Betrothed (13 page)

Isabeau
stopped between the kitchens and the great hall. She could feel the warmth of the
cooking hearth as well as delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen. She fought
the temptation of that warmth after her cold drenching. She really needed to do
more than get warm.

Her
sparse wardrobe needed evaluation if she was to make a presentable appearance
at the mid-day meal—the first meal shared before Donovan’s people. Perhaps
Caitlin could help her salvage a gown.

Isabeau
bit the inside of her cheek to prevent a frown as she tried to wring more water
from her skirts. She had gone through three gowns in fewer days. She would
forgive Donovan should he confuse her with the frogs in his moat.

A
shiver snuck by her guard though she locked her jaw to prevent her teeth from
rattling. She twisted another portion of her skirt before turning towards the
great hall door. She had chosen to enter through the side entrance rather than
leave a trail of dripping water behind her.

Maisie
met her at the stairs.

“There
ya be.” Maisie greeted with a wide smile. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if ya gone
and jumped in the trough. There be a bright fire in yer chamber and the kitchen
lads have drawn the water for a warm bath. Come along.”

Maisie
turned on the stairs and dashed ahead. Isabeau followed at a slower pace. The
water squishing in her slippers tickled her toes. At least she could still feel
them—they had not frozen and fallen off. She glanced over at Car—Caitlin who
trailed quietly at her side.

“What
troubles you, Caitlin?”

“Mayhaps,
‘t'would be better if I moved to another chamber.” Caitlin answered reluctantly.

Isabeau
stopped on the stair, ignoring the breeze ruffling her drooping skirts. “Is the
room—the bed—not to your liking.”

“ ’Tis
nothin’, milady.” Caitlin shook her head
as she resumed her climb of the stone stairs.

“Caitlin?”
Isabeau called after the retreating swish of hem but Caitlin paid no heed.
Isabeau lifted her own skirts so she would not trip and raced after her friend.
She followed Caitlin into the chamber intending to chip away at the sudden ice
but discovered the room bustling with activity.

Maisie
rode herd over her flock, nipping at their heels if they did not move to her
satisfaction. In the process of ordering two boys to pour steaming water into
the wooden tub, she still found time to oversee the maids smoothing out the
skirts of Isabeau’s best gown. She flashed a smile towards Isabeau before
waving the boys from the room.

“Get
yourself stripped, Milady,” The housekeeper ordered as she closed the door. She
scurried back to Isabeau and began to work the sodden ties before Isabeau could
do anything herself. “That’s a good girl. We’ll have ya right as rain—sorry
milady—we’ll have you as dry and toasty as ol’ Nattie’s bannock buns in no
time.”

A
maid laughed at the apparent joke as Isabeau snapped her mouth shut in
astonishment. Maisie just cackled delightedly before explaining. “Ol’ Nattie
makes rather tasty bannock buns but she bakes them rock hard. Course, we all
know why she does it.”

“Why?”
Isabeau blinked as her curiosity grabbed hold.

“Raise
yer arms and I’ll just slip this over yer head,” Maisie instructed before she
continued. “She needs to soak it in a bit of mead or mulled wine. That ‘tis
what she likes. Now, ya’ve been in mournin’ have ya not?”

Amazed,
Isabeau whirled to face her. “However did you know that?  Did Caitlin tell
you of my papa’s death?”

“Why
no, wee countess.” As the older woman continued fussing over Isabeau, her
accent seemed to be falling into a relaxed cadence. “‘Tis yer gowns what are
telling the tale. Ya’ve got a treasure trove in the countess’s solar but yer
chests got not a bit of color.”

Isabeau’s
cheeks flamed in embarrassment. Though she still grieved, the official period
of mourning had long passed. She could not explain that the condition of her
wardrobe had naught to do with mourning but with her brother’s tyranny. Once
upon a time, she’d had a rainbow of colors at her fingertips. She opened her
mouth to explain when the first part of Maisie’s comment reached her
comprehension.

“Maisie,
did you say treasure trove?  What did you mean?”

