“It haven’t rained like this in a score of years, not as long as I’ve been here.” Bessie, one of the kitchen wenches, accepted the jug from Alys and filled a small horn beaker for herself.
Annys, the black-toothed old woman who scoured the dishes every day, held up a pewter cup to be filled. “To my mind, any summer as hot and dry as this always end in tears and tantrums. ’Twas so in the last year of Henry, which is the first I remember, and many other years since.”
“I knew not you were a teller of the weather,” stated Oakes, the falconer. He took a deep draught from the steaming jug and wiped his mouth. “What I want to know is, where have all that water come from? There’s no stream hereabouts to overflow, so how could so much have built up in one place?”
Alys had been wondering the same thing.
“Mayhap ’tis the wrath of God,” Kit offered. “Have any of you wicked secrets to conceal?”
Bessie giggled, Alys’ glare silenced her.
“There was a stream here long before our time,” said Annys. “But I don’t know where the grand folk put it when they built the new house. To my mind, you shouldn’t tangle with nature. That stream will be running below us somewhere, just waiting for the chance to boil up again and reclaim its proper path, you mark my words.”
There was a sudden crash, which made everyone jump. As the kitchen door slammed against the wall, Sir Thomas entered. Alys saw murder in his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sir Thomas was followed by a hard-faced Avery and a pallid Kate. Alys was puzzled to see Sir Thomas so upset by the disaster—after all, it wasn’t his house which had been inundated.
Kit’s cold hand reach for hers below the table. She pulled out of his grasp—now was definitely not the time for amorous games. Why did he seem so pleased with himself, anyway? Excitement emanated from his body, which was tense as a bowstring before the arrow is loosed.
Sir Thomas eyed the kitchen’s occupants. “We shall attempt no more salvage until daylight. Return to your beds—there’s nothing else to be done here.” Without waiting to see if his orders were obeyed, he strode out, followed by Kate and Avery. The servants melted away, and Alys was left alone in the kitchen with Kit.
He lifted an eyebrow, a triumphant smirk on his face. Curse the man—the glint in his dark eyes made her knees wobble. Ignoring him, she went to the scullery, tipped the dregs of the ale away, rinsed the jug and set it on the board. When she returned, Kit was crouching by the fire, wringing out his dripping hair over the hearthstone. Clicking her tongue, she edged him aside while she raked the embers together and settled the heavy ceramic curfew back in its place. Then she straightened up and swept past him to extinguish the lights.
“Not speaking to me, then?”
She made no response. The room darkened until only the faint glow of the embers beneath the curfew could be seen. The air was bitter with the smoke of extinguished candles. He ought to know he was required to leave.
When he gave no sign of moving, she said briskly, “Go to your bed now—you need your rest. You have a long journey to make tomorrow.”
“Oh, I don’t think I shall leave tomorrow.” Kit followed her out into the hallway. “I shall be too tired. Besides, I might be needed here.”
Alys, carrying her candle, brushed past him and made for the stairs. It was too late to talk, too much risk of being overheard. Besides which, his smug expression was infuriating—he must find his own way out and sit and drip in the plant shed.
Refusing to look at him again, she stopped on the bottom step of the stairs to untie her pattens—they were high enough for her to turn an ankle, not safe for indoor use. She ascended, waiting for the sound of the door closing to signal Kit’s departure, but heard nothing. When she reached the landing, she stopped and looked over the rail. A faint shadow revealed where he still stood in the hall, watching her.
No, she would feel no guilt. If he was wet, it was his own fault. She’d given them all a chance to dry off—if he preferred sitting next to her to drying by the fire, that was his own choice. She carried on and had just reached the door of her chamber when she heard the stairs creak. Her heart sped up as she fumbled with the latch, trying to balance her candle and the pattens in one hand. He was coming after her.
She burst into her chamber, pushing the door behind her, but it came up against something solid and was pressed open again.
“Surely you don’t expect me to go out again in this?” Kit pointed to the window, where the rain still rattled like handfuls of grit.
“How dare you come in here. I thought I bade you be gone.”
“Aye, you did, and I have chosen to disobey my lady’s command. I have a heavy matter to discuss with you, but I’ve brought a sweetener for the bitter pill.” He closed and locked the door, then reached under his cloak and placed a full wine bottle in her hands.
“You’ve stolen wine from the cellars?” A servant would be flogged for such a crime.
“’Tis your wine, Mistress Barchard. I mean, it belongs to the household. I brought it in the hope you’d be magnanimous and share it with me. Little time is left to us—let’s spend it pleasantly, at least.”
Fearful of what he meant by “pleasant”, she made a valiant grab for the key, but he was too quick for her and dropped it down inside his shirt. The smirk was back.
“Sir, you have no shame. I insist that you unlock that door and leave, or I’ll raise the hue and cry.”
“If you were
