“I’ll have it from the maid’s own lips.” He knew he was pushing her, but he wasn’t about to let the abbess win the final point. “If she is truly willing, then I see no reason to delay.”
He thought he detected irritation pass behind the old woman’s watery gray eyes. No matter, he would have his way in this at least. He suspected she didn’t want Hugh FitzRalf to continue to have possession of the abbey. The Bishop of Hexham had a reputation as a cruel landlord, and a deviant. With so many young woman entrusted into her care, the abbess was astute enough to choose the lesser of the two evils presented to her. Ranulf’s part in the formation of the bishop’s character wasn’t something he was proud of, but he wasn’t about to reveal that morsel of information to the woman glaring at him.
Rome wouldn’t move against the bishop, so Ranulf suspected he was her only option. It must have rankled her as much as it did him. Both were pawns in a much bigger game.
Without a word, she rose and left him. He had to admire her audacity. She would have made a fine adversary had she been born a man. There was something to relish in meeting an equal in battle, whether with swords or words.
With a sigh Ranulf allowed himself a sip of wine. It was excellent.
Yes, she was someone to be admired.
Isabeau was still pondering the encounter with the stranger in the woods. Her cheeks burned as she thought about her appearance. She’d marched towards the gate, which led into the herb garden, without looking back. At that moment, she hadn’t cared whether the mangy cat and the traitorous dog followed or not. She was mortified and couldn’t escape quickly enough.
She had no idea who he was, but he had the airs of a man who knew his own worth. He seemed to look down his nose at her as he sat astride the great black beast of a horse. Both man and horse seemed to examine her with an imperious manner. She was reduced to thinking herself small, ugly, and of no consequence, and there wasn’t a thing she could do to change it.
Flea seemed to engender more interest than she had. Even the cat received an appraisal. She cringed again as she remembered the turn of his mouth. Full lips curved in a smirk that was both demeaning and unsettling, as he looked her up and down.
She all but ran into her stillroom. It would take her some time before she felt ready to venture out into company. Tillie would probably notice her loss of composure, but she wouldn’t comment.
Godiva, on the other hand, would pry and needle until she had it from her. Isabeau didn’t want that kind of scrutiny, but unfortunately she couldn’t think of a way to avoid her. The woman had been part of Isabeau’s life since she was a child. First as a nurse, then as her maid.
“You look a sight!” Godiva observed as she bustled into the stillroom.
Isabeau looked up from her workbench to meet her maid’s gaze. Her cheeks burned, but she held the older woman’s eyes. “I had to rescue Aristotle from Flea.” She hoped that would be explanation enough.
“That cat is the devil himself.” Godiva crouched down to pet the dog lying under the table. When she straightened she gave Isabeau her full attention. “Your hair. And your clothes. You look like you have been rolling in the muck.” Godiva let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll see to your bath.”
“Thank you, Godiva.” Isabeau gave her a smile that she hoped would mollify her maid.
Godiva’s eyes narrowed. Isabeau held her breath, aware the other woman missed nothing. Finally, Godiva nodded, and marched out of the room, much to Isabeau’s relief. Hopefully she wouldn’t return for a few hours.
Eventually the bells called the nuns to Vespers. Isabeau was surprised she’d not seen Godiva back demanding she take a bath, and change out of her soiled, ripped kirtle. She’d spent hours hidden away in her stillroom preparing and mixing poultices. Flea had been content to lie under the table, but as she stretched her arms he stirred.
“You don’t look contrite, you traitorous beast.”
The dog, happy to be on the receiving end of her affection once more, leaned into her leg and offered his head for a well-earned scratch.
Never able to keep her anger for long, Isabeau decided it was time to venture into the kitchen to get something for their supper. Chances were good Mistress Bride would have kept something back for her. Rarely did Isabeau share a meal with the other women who helped run the abbey.
She was sitting at the table eating the last of a meal of bread, fruit, and cheese. Flea was in front of the hearth savoring the remains of his supper. Bits of coney were spread about him. The head, still intact, stared with sightless eyes at the dog. He never ate the head, and was happy to share with Aristotle. The cat would bat the thing about the floor until Mistress Bride had enough of the macabre behavior; then she would send the cat, with his treasured head, outside.
Sipping the last of her ale, Isabeau was aware she had company. Turning, she saw Mother Hild standing watching the dog, a smile creasing the corners of her mouth. “Daw fusses over that dog as though it was one of his children.”
Yes, it was true, the old huntsman provided Flea with fresh coney most days. On the rare occasion there was no meat, the dog had to make do with gruel, which he didn’t particularly enjoy.
“He likes to fuss, I think.” Isabeau smiled in welcome as her aunt made her way to the table.
“When you have finished your meal, you need to prepare yourself for a visitor.” The old nun’s face gave no hint of who, or what, the visitor wanted.
“Godiva has already prepared your bath. You will present yourself to me in the solar when you are respectable.”
Isabeau could see that her aunt was not about to enlighten her as to the visitor, so she didn’t ask.
She watched as the woman made her way to the door, but then she turned and faced Isabeau. “That which we spoke of has come to pass. Make haste, you don’t want to keep him waiting.”
A lump formed in her throat, its weight so heavy it threatened to choke her. With a foreboding she couldn’t ignore, she rose from the table, leaving Flea to his coney.
Isabeau sensed a great wind was about to scoop her up and toss her where she didn’t want to go.
“My lady.” Ranulf made an elaborate bow, which went unnoticed. Sighing, he sat in the chair opposite the woman who was to become his wife and waited. He took the time to examine her. She was a striking beauty; her abject sorrow only increased her vulnerable appeal. He recognized her immediately. Now she was the image of noble modesty: her glorious red hair hidden under a fine white linen veil, only the end of her long plaits visible as they rested on her shapely bottom.
Her woolen kirtle defined her shape to perfection. She had taken care to wash her face, but he was surprised to see she wore no color to enhance her skin. All the women in Henry and Eleanor’s court applied color to their lips and faces. Not this woman.
Across her cheeks lay a delicate sprinkle of faint freckles. No powder had been applied to hide the flaw. Remarkable. Perhaps the abbess didn’t allow such adornment.
A faint gasp pulled him back to the present. The look of horror on her face caused him to laugh out loud. “My lady, it is a pleasure to see you again, and so soon.”
It took her a moment to compose herself; then she sprang from the chair and darted to stand behind it. From the safety of her makeshift barrier she raised herself to her full height and demanded some answers. “Who are you?” She all but spat the question. “Your presence, sir, is most unwelcome. What japery is this?”