She flounced away, out through the door and into the bright sunlight of the yard behind the inn. Crossing it, ignoring the catcalls of two mercenaries at a table, she made her way to her room, and only when she had shut and bolted the door and could stand with her back to it, safe and secure once more in her old room, did she let her breath escape in a long hissing sigh of relief.
The fool had almost made her leap from her skin, the way he had called out to her. He wouldn’t dare do that to anyone else, it was just because he thought of her as a silly wench, good only for serving and flattering the customers. It wasn’t as if he had ever given her any responsibility, even.
Gradually she felt her heartbeat slow and could move from the door to the mattress, where she dropped down, and huddled miserably.
That first evening had been a long, slow anticipation of a delightful, sensual experience. In her dreams she had elevated her meeting with a suitable man to the level of a courtly love affair. There were many songs of how knights would vie for a lady’s love at tournaments, trying to win renown to honor her… and during that evening she had invented dire situations from which Sir Hector would save her, his lady, while in reality she stood beside him refilling his tankard. Her old fantasies had been reinvigorated by his presence, and she had saved him from miserable circumstances time after time while she stood, head bowed, the jug held firmly in her hands waiting for him to hold out his mug again. But instead of finding love, she had been taken like a prize of battle.
She had thought she would be happy with Sir Hector. He had been quiet in the hall, reserved and undemonstrative, not pawing at her like others she had known. At one stage she had wondered whether he was going to show any interest in her after all. But that had changed once they entered his chamber. She had expected compliments, some well-chosen phrases of flattery such as a well-educated knight might use to his chosen lady, but no. Sir Hector had battered at her as if she was a city to be conquered. He had no finesse, no interest in her whatsoever: she was there to satisfy him, and that was all. When once she tried to refuse him, he struck her. Not hard, but painfully. She could still feel the lump on her ribcage where his fist had landed with that short blow.
In the morning she had been roused and evicted. Always before, she had been woken tenderly by her lovers, gentled and teased into wakefulness. Sir Hector had risen and dressed while she was still asleep, then kicked her foot to wake her, laughing at her tousled appearance. She felt used and angry at such treatment, and almost decided not to show him any favors again, but then she began to have second thoughts. A quiet, calm voice at the back of her mind told her that she should not give up immediately, for he could still fall in love with her. Was it not often said that women were the cleverer sex? That, although men might have the brawn and muscle, women controlled them through their brains? If a woman knew what she wanted, she could surely achieve her aims and ambitions.
Sir Hector would be no easy conquest, that was plain. In the afternoon she had prepared for him, dressing carefully and smiling alluringly, and gone to him. To her amazement, he had at first ignored her, then waved her away with every expression of revulsion. This sudden rejection had confused her. There seemed no reason for him to have turned against her, and yet he had refused even to speak to her, choosing instead to go out for the evening. At first she had wondered whether the man who had tried to rape her, Henry, might have poisoned his mind against her, but her man had been out of the inn most of the day, while Henry and his friend, when she asked Cristine, had been in the hall or the stables: they had been nowhere near Sir Hector. They could have had nothing to do with his change of heart. It must be something else.
Her eyes narrowed. She must have a rival – he had said as much, though it was hard to accept. Another girl had managed to win him and would make him her husband. Was it Cristine? The thought was a dagger-thrust in her brain, and she caught at her temples with the sharp pain. Shame was not something she was used to, but being spurned for a woman ten years older, made her feel close to sickness.
She must win him back! Tonight she would dress in her finest and make herself so tempting that he could not look at another.
Sarra was in many ways a simple girl, and she was used to being the woman in town whom men leered after. It was a position she enjoyed, knowing that she could make a man’s head turn even when his wife was with him, and the idea that a man who had enjoyed her company could go on to desire another was intolerable.
Then a new thought struck her. She had dreamed of saving him, of performing a service for him which snatched him from a vile end, and surely if she was to do so he could only feel a new passion for her. If he knew he was in her debt, he must look on her in a different light.
She wrapped her arms round her legs as she considered, chin on her knees, in what possible way she might be able to win him back. One thing she did know was that Henry and his friend were evil, and must surely be bad for him. Her face lightened as she recalled overhearing a whispered conversation. All at once her ever-inventive mind began to sparkle with plans.
5
It was hard, especially when it was so late in the evening that the shutters had been slammed and locked hours before, but Margaret tried, for the sake of the others, to do justice to the meal. Peter had taken great care over it, and she did not want to hurt his feelings. She had dressed in her favorite green tunic with her hair carefully braided and decorously tied under her net. Simon was similarly attempting a brave face, but he avoided her eye, and she soon looked away.
He had been quiet ever since their son’s death. Whereas she wanted to talk to him and try to make some sort of sense of their loss, he had taken his despair and shackled it deep inside himself. It made her feel as though she had not only lost her son, but her best friend as well. His face, she could see, still had the drawn-out look which reminded her of badly cured leather stretched too tightly over a frame. In the past his gray eyes had always shone with love for her, but now their light had been blown out like a candle-flame in the wind. Sometimes she thought it would never return. Losing his heir had hit him very hard.
Her gloomy thoughts were not helped by this meal; it was such a large affair. They were seated at the head table on the dais, and below them, on her right, were all the men, Stapledon’s as well as Peter’s. Hugh and Edgar sat at a table not far away, Edith with them. She had wanted to sit with Hugh rather than on the dais, under the gaze of all the servants, and Margaret had readily agreed. To be seated at the head table was to be on display, and she did not want to put her daughter through that. It was hard enough for Margaret herself to keep calm.
The noise of the servants and guests made listening to the Bishop’s comments difficult. Though the men were not rowdy, over forty people eating made quite enough din to smother the conversation of those at the head of the table. Their talk and the clatter of knives against trenchers and spoons on table-tops echoed into the rafters high overhead. The tapestries which lined the walls, darkened by years of smoke and dust, deadened the row a little, but Margaret could feel a headache beginning, and knew she would sleep badly, if at all, after eating so late.
In honor of his guests, Peter had allocated one mess between two at the top table, but Margaret could see that the servants were all seated four to a serving dish. Courtesies were observed, and the men carefully spooned the correct portion on to their trenchers without fighting, though she observed Hugh surreptitiously seeking out the tastiest morsels from the bowl. She stiffened, thinking he might embarrass Simon if it were noticed, but then relaxed when he doled the portion into Edith’s bowl.
The panter arrived again, removing her bread trencher, which had become soaked in juices and sauces from the meat, and replaced it with one freshly sliced from the loaf. At the same time the bottler refilled her goblet. She had hardly tasted the wine, but the staff had all been exhorted to show the best manners possible while the Bishop was staying with Peter, and it would be an appalling faux pas to allow any guest’s goblet to become empty. From the set smile on the bottler’s face, Margaret could see that the injunction was proving difficult to obey. She could feel some sympathy for him, used as he was to a quieter life normally, but his difficulties were at least transitory, she reminded herself.
“Margaret, how has Edith been?”
Baldwin’s soft voice at her side was a welcome interruption to her thoughts. “She is well – she’s too young to really understand. She misses Peterkin in the way she would miss a favorite pet. Perhaps she never got to know him.”
