She glanced down at her trencher. Most of the food lay there, untouched, yet she was unable to make herself eat She would regret it, she knew she would. Hours later she would be famished, and she would spend the night that way. But right then she couldn’t even imagine secreting a piece of bread in the leather pouch attached to her girdle.
A bowl of water was presented to her, and she dipped her hands in, cleansing them. She noticed that no one offered the ewer to Navarre. Logical enough; since he hadn’t eaten anything, he would have no need to wash his hands. But she suspected it had more to do with what lay hidden beneath the folds of his dark robe.
“What happened to your hand?” she asked before she could think twice. She was immediately filled with horror at her own gaucherie, but Simon seemed amused.
“Do you realize you’re the first person who has ever asked me?” he replied. “Most people just avert their eyes and cross themselves.”
“I was wondering if there was anything that can be done to help you? Herbs, poultices… ?” Her voice trailed off before his skeptical expression.
“You’ll probably be wanting me to dip my poor hand in horse dung,” he said. “I hate to shatter your pride in your medical abilities, but I’ve already done everything possible. But I do appreciate your tender concern.”
She should have been chastened into silence—doubtless he’d meant that to happen. But Alys was a stubborn woman.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said patiently.
“No, I haven’t, have I?” he said. He rose, looming over her, and she had no intention of scrambling to her feet, only to emphasize the disparity in their heights. But Simon of Navarre wasn’t particularly interested in her intentions. He put his good hand beneath her elbow and pulled her up, with a simple strength that was astonishing.
“Where are you going, Grendel?” Richard called out drunkenly. The wench was on his lap again, and her gown was halfway up her thigh. “You’ll not be taking her maidenhead, not till you’re properly wed!”
She’d fought her habit of coloring up all evening, but this last was too much for her. She turned her head away from the curious on-lookers, but to her dismay Simon of Navarre could see her reaction far too clearly. Doubtless it amused him.
He was still holding on to her arm with his strong, good hand, and it felt oddly possessive, oddly protective for a man who seemed to feel neither of those emotions. “I was planning on instructing Lady Alys in the proper use of healing herbs,” he said coolly.
Richard waved a greasy hand in his direction. “So be it,” he said grandly. “Just keep her away from the dreaded manroot” And he roared with laughter, a laughter echoed throughout the Great Hall. There were only a few unamused by Richard’s ribaldry. One was Claire, sitting on her brother’s right, a pale, unhappy expression on her lovely face. Another was the stern, handsome knight who sat beside her, watching her.
“My lord can trust me in all things,” Simon said coolly. He swept Alys from the room, from her sister’s presence, before she could protest.
It took her a moment to accustom her eyes to the dim light. A thick tapestry covered the door behind them, muffling the sound beyond, and a torch sent skittering shadows into the empty passageway. In the distance Alys heard another comment from her brother, one she just began to understand, when Simon pushed her toward the stairs with unceremonious haste.
“He’s had too much wine,” she said, stalling. “I don’t like to leave Claire there without protection…”
“She has more than sufficient protection. I doubt Sir Thomas would let Saint Paul himself come within ten feet of the girl, and Saint Paul was a dried up woman hater.”
Such blasphemy left her utterly speechless, an unusual occurrence for one such as Alys. Simon noticed, of course, and he paused in the act of pushing her toward the stairs. “Close your mouth, my pet,” he murmured. “There are good men and bad men everywhere, even among Christ’s saints.”
She pulled her scattered wits back together. “And you, of course, are perfectly willing to sit in judgment on them?”
He smiled down at her with sudden, unexpected sweetness. “If their teachings annoy me, yes.”
“Brother Jerome could have you excommunicated.”
“Brother Jerome enjoys a philosophical disagreement as much as the next man. He knows I’ll go to hell anyway, and he’s not averse to arguing with me before I go there.”
Once more he’d managed to shock her. “Aren’t you worried about your immortal soul?”
He looked down at her, almost pityingly. “I lost it years ago, my lady. Trust me, it makes life a great deal more convenient if you don’t have to worry about such things.”
“Life isn’t supposed to be convenient any more than it’s supposed to be tidy,” she said, harkening back to their earlier conversation.
“Ah, but humans do have a way of trying to make it so.”
There it was again. The reference to humans. He did it on purpose, she thought, to unnerve her. Unfortunately, it worked most effectively.
“But Claire…” she said stubbornly, getting back to her original concern. He had a wicked way of distracting her from what she most needed to know, and she was finding it extremely irritating.
“Sir Thomas is more than up to the task of safeguarding your sister. His sense of honor and duty is awe-inspiring.”
“And why do I get the impression you’re mocking rather than praising him for that?” she said sharply.
“Because you’re already beginning to understand me quite well, my lady. And because I’m a cynic, a man who’s seen too much and done too much to be impressed by a blind adherence to morality with no thought or choice involved.”
She looked at him sternly, but he seemed totally unmoved by her disapproval. “I weep for you, my lord,” she said.
“Weep for yourself, my lady. You’ll be
