Dark Destroyer (7 page)

Gates watched her curiously as she collected a large woven basket from the floor that contained some kind of trinkets and dumped it over, spilling the items onto the ground. She then proceeded to walk through the shop with the empty basket, in the near dark, pulling things off shelves, digging into other baskets, and opening a case or two.

Gates couldn’t really see the woman in the darkness as she banged around, and at times muttered to herself, but suddenly she appeared out of the shadows with a full basket in one hand and a cloak thrown over her shoulder. The old woman approached Gates and took the cloak off her shoulder, handing it to him.

“That is a fine piece of goods, my lord,” she said, indicating the cloak that he was already examining. “Blue wool with fox lining. It should be quite warm against this weather, but mind you don’t get it too wet. The wool will smell and the fur will rot.”

It was actually a beautiful cloak and well made. Gates peered closely at the careful stitching, noting the quality. “You carry goods such as this?” he asked, surprised.

“I do, my lord.”

He lifted his eyebrows in mild shock. “I have only seen shops for women’s garments like this in London,” he said. “I did not expect to find a shop such as this in a small village.”

The old woman grinned. “I make them myself,” she said proudly. “We have many travelers from Hereford and Shrewsbury. I can always find buyers for what I produce. I personally sew for the Countess of Shrewsbury. She buys all of her clothing from me. Have you not heard of Gerta Black, the seamstress? That would be me.”

Gates was impressed. “I am afraid that I have not heard of you,” he said, moving from the cloak to the basket. “But that would make sense considering that I do not purchase women’s clothing as a habit. What do you have in the basket?”

The old woman shifted her basket to the nearest table, which had neat stacks of woolen fabric on it, and she began to pull items forth out of the basket.

“You said the lady had no clothing with her,” she said, indicating the garments she pulled out. “I loosely sew together gowns and surcoats and shifts so that they may be finished off by fine ladies to suit their size, so I have a good deal of unfinished garments that are mostly made. From what you described of your lady, I believe these will fit her. Can she sew?”

Gates shrugged. “I do not know but I would assume so.”

Gerta began to lay out what was in the basket; two soft, eggshell-colored shifts were pulled forth, unhemmed so that they were very long, as well as an exquisite, blue damask surcoat that, upon closer inspection, had different types of blue fabric that comprised the bodice of the garment, making it a patchwork-type design but exceedingly becoming with the lace-up front and long, belled sleeves.

There was a second woolen garment in a shade of lavender, simple in design with long sleeves and a snug bodice, and then there was heavy linen that hadn’t been dyed. It remained an off-white color but the old seamstress had sewn white rabbit fur around the neckline and at the wrists of the long sleeves. It had a lace-up bodice with no fastening, but the laces were on the sides of the bodice so one could make it as tight, or as loose, as one wanted. It was exquisite.

As Gates examined the surcoats, the old woman pulled two pairs of hose out of the basket along with two big shawls, basically big blocks of material that the lady could wrap around her shoulders and drape over her head for modesty and warmth. She also pulled forth two pairs of slippers, both silk, and one that was lined with fur. Gates saw the shoes and picked one of them up, inspecting it, uncertain how big the lady’s foot was but assuming it wasn’t too large. He’d caught a glimpse of her feet as he’d hauled her out of the priory over his shoulder, and he didn’t think her feet were overly large.

As he studied the quality of the slippers, the old woman removed the final items of the booty – a sewing kit in a small wooden box, two bars of lumpy white soap that smelled of rosemary, some kind of oil in a phial to ease rough skin, a comb made from a tortoise shell, and a small sack of iron hair pins.

“There,” she said decisively, pointing to the entire cache. “Your lady will be well supplied for her journey, my lord. What else did you wish for her?”

Gates looked at the goods; there was a lot of it and it was expensive, but he naturally assumed that Lord de Lara would want his daughter well clothed, as the offspring of an earl, so he didn’t barter with the woman about the price. He simply had her pack everything neatly back into the basket.

“I left you several silver marks on your eating table,” he said, throwing his thumb in the direction they had come from. “Is that enough for all of this?”

The old man quickly retreated back into the cottage, followed by his wife, to collect the coinage and count it. Hovered over the table where Gates had dropped the coins, with only a taper to light the darkness, he counted seventeen silver marks.

“Aye,” he said, pleased at the profit they should make. “Are you sure there is nothing else for the lady?”

Gates shook his head, handing the basket over to one of the soldiers that had accompanied him. “Nay,” he said. “But if the lady does decide she requires more, I will come and see you tomorrow before I leave.”

“Excellent, my lord.”

Gates headed for the door but paused before he quit the cottage entirely. “If she requires a different size in shoes, do you have something more she can see?”

The old woman nodded. “I have a few more silk slippers for her to see, my lord,” she replied. “A woman in Hereford makes them for me and the Welsh women seem to like them a great deal, so I keep a few here at the shop.”

“Readily made?”

“Readily made.”

Such a thing as readily-made shoes was almost unheard of and Gates was properly surprised. “Astonishing,” he said. Then he tried to think of anything else he needed when he suddenly remembered the red, raw chaffing that the rope had given Kathalin’s wrists. It prompted him to ask, “You wouldn’t happen to have any medicaments for skin that is raw and bleeding, would you?”

The old woman cocked her head thoughtfully and scurried back into the shop. She emerged a few moments later with a small alabaster pot that was tightly wrapped up with twine made from hemp. She thrust it at Gates.

