The Merchant's Daughter (10 page)

She clenched her teeth just thinking about him, wishing she could frighten him the way he frightened her. May God forgive her, but she hated the man, hated the power he held over her through her own fear.

She consciously strove to never be alone, to stay with Mistress Eustacia or one of the other maids, but she was too embarrassed to ask someone to go with her to the privy, and occasionally Eustacia left her alone in the kitchen or the upper floor of the manor house.

But what good was it doing her to cower in Bailiff Tom’s presence? It only increased her anger and dread of him and apparently did naught to deter his interest in her. She’d even been plagued with him lingering outside the kitchen — thus far she had been able to find ways to busy herself until he left, or have Eustacia speak to him so she could avoid his lecherous gaze. What right did he have to sneer at her?

She would try a new tactic. She would show him what a contemptible creature she thought him to be, and then maybe he would stop leering at her in front of everyone. He would see, reflected in her face, what she thought of him.

While she set the trenchers on the table and filled the goblets with ale, the laborers and servants began to filter into the room. Instead of ignoring Bailiff Tom as she normally would —
afraid of making eye contact with him — Annabel raised her head and purposely searched for him. She quickly caught him staring at her from across the room, a bold look in his tiny, black, ratlike eyes.

She set her jaw and glared back, giving him her coldest, most contemptuous look. She converted every ounce of fear within her into anger and hatred, fervently hoping he could read her thoughts as she pronounced him the most repulsive creature on two legs.

The bailiff stared back for a moment. His thin lips spread with a slow grin, as though pleased she was looking at him.

Was he blind? He wasn’t supposed to be pleased. She curled her lip and narrowed her eyes, willing him to read derision and hatred in her eyes. Finally, a befuddled look came over his features, and he looked away.

Annabel’s chest swelled with triumph. She’d forced him to look away! But she prepared herself to repeat her projected daggers of contempt several times, if necessary, during the evening meal.

A small prickling of guilt niggled at her conscience. Of course, she’d heard the priest say many times that hatred was of the devil, but what else could she do? Perhaps if she were able to read the Bible, the book would provide a better way to deal with the prurient bailiff.

Her desire for a Bible welled up inside her as she continued filling the goblets with ale. Was it wrong to want to read the Holy Writ? Many people would probably frown upon her desire. A woman wasn’t expected to have ambitions about increasing her knowledge. And wasn’t she supposed to submit herself to the priest’s instruction? Only priests and monks and others who had taken holy vows were encouraged to read the Bible.

She pushed the frustrating questions away. She had to gather her defenses and be prepared to deal with the bailiff whenever she caught him staring.

As soon as Annabel and the other maids finished serving the food, Lord le Wyse strode in. Everyone else stood behind
the benches and waited for him to seat himself at the head of the table before they took their own seats. She ended up beside Beatrice. This time, instead of planting himself directly opposite her, the bailiff sat a few spaces away. Ready with her glare, she caught him staring at her and pretended her eyes were an invisible dagger. Fervently she ran him through, making him look away again.

Annabel ate heartily of the roast goose and pudding on her stale trencher, smiling inwardly at her victory. She had wiped the smug leer from her enemy’s face without having to speak a single empty threat.

An elbow in her ribs caused her to jump and turn to Beatrice.

“What do you think of Gilbert Carpenter?” Beatrice whispered. “Handsome, is he not?”

Annabel hesitated to say. “Do you think he is?”

“I would marry him.” Beatrice pursed her lips in what was almost a smile.

“Forget him,” Maud said from the other side of Beatrice. “His little boy is set on him marrying Annabel. Looks like you should have spent a little time with the son instead of chasing the father.”

“Who says I’ve been chasing the father?” Beatrice straightened her shoulders and glared at her fellow dairymaid. Then she smiled a slow, sneaky grin. “Besides, he isn’t the most handsome man in the room.”

Maud squinted. “Who is, then?”

Beatrice glanced sideways at Annabel and winked. “I’ll tell you tonight when we all retire to bed.”

Annabel stared at the two girls. Beatrice actually wanted to confide in her? She only hoped they didn’t ask her who she thought was handsomest. The sermons of Sir Matefrid, the village priest, were another reason she had never been interested in attracting men or pursuing marriage. He made it sound as if women were fiends of hell, luring men into adultery. Annabel couldn’t imagine doing such a thing, yet Bailiff Tom persisted in leering at her every chance he got. With no father to protect
her, staying indifferent to men seemed safer, even if the priest’s reasoning seemed askew. Why did God make men thus, preying on women to satisfy their lusts? Perhaps the answer even to that could be found in the Holy Writ.

