall was filled with
bustling servants, children, men-at-arms, and barking dogs. One
particularly unpleasant looking cur ran toward the newcomers with
its teeth bared, snarling. Suddenly the dog stopped short,
whimpered, put its tail between its legs, and headed in another
direction…and the gray cat, Minn, sat down beside Mirielle and
calmly began to wash its paws.
“Sir Brice, our seneschal, is not here,”
Mirielle said. “Perhaps he is in the mews. One of the falcons was
ailing this morning.”
“I am not so well myself.” Giles made a sound
and clutched at his side as if in pain. Mirielle regarded him in
silence for a moment. The idea came into Giles’s mind that she
knew, or at least harbored a strong suspicion, that he was only
pretending to weakness.
“We have no other guests at present,”
Mirielle said. “I see no reason why you should not be given one of
the small rooms for your own use. It will be more comfortable for
you, and certainly quieter than sleeping in the great hall.”
And easier to guard us and to lock us in if
need be, Giles thought. He must take care not to underestimate this
intelligent woman.
Leaving the great hall, Mirielle took them up
a curving staircase to a room built into the thickness of the
castle wall. A single arrow slit provided light and air. A wide
wooden bench along one wall and a three-legged stool were the only
pieces of furniture.
“Had I known you were coming, I would have
ordered the room properly prepared for you,” Mirielle told them. “I
will send a mattress and quilts.” She left before either Giles or
Hugh could ask any questions of her.
“Well,” said Hugh, tossing the saddlebags
onto the bench that would serve as both seating and bed space, “at
least we are inside Wroxley. I can make this room warmer if you
wish.” He lifted his wooden staff.
“Not just yet.” Before he continued Giles
stuck his head out the door to make certain no one was near enough
to hear what he said. “There have been changes made.”
“Would you expect otherwise in eleven years?”
Hugh shrugged. “I would be concerned if there were no changes at
all.”
“That woman, Mirielle.” Giles paused, waiting
for Hugh’s comment.
“So you did notice. I thought you would.”
Hugh’s quick smile came and went. “She is most adept. Her true form
is quite different from the illusion she wished us to see.”
“She is younger than she appears to be,”
Giles said. “I saw it when she smiled at the stableboy. Nor does
she move like a middle-aged woman. And her voice is youthful.”
“An ordinary observer, one not expecting to
see beyond the surface appearance, would not notice such
details.”
“I wonder,” Giles mused, “what her true
appearance is, and if she will ever allow us to see it.”
“Where have you been? Keep that cat out of my
room!” Lady Alda, mistress of Wroxley Castle, rushed to her chamber
door before it was fully open. She aimed a kick at Minn, who leapt
out of range before Alda’s bare foot could connect with her nose.
“Come in, Mirielle, and be quick about it. My bathwater will grow
cold before the herbs can scent it.”
“Surely not, my lady. The water is still
steaming.” Mirielle crossed the room to the wooden tub. She said
nothing about Alda’s treatment of her cat. Both Mirielle and Minn
were used to Alda’s ways.
“What are you waiting for?” Alda exclaimed.
“Hurry. I want my bath now!”
Mirielle set down the basket of herbs she was
carrying. After testing the temperature of the water with a finger
she began to strew lavender and mint across the surface, crumbling
the dried leaves and flowers as she did so. A sweet fragrance began
to rise, filling her nostrils. Mirielle wished the soothing
qualities of the herbs could calm Alda’s ever-restless spirit.
After the death of her father-in-law, Lord
Udo, Alda had refused to move into the lord’s chamber at the top of
the tower keep. She had ordered the lord’s chamber closed and
locked. Only Mirielle went there from time to time with a
maidservant, to clean and air the room in case Udo’s son, Gavin,
should return unexpectedly.
Alda remained in the room where she had slept
since first coming to Wroxley as a young bride. At first Mirielle,
as a newcomer to the castle, had taken Alda’s refusal to occupy the
lord’s bedchamber as a sign of respect for the old baron. Now that
Mirielle knew Alda better, she was not sure what the real reason
was.
“Mirielle, stop daydreaming!” Alda commanded.
