Alys watched her go, momentarily distracted. Claire’s temper was hot and fierce, but quick to blow over. Whoever the brutish Sir Thomas was, he’d best watch his step around her sister. She could make life hell for any man, even a married one who hated women.
She found the injured woman sitting in a corner of the bake house. The smell of fresh bread and rich yeast filled the warm building, and for the first time Alys began to feel at home. The servants regarded her warily at first, but she’d always had a certain gift with people, and their distrust seemed to drop away quite quickly. Soon Morwenna, the injured woman, was chattering away while her fellow servants looked on.
She’d tried beeswax, she said, and spiders’ webs, and neither had worked. Her mother had always insisted horse dung was a cure-all, but she hadn’t quite decided whether she should eat it or apply it to the wound. What did Lady Alys think she should do?
Lady Alys did her best not to gag at the very notion. She had no strong belief in the efficacy of horse dung, but she tried to keep an open mind, and none of the traditional remedies had seemed to make any difference in poor Morwenna’s arm. She wasn’t able to work, and Richard wasn’t the sort of master to tolerate a nonproductive servant.
“Who does the healing here?” she inquired. “Is Brother Jerome skilled in the arts? Perhaps he might have a suggestion or two.”
Morwenna shook her head. “Brother Jerome is useless when it comes to anything but spiritual matters.”
“What of the barber… ?”
“Not for a servant, my lady, meaning no disrespect,” Morwenna muttered.
“But then who takes care of you all?”
Silence reigned in the warm bakery house. And then one of the men spoke up. ” ‘Tis Grendel. And most of us would rather die than let him touch us. Better to lose your life than your immortal soul. All that monster has to do is look at you and you’re done for. If he put his hands on you your doom is sealed.”
“His name is Lord Simon,” Alys said calmly enough. Their fears came as no surprise to her. Even at the remote northern convent she had heard rumors of Richard’s magician, and none of them had been praiseworthy. He was feared by all who knew of him.
“Grendel’s a better name for him, I swear,” muttered Morwenna. “I’m not letting him touch me. It’ll be horse dung or nothing.”
Alys sighed. “Dried or fresh?”
“Fresh, my lady. If you’d be willing?”
“If I’d be willing?” Alys echoed.
“It has to be gathered by the healer or it won’t work. That’s what my mum told me.”
For a moment Alys didn’t move. At least horse dung was a great deal more appealing than the horse itself, and the castle yard would be littered with the stuff. As long as she didn’t have to go to the stables she’d survive.
“Certainly,” she said briskly, hiding her dismay. “Do you have something I could scoop it with?”
And that was how she found herself in the courtyard beyond the stables, a trencher of stale bread in one hand, a kitchen spoon in the other, surveying a fresh, steaming mass of manure with strong misgivings.
Thankfully no one was around to watch her, she’d made very sure of that. She bent low, ready to spoon a hearty portion onto the makeshift carrier, when a low, already familiar voice startled her enough to make her drop the trencher.
“Were you planning on eating that, or feeding it to me?”
In the light of day Simon of Navarre should have appeared less threatening. His deep golden eyes should have been a flat brown, his dark hair with its thick stripe of silver should have seemed lifeless. Instead she could practically feel the power pulsing through him. The energy, crackling between them. No wonder they thought him a bewitched creature. She was staring up at him as if she were under an enchantment.
It took her a second to gather her wits about her and rise to her full, unimpressive height. “Neither, my lord,” she said. “It was for a serving woman.”
“One of the servants expressed a desire to eat shit?”
She blinked. She’d heard the word before, but it was seldom used in her presence. “No, my lord. Though she did suggest that doing so was a possible cure. I was going to use it as poultice on her burned arm.” She bent down to fetch the dung-bedecked trencher, but he moved quickly, knocking it out of her hand.
“You’re as simple-minded as the peasants,” he said sharply, sounding oddly disappointed. “If you put that on an open wound you’d probably kill her. I’m surprised you didn’t try cobwebs and goose urine.”
Alys rose. It was an odd tableau, with the steaming mass of dung at their feet, her future husband towering over her. Monster, they called him. Why would a monster care if a serving woman died?
“I believe she tried the cobwebs, my lord. Apparently she hadn’t heard of the goose urine cure.”
“Idiots. And you’re as bad as the rest of them,” he added. “Why wouldn’t she come to me?”
Alys just looked at him.
“Oh, that’s right,” Simon said with a cool laugh. “I’d eat her children if I looked at her. So instead she’d rather bathe in horse dung. What’s wrong with her?”
“A bad burn on her arm. The skin is red and raw looking, like an angry tear.”
“Is there blackening around the edges?”
“None that I noticed.”
“A sickly smell?”
“No decaying flesh, my lord,” she said sharply. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve done my share of healing.”
“If you used horse dung I’m surprised anyone survived,” he muttered.
“It was Morwenna’s idea.”
“The serving woman? More fool you to listen to her. Come with me.” He turned abruptly and started across the cobbled walkway.
She didn’t move. “Come where?” she said, when he stopped to look behind him and discovered she wasn’t following.
“You’re to be my wife, Lady Alys.
