4
“Berta?” It was the third time she had called for the servant’s attention, only to lose her nerve when she looked up and give some lame excuse for her interruption.
The old woman looked up and eyed Lenora with faint impatience. She was busily picking yarn from her distaff and did not appreciate the distraction. “Whatever is it, miss?” she huffed. She never had got used to calling Lenora my lady. In truth, she’d never even tried.
Lenora bit her lip. “Have you any ties here in Caer-Lyoness?”
“Ties?”
“Family or… people you’re fond of.” Lenora frowned. “Do you live here in the servant’s quarters or in the city center?” She should know really the answer to these things. Being ill made you self-centered, she thought uneasily, but knew deep down that was just an excuse. Many a time, her cousin Eden had urged Lenora to take more interest in the people around her, and still she struggled to take that advice on board. She needed to try harder.
Berta eyed her beadily. “Well, you’re definitely on the road to recovery,” she muttered sourly. “You’re that restless today, you’re giving me the twitches!”
Lenora hid a smile. “Well, have you?”
“None,” Berta snapped. “Three sons and none of them with a consideration for their poor old mother! The last one moved out—leaving me for some red-headed trollop,” she muttered. “And now I’ve to shoulder the burden of the rent by myself! I’m working two jobs these days, just to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.”
Lenora nodded thoughtfully. Without fail, Berta disappeared for a few hours at midday to undertake her washer-woman duties. “You should have had daughters,” Lenora told her impulsively.
“Daughters?” Berta squawked. “What’s the good of daughters? They belongs to their husbands as soon as they marries them. No, it’s sons that’s supposed to provide for their old mothers.” She shook her head, her jaw working angrily. “Only there’s some as neglects their duty!”
“You have a house, in Caer-Lyoness?”
“A house? Chance would be a fine thing! I rents two rooms,” Berta admitted grudgingly. “At an outrageous price. Goes up every year it do. And that scoundrel Will Bilford is waiting on this month’s rent like a vulture. I told him I’d give it him,” she complained bitterly. “As soon as it was in my hand.”
Lenora took a deep breath. “How do you feel about skipping out on Bilford? And throwing your lot in with mine?”
Berta’s jaw slackened. “Do what?” she uttered in astonishment.
“I’m eloping,” Lenora told her calmly. “Tonight.”
“Eloping?” Berta stared at her. “Where you off to?”
“Some place called Cofton Warren.”
“Never heard of it!”
“No more have I,” admitted Lenora. “Apparently it lies three days from here.”
“Who you going with?”
Lenora hesitated. “You would not betray me, Berta?” she asked.
Berta stared back at her blankly. “Who would I betray you to?”
“My father.”
Berta snorted. “He made it plain last night that my services wouldn’t be needed for much longer,” she said grimly. “I’m not grand enough to wait on his living daughter, only his half-dead one!” She darted a sharp look at Lenora, who gazed back at her.
“So then, you owe him nothing.”
“No, but he owes me!” Berta fired up. “He ain’t paid me yet for this week!”
Lenora pondered this a moment. “Perhaps you should ask him for it,” she suggested. “Tell him you’ve found other employment.”
Berta looked uncertain at this. “What if you takes a worse turn?”
“Well, if I do, I shan’t be here for you to nurse me, Berta. I shall be at Cofton Warren. As I say, you are very welcome to accompany me.”
“In whose employ?”
“Mine,” said Lenora. “And my husband’s.” How odd it sounded to say that! Her voice wavered slightly over it. It was somehow vastly disquieting to think of Garman Orde in those terms, for Lenora harbored no illusions about what manner of man he was. A surly, quarrelsome brute with a nasty temper. Certainly, that was the impression he left you with after seeing him compete in the tournaments. Still, she thought, brightening up. He would not press her hand and sigh over her lost beauty.
She doubted very much she had ever been the sort of woman he admired. Her suitors had agreed she had the face of an angel. She fancied Orde would have little use for anything angelic. She remembered how casually he had spoken of sporting with not one but two wenches in his bedchamber. What was the surplus wench supposed to do while he copulated with the other? she wondered vaguely. Sit on a chair and wait her turn? Lenora frowned. Sadly, she didn’t have anyone to ask. Maybe she could ask him when they were married? No, that was silly, she admonished herself. They weren’t to have that sort of marriage. The sort where they shared confidences.
She had every expectation that Garman would abandon her as soon as her father paid over her dowry. And that was exactly what Lenora wanted. To be settled on a small estate that would be bought with her father’s coin, that she could run as its mistress. Her husband she would barely see hide nor hair of, she was confident of that. He would be off fighting in the tournaments, she thought contentedly. And sporting with wenches, two at a time. When he turned up, mayhap on feast days, they would be perfectly civil to one another, only rather distant.
In this instance, she thought her ruined face would be the card up her sleeve. It ensured she would not be troubled with unwanted attentions from a boorish husband. Garman Orde might not be overly fastidious in his tastes, but she was sure that he did not lack prospective partners to fill that bed of his to capacity. For starters, he was a winner and she had seen how the victors were lauded at tournaments, treated as gods to be fawned over and lavished with attention. She had seen Orde lift the cup on enough occasions to know he was a lethal competitor in the field and more than competent in all areas of the tourney.
Then, she thought, there was the fact that though not conventionally handsome, there was something about him. His dark blond hair was too close-cropped for current fashion, and his muscles far too pronounced. Those light blue eyes were cold and hard, no warmth whatsoever lay in their depths. His lips were full and firm, but almost permanently curled into an unpleasant sneer. He was not so much pleasant to look at, as well, startling. She remembered the spectacle of his naked torso she had been subjected to earlier. He had shown no shame whatsoever at being bared and on display to her. His chest and shoulders were wide, his hips narrow and the muscle and sinew around them strangely delineated. She realized she had never really seen an unclothed man at such close quarters before. The muscles on his stomach had been shockingly defined and there had been a strange trail of dark gold hair that disappeared into braies that Lenora had been forced to drag her astonished gaze from for decency’s sake.
No, she would find no piteous solicitude in this bridegroom. He would soon be shunning her company for bonnie wenches with come hither smiles, she thought with satisfaction. Then she noticed the old woman eyeing her sourly.