“I am waiting.”
“Do you want me to add the rosemary also?”
Mirielle asked.
“No. No, he—I—prefer the lavender to
predominate. Take the rosemary to the kitchen.” Dropping the shawl
that was her only covering, Alda stepped into the tub, sinking
downward with a sensuous wriggle until she was sitting in the
steamy, fragrant water. “Give me the cloth. And check the braziers.
I am not sure there is enough charcoal to keep me warm until I am
dressed again.”
“We have guests for the night, possibly for
several nights.” As she spoke Mirielle handed a linen cloth to
Alda, then added more charcoal to one of the braziers. The room was
already too warm for her taste, but Alda preferred to wear as
little clothing as possible. Mirielle did not like to think why
that was so, for it disturbed her to know that people to whom she
owed respect and allegiance were behaving in dishonorable ways.
Still, were she a passionate woman left alone for the years of her
youth by a disinterested husband, perhaps Mirielle would think in a
different way. Perhaps, in the cold and dark of a lonely winter
night she, too, would be capable of forgetting honor in favor of
human warmth and tenderness. And desire. Perhaps.
Or perhaps not. It might depend upon her
feelings toward that absent husband. In truth, Mirielle did not
believe Alda had ever loved anyone, not even her two children. Alda
did not appear to be capable of thinking about anyone but herself,
which would seem to preclude an ability to love her husband, or to
uphold his honor. But then, Mirielle had no experience of husbands,
nor was she ever likely to acquire it.
“Don’t stand there staring at me, you silly
girl,” Alda snapped at her. “What is the matter with you today?
Give me the towel.” Having finished bathing while Mirielle was
distracted by her thoughts, Alda was again standing up in the tub.
She preened a bit, as if she imagined Mirielle might be admiring
her perfect figure.
“I am sorry, Alda. I was not paying proper
attention to you.” Hanging on to her temper, Mirielle wrapped the
towel around Alda and helped her to step out of the tub. “I was
thinking about the guests.”
“What guests?”
“The ones I just told you about.”
“Did you? Oh. Are they important?”
“Not to you, Alda, I am sure. They are only
two simple pilgrims, returning from Compostela. One of them is
troubled by an old wound. They may have to stay for a day or two,
until he is well enough to travel again.”
“You are right, they cannot be important.
Pilgrims are always boring, with their tedious talk of miracles and
salvation.” Aldo shrugged off the guests and her duties toward
them. “You see to their needs. Do whatever you like for them. Talk
to Brice if you have any questions. Where is Brice?” Alda broke off
when a knock sounded on the chamber door.
“I believe Brice himself has just answered
your question.” Mirielle stood facing the door and breathing deeply
before she opened it, so she could compose herself enough to hide
her true feelings. “Good evening, cousin.”
“Good evening to you, Mirielle.” The darkly
handsome Brice entered Alda’s bedchamber with a predatory step, his
gaze sweeping past Mirielle to rest on Alda. She, still flushed and
slightly damp from her bath, smiled a wicked, knowing smile and
lowered her eyes. She also lowered the towel until the rosy tips of
her breasts were all but uncovered.
“If you have no further need of me, Alda,”
Mirielle said, “I will excuse myself to see to my duties in the
kitchen and great hall.”
“I have no further need of you.” Alda’s
meaning was unmistakable.
Mirielle picked up the herb basket and left
the room. She heard Brice slide the bolt home behind her. She did
not doubt what would now occur in Alda’s room.
She must not think of it. She had tried to
talk to Brice when she first became aware of the true nature of his
relationship to Alda. Out of gratitude and family affection she had
tried to warn him, but he would not listen to her. He had assured
her that he knew exactly what he was doing. With a sigh, Mirielle
headed for the great hall, Minn once more trotting silently beside
her.
“You are late, Brice.” Scarcely bothering to
wait until Mirielle was gone and the door closed, Alda let the
towel fall to the floor. “I expected you to join me in my
bath.”
“I do have other occupations.” Brice stood
calmly looking Alda over as if he were contemplating the purchase
of a horse. She posed for him seductively, but he made no move to
embrace her.