“Sir
Carstairs directed all yer keepsakes be toted to the solar ‘til you could
display them as ya wish.” The older woman’s head bobbed as she added shrewdly.
“A new bride always settles better when she can decorate her own nest.”

“But
I only chose a few…” Isabeau’s voice trailed off.   

“A
few?” Maisie chuckled and patted Isabeau’s cheek. “Oh, my.”

“What
does she mean?” Isabeau asked Caitlin.

Caitlin
shrugged. “Everyone was helpin’ load the wagons.”

“I
have to see what they put in the wagons.” Isabeau said urgently. She took only
one step before Maisie tugged on her wet shift.

“Ya
would not be goin’ ‘til yer dry and might be better if yer dressed.” She
reminded Isabeau good naturedly.

Isabeau
submitted to their ministrations while she bristled inside. What made up the
cache in the solar?  Where was the solar?  She could not imagine her
few books and the portraits being so impressive as to have the label “treasure
trove.”

She
sat quietly in the tub while a maid washed her hair. Maisie fussed over the
hearth and Caitlin served her an earthen mug of mulled wine. Isabeau could not
remember the last time she had felt this pampered. Around the age of ten, she’d
begun her duties as chatelaine of Olivet. With so many servants to manage, with
menus and accounts, she did not have time to soak in a warm tub. She could not
justify having the servants do for her when the daily tasks mounted to the sky.

Now,
she would have dozens more.

Hundreds
more.

Bennington
Castle served as home to hundreds—warriors, farmers, servants and their
families. She prayed she had the skill to do Donovan and his people justice as
the lady of the castle.

A
maid, Dorcus, worked Isabeau’s hair with a drying cloth before Caitlin began to
brush out the tangles. When she made the mistake of assuring them she could
brush her own hair, their grumbles greeted her. With no other choice, dressed
in only a shift, she subsided onto a low stool. Caitlin began to slide the
brush through Isabeau’s long damp hair in a soothing rhythm that made Isabeau
momentarily forget about the solar.

“Caitlin?”
Isabeau asked in low tones, trying to keep the same cadence in her voice as
Caitlin’s brush strokes.

“Yes,
milady?”

“Why
do you wish to move to another chamber?” Isabeau tilted her head just enough to
watch Caitlin. “Is it not to your liking in some way?”

A
white line formed around the girl’s mouth as she tightened her lips.

“You
might as well tell me the truth. My papa taught me the patience of a
fisherman.”

Caitlin
licked her lips before answering. “I’d not wanna be in the way.”

Isabeau
straightened her back and twisted on the stool so she could look directly into
Caitlin’s eyes. “How could you be in anyone’s way?  You are my friend. I
asked if you could be close—so you—could keep me company—could assist me in my
duties.”

“I
do not know how to help a countess.” Blotches of color formed on Caitlin’s
cheeks. “I ne’er even met a countess afore.”

“Why
should that matter?” Isabeau let a smile stretch her lips in an attempt to coax
a smile from the trembling girl. “I have never been a countess before. I want
you here because you are my friend.” She watched as tears glistened in
Caitlin’s blue eyes. Something more was going on inside the child’s head.

“You
should have Dame Granya guide you.” Caitlin licked then chewed on her lips
before rushing into an explanation under Isabeau’s patience stare. “She knows
what’s fittin’ for a proper countess. Knows what you should wear—how to talk.
She was the dead countess’s trusted confi—confi…”

“Confidante?”
Isabeau supplied the word for Caitlin.

“Oh,
that one,” Maisie interrupted scornfully, not a wit bashful about eavesdropping
on her future countess’s conversation. “Her heart is as rotten as an egg in an
old robin’s nest.”

The
maids murmured in agreement.

“But
she’s a dame—a lady. She knows -- knows… The honor of sleeping next to the
family is her due. I got no right to put her out of her family place.” Caitlin
added emphatically.

“So
that be her first cut.” Dorcus twisted her mouth in disgust. “She’s no more part
of the earl’s family than a Saracen mummer—nor was she true kin to
countess
Marta.”

