threw once more her own garments, patting them smooth, with the care of a good housekeeper. She was breathing a little fast, but she had the coffer closed and was spreading out the other loot when she heard that tread outside — Fulk returning for his key.
Impulsively she caught up a veil bordered in silver thread, a dew-hung cobweb of a thing, and pulled it about her head and shoulders, seeing that it became her vilely, but generous enough now that her purpose was gained to allow her father his chance for a jeer or two. With it on she stepped once more to pose before the shield mirror.
II
SEA WRACK
The very circumstances which she hoped would set her free worked against Loyse during the next few days. For while Yvian of Karsten did not ride himself to Verlaine either to inspect the bride he had bargained for or the heritage which would come with her, he sent a train proper enough to do her honor. And she was called upon to be on show, so that underneath her outer shell she seethed with impatience and growing desperation.
At last she pinned her hopes to the wedding feast, for then, if ever, there would be muddled heads within the keep. Fulk wanted to impress the Duke’s lords with his lavish open-handedness. He would produce the liquid treasures of the hold and it would be her best chance to follow her plans.
The storm struck first, such a wild blast of wind and raging sea water as Loyse, familiar with that coast since her birth, had never seen before. For the spray reached high enough to spatter the windows of her tower room with its salt foam. And Bettris, and the maid Fulk had sent to help with the sewing of her robes, shivered and shrank with each bat of the wind’s fist ringing through the stones of the walls.
Bettris stood up, a roll of green silk tumbling to the floor, her dark eyes wide. Her fingers moved in the sacred sign of her forgotten village childhood.
“Witch storm,” her voice came small, overridden by the scream of the gale until Loyse heard only a thin whisper.
“This is not Estcarp,” Loyse matched a length of embroidery to satin and set even stitches. “We do not have power over wind and wave. And Estcarp does not move beyond her own borders. It is a storm, that is all. And if you wish to please Lord Fulk you will not tremble at sea storms for Veriaine knows them often. How else,” she paused to draw a new length of thread through a needle-eye, “do you think our treasure is gathered?”
Bettris turned on her, lips strained over her sharp little teeth in a vixen’s snarl. “I am coast born, I have seen storms in plenty. Yes, I have coursed the shore with the gleaners afterwards. Which is more than you have ever deigned to do, my lady! But this is like no storm I have seen or heard tell of in all my life! There is evil in it, I tell you — great evil!”
“Evil for those who must trust to the waves.” Loyse put down her sewing. She crossed to the windows, but there was nothing to be seen through the lace of spume which blotted out the dark of the day.
The maid made no pretense at work. She was drawn in upon her self close to the hearth where sea coral burned fitfully, rocking back and forth, her hands pressed against her breast as if she would ease some pain there. Loyse went to her. She had little of pity or interest in the wenches of the castle — from Bettris and her countless predecessors to the slatterns in the guardroom. Now against her own inclination she asked:
“You ail, wench?’
The girl was cleaner than most. Perhaps she had been ordered to tidy herself before being sent hither. Now the face she turned to Loyse drew the attention of Fulk’s daughter. This was no village girl, no peasant dragged in to pleasure a retainer and then become a work drudge. Her face was a mask of fear which had been so long a part of her that it had shaped her as a potter shapes clay. Yet under that something else struggled.
Bettris laughed shrilly. “ ’Tis no pain in her belly that eats at her, only memories. She was a sea wrack herself once. Weren’t you, slut!” Her soft leather shoe struck the girl’s haunch, nearly turning her into the fire.
“Leave her alone!” For the first time Loyse flashed her hidden fire. She had always kept aloof from the strand after a storm, since there was nothing she could do to dispute Fulk’s rule — or rather Fulk’s license there — she would not harrow herself with sights she could not forget.
Bettris simpered uneasily. With Loyse she was uncertain of her ground, so she did not rise to the challenge.
“Send the mewling idiot away. You will get no work from her as long as the storm rages — nor afterwards for a while. ’Tis a pity for she is clever with her needle, else she would have been sent to fatten the shore eels long ago.”
Loyse went to the wide expanse of the bed where much of her gear had been spread about. There was a shawl there, plain in the welter of brilliant silks and fine fabrics. Catching it up she took it back to the fireside and threw it about the shuddering maid. Disregarding Bettris’ amazement, Loyse dropped on her knees, put her hands to cover those of the girl, and looking into that drawn face, tried to will away from them both the grisly customs of Veriaine which had warped them in different ways.
Bettris pulled at her sleeve.
“How dare you?” Loyse blazed.
The other stood her ground, a sly grin now on her full lips. “The hour grows late, lady. Would Lord Fulk take it well that you nurse this slut when he meets with the Duke’s lords to sign the marriage contract? Shall I tell him why you do not come?”
Loyse regarded her levelly. “I shall do my lord’s bidding in this, as in other things, wench. Do not think to lesson me!”
She broke hold with the girl’s hands reluctantly, saying:
“Stay here. No one shall come near you. Understand — no one!”
Did the other understand? She was rocking back and forth again, racked by old pain cut into her dulled mind even after the scars had faded from her body.
“I do not need you to robe me,” Loyse turned on Bettris, and the other flushed. She could not face the younger girl down and she knew it.
“You would be the better for some knowledge of the kind of sorcery any woman knows, lady,” she replied sharply “I could show you how to make a man look at you full faced as you pass. If you would but put a little dark stain upon your brows and lashes, some of the rose salve on your lips—”Her annoyance was forgotten, as her creative instinct aroused. She surveyed Loyse critically and impersonally and the other found herself listening in spite of her scorn for Bettris and all she represented. “Yes, if you would listen to me, lady, you could perhaps draw your lord’s eyes away from that Aldis long enough for him to see another face. There are other ways, also, for the charming of a man.” Her tongue tip worked along her lips. “There is much I could teach you, lady, which would give you weapons to use for yourself.” She drew nearer, some of the glitter of the storm flashing in her eyes.
“Yvian has bargained for me as I stand,” Loyse replied, rejecting Bettris’ offer, all that Bettris stood for, “and so must be satisfied with what he gets!” And that is more true than Bettris can guess, she added silently.
The woman shrugged. “It is your life, lady. And before you are out of it, you shall discover that you cannot order it to your liking.”
“Have I ever?” asked Loyse quietly. “Now go. As you have said, it grows late and I have much to do.”
She sat through the ceremonies of the contract signing with her usual calm acceptance. The men the Duke had sent to fetch his bride to Kars were three very different types, and she found it interesting to study them.
Hunold was a comrade from Yvian’s old mercenary days. He had a reputation as a soldier which reached even into such a backwater as Verlaine. Oddly enough his appearance did not match either his occupation, nor his reputation. Where Loyse had expected to see a man such as her father’s seneschal — though perhaps slicked over with some polish — she found herself fronting a silk clad, drawling, languid courtier, who might never have felt the weight of mail on his back. His rounded chin, long lashed eyes, smooth cheeks, gave him a deceptive youth, as well as the seeming of untried softness. And Loyse, trying to match the man to the things she had heard concerning him, wondered and was a little afraid.