“Calendula paste,” she said. “The petals of the flower are mashed in fat. It should help.”

Gates was grateful. In fact, he was quite surprised at how helpful the couple had been, especially since he had threatened to kick their door in. In his gratitude, he tossed a few more coins onto their table and nodded his head in silent thanks before quitting the cottage and heading out into the snowy night.

Fighting his way through blinding snow and armed with possessions that were as much an apology from him as they were a necessity, Gates was rather expecting Lady Kathalin to be quite grateful towards him. In fact, he was confident she would forget the past few days, the distress and fear, and become a pleasant traveling companion.

After all, he’d plied a few women with gifts before and it always worked wonders to the feminine vanity. Even though Lady Kathalin had been living in a convent for the past fourteen years, surely there was a true lady buried underneath, waiting to be coaxed forth. And Gates was most willing to do the coaxing.

He was usually correct, but in this case, only time would tell.

He very much wanted to be correct.

With chapped, bleeding skin around her wrists, exhausted, and ravenously hungry, Kathalin was trying to count her blessings at the moment. At least she was warm in this tiny, windowless room as a fire raged in the open-end hearth, and at least she had a roof over her head as the storm raged. Those were the things she was grateful for but they were sorely outnumbered by the things she was ungrateful for.

After de Wolfe had left her, the first thing she had done was peer into the hearth to see if there was a way through the flames to escape, but the more she thought on the actual escape, the more she realized that it would be foolish to try.
Stupid,
de Wolfe had called it. With snow blowing sideways outside and impossible traveling conditions, she wouldn’t make it to the edge of the village before she froze to death. She was ill-equipped to do anything or go anywhere, much less run off. She didn’t even know what direction to travel in. In that instance, de Wolfe had her. There was nowhere for her to go.

She was officially trapped.

So she moved away from the hearth and tried to be thankful that she was at least warm and out of the elements. She was the least bit curious about her surroundings, much better than the accommodations from the previous night, but a close inspection of the bed showed it to be crawling with vermin. Disgusted, she sat on the floor near the hearth and inspected the red welts around her wrists.

Hate.

Somehow, she equated that word with de Wolfe but now that she was warm, and the situation was at least settling a bit, the hate she had built up for de Wolfe since leaving the priory was starting to ease somewhat. She knew the man was only doing as he’d been ordered, as he’d told her, but the fact remained that he was the catalyst for her upheaval. It was difficult to forgive him for that. As she sat and lifted her hands up to the fire, warming them, she began to notice movement in the room beyond the hearth.

Through the flames, she could see de Wolfe’s men making themselves comfortable in the loft on the other side. They had their possessions and were finding a place to lie down and rest. Several of them were crowded up by the hearth, but because there was no light in her room other than firelight, they couldn’t see her on the other side. But she could certainly see them and she saw quite clearly when one soldier laid a wench on her back right in front of the hearth.

Curious, Kathalin peered through the flames as the woman lay on her back and giggled at the man, who was just out of her view. But Kathalin’s curiosity turned to astonishment when the man suddenly threw himself down on top of the woman and fumbled with her skirts, lifting them, whilst also fussing with his breeches until they slid halfway down his buttocks. As his companions yelled encouragement to him, the man spread the woman’s legs and, to her giggles and moans, thrust himself into her waiting body.

Shocked, Kathalin quickly turned away, averting her gaze as the soldier made love to the wench in full view of her and in full view of his companions. Some of the soldiers were laughing, drinking, calling to the soldier and belittling his manhood while still others began to crowd around the pair, observing. It soon became evident that they were waiting their turn with the wench because more than one of them already had a great arousal evident through their breeches. One man was even stroking himself.

But Kathalin still wasn’t looking; she was embarrassed and shocked by what was going on and she moved from her position near the hearth to the wall across the room, tucked back into the corner where she couldn’t see anything, but she could certainly hear the grunts of pleasure. She covered her ears but that only muffled the sounds; she could still hear them.

Having grown up in the convent, she had been separated from men, insulated from their lust by the great priory walls. It had been a very safe place to be even though she had wondered about men from time to time, wondering what it would be like to be married to one. Wondering what it would be like to be in love with one. But here she was, now exposed to the worldly wickedness that Mother Benedicta had tried to protect her from, and the fear and shame of it made Kathalin want to return to the shielding walls more than ever. The world, what she was seeing of it, was a perverse and evil place.

More grunting and moaning filled her ears, bringing back a memory that reminded her that she wasn’t being entirely honest about the sanctity of the priory. Last year, she had been in the dormitory when she’d heard similar moaning. Thinking someone had been ill, she followed the sounds and came across two novice nuns lying in a bed together, covered with heavy woolen blankets, and when Kathalin had pulled the covers off to see who was in distress, she found one woman with her fingers in the other woman’s body, stuffed in between her legs.

It had been shocking and terrible, and Kathalin had fled the dormitory but had not gone to tell the Mother Prioress. She simply wanted to forget about what she had seen and wouldn’t even talk to one of the offenders when the woman came into the kitchen to try and speak with her. She’d ignored the girl who, because of a completely different violation a few months later, had been sent away. But the second woman had remained at St. Milburga’s and Kathalin went out of her way to avoid her. They never spoke nor did they even look at one another. Therefore, it was true that St. Milburga’s wasn’t an entirely pristine haven.