“Aye,”
Maisie took up the tale. “She was just the one to change our little lord’s wet
nappies and wonna let go, e’en then she was a’ready so dried up she resented
the wet nurse.”

“But
I took her room, the bed my lord gave her,” Caitlin added weakly.

“Nay,”
Dorcus vehemently shook her curly brown head in denial. “She took the chamber
the first time the countess refused to take her on a journey.”

“That
wasp tried to sting you with her tongue, dinna she, sweetie?” Maisie patted
Caitlin on the arm. “You take no ne’er mind; none o’ us do.”

If
Maisie’s attitude reflected the majority, it explained why Dame Granya had not
been at the head of the receiving line last night, Isabeau thought. Certain
protocols were lax within the bastions of Bennington Castle.

Isabeau
watched Caitlin closely to see how she accepted Maisie’s instructions. Would
the girl accept the overtures extended by these women?  Would she be
content with her new home and the welcome?  Isabeau hoped so with all of
her heart because neither of them could return to Olivet.

A
shuddering breath escaped Caitlin before she resumed brushing Isabeau’s hair.
To Isabeau, the sound too closely resembled that of a whipped dog ready to
chance another outstretched hand—wanting a quick scratch behind the ear but
ready for a striking blow.

Even
as Isabeau reached out her hand to reassure Caitlin, someone flung open the
wood door with startling force. Caitlin jolted at the crack as the door hit the
wall. Isabeau instinctively jumped between the girl and the intruder, one arm
held out to ward off danger, the other crossed protectively over her breasts.
Her shift covered her modestly enough for the company of the women attending
her but for no other.

With
the force of the dramatic entrance, Isabeau expected to face the earl—his anger
renewed—or perhaps one of his warriors carrying the alarm of invaders. No one
else would have the audacity to enter the chambers of the future countess in
such fashion.

She
was wrong.

There
was one who did have the effrontery to flaunt a lack of manners. One who now
leaned on an ornately carved cane as if barely able to withstand the draft she
had caused. With the sound of the door hitting the stone wall still echoing in
Isabeau’s ear, she surmised the cane was an affectation rather than necessity.

Isabeau
hid a wry smile. It seemed the old woman could not decide which tack to take
when dealing with the new mistress of the castle; sympathy or intimidation. Old
Granya was trying both approaches for size. Isabeau determined that neither
would fit.

“Dame
Granya, it was not necessary for you to push so hard on the door.” Isabeau kept
her voice smooth though she bristled inside.

Granya
waved the shriveled hand not gripping the knob of her cane. “I rested against
the door, not realizing ‘t’weren’t latched. With these ol’ bones of mine, the
stairs were as if a mountain were before me.”

“Next
time.” Isabeau leveled her voice as she lowered her hands. “Next time you wish
to enter a closed door to any of the private chambers, knock. The door
may
be opened for you. Now, would you be so good as to close the door?  I feel
a slight draft from the corridor and I am not yet dressed.”

Isabeau
watched the old eyes narrow in speculation. They were fired with hatred;
excessive for Isabeau’s mild scolding. Granya clutched the cane with both hands
as she swayed just a bit.

“Caitlin.”
Maliciousness crackled in the hard voice. “Close the door fur her ladyship.”

The
girl automatically stepped away from Isabeau’s stool to do the hag’s bidding.

Isabeau
rested her hand on Caitlin’s fingers that still clutched the hairbrush,
stilling the other girl. “Caitlin is occupied—as are the others.”

She
resumed her place on the stool facing the door and old Granya. After a moment’s
hesitation, Caitlin began to rake the brush through Isabeau’s hair. The three
other women—motionless throughout the confrontation—took the cue and busied
themselves with miniscule tasks.

As
much as she disliked confrontation, Isabeau could not allow Caitlin or any of
the other women to be ground under the heel of another. If Dame Granya
apparently felt no need of knocking before she entered Isabeau’s chambers, what
other liberties might she take?  Isabeau’s father had raised her to
respect her elders but not at the cost of others. If this woman caused grief
and strife among the household of Bennington, Isabeau had to show her that such
behavior could not be tolerated.