That night, as Annabel followed the rest of the maids down the steps to their sleeping quarters in the undercroft, she saw Lord le Wyse talking in the yard with someone.

“Stephen!” How good it was to see his friendly face! Though in truth, it was too dark to see his features. It was his form she recognized.

He shifted in her direction and raised his hand in greeting, then turned back to Lord le Wyse. Annabel lingered outside the undercroft door, hoping to speak with him, her only true friend.

When they finished their conversation, Lord le Wyse strode away. Stephen began, in his twisting gait, to walk toward her.

“How are you?” Annabel reached out to clasp his hand.

He took her hand in his and gave her a smile, faint in the waning light. “I am well, as ever.” He lowered his voice. “I heard about you having to come here, of your mother’s indenturing you to Lord le Wyse.”

“Oh, it isn’t like that exactly.”
Of course it is.
“I-I offered to come, to help Mother. How are my mother and brothers? Did they … did they ask you to come inquire about me?” She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t asked the question but holding her breath for his answer.

“Nay.” He winced as if he knew it hurt her.

“No matter.” She smiled broadly, and her voice went up in volume and pitch in her attempt to appear cheerful. “It’s good to see you, Stephen.”

“Lord le Wyse commissioned me to build some furniture for him, as well as to do some carving for his new home. I’ll be in charge of the woodwork — the doors and shutters, a stair railing, things like that.”

Annabel felt genuine joy at the look of pride on his face.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Stephen. Your furniture is very fine, and your carving is the best I’ve seen.” His legs’ lack of strength didn’t hinder his immense talent at all kinds of woodworking.

“I brought you something.” He swung the cloth bag off his shoulder, reached inside, and pulled out a small bundle. “Mother sends you this — her fried pasty that you liked so much as a child.”

She took the food, wrapped in a square of cloth, and tears burned her eyes. “Dear Alice.” Their former servant, Stephen’s mother, thought enough to send her a small message of kindness. She bit back the tears and nodded, unable to look him in the eye. After a deep breath, she was able to say, “Please tell her thank you. It was very kind of her.”

“I brought you something else.” He reached in again and pulled out a small wooden box. “I thought you might want someplace to put things. See? It has a lock.” He took a key from his pocket and turned it in the tiny keyhole. The lid opened to reveal a space about the size of a large fist, rectangular, suitable for storing coins or other small items.

“How clever you are, Stephen. There isn’t another man in Glynval with such skill. Thank you.” She embraced him then stared down at the beautiful wooden box. Stephen was truly more like a brother than a friend, more her sibling than Edward and Durand.

“I’ll be going now, Annabel. But I’ll be nearby every day. If you need anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

She nodded and gave him another quick hug. He turned and began to walk away.

She watched him for a moment, a thickness in her throat, then turned to join the rest of the maids and find her bed.

“Gilbert Carpenter is handsome.” Beatrice made this declaration, drawing giggles and exclamations from several other maidens in the undercroft who seemed much more intent on the conversation than on getting ready for their night’s repose.

Annabel tried to look as inconspicuous as possible as she quickly shed her clothes and donned her nightgown. She kept her head down and pretended not to listen.

“He’s skinny enough,” a buxom, rather large redhead asserted. “I could pick him up and carry him.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled suggestively, causing the other maidens to hoot in glee.

Annabel hurried to crawl under the covers of her bed, praying no one would ask her what she thought.

“I would have him,” Beatrice declared.

Though the other maidens laughed, no one seemed surprised by her statement.

“But his boy, Adam, has his heart set on Annabel for his ma.”

All eyes turned to Annabel amid ohs and
ah-has.

She froze, her hands clutching the sheet to her chin. She tried to sound careless. “Don’t be silly. I’m not interested in Gilbert Carpenter.”

“Why not?” Beatrice asked, a surprised and almost angry look on her face. “He’s an eligible, free man, and he could get you out of here, let you be a free woman again — and your future children too. You’d be sleeping in your own bed, keeping your man warm every night.”

A few hoots went round.

Of course, it must seem to everyone that the master mason would be an excellent catch for an indentured servant like Annabel. But how could she explain that their crude idea of love didn’t seem satisfying, and a good-looking husband wasn’t all she wanted in life?

Annabel shrugged and tried to look apologetic.
Please let them forget about me and change the subject of conversation.

Maud prodded, “Someone else catch your fancy, then?”

She’d been accused of thinking she was too good for Glynval men. She was tired of their teasing, but she didn’t want to lie. “Not exactly.”

Maud stared hard at her, almost squinting. “Surely not that cripple I saw you talking to.”

Annabel sat up, glaring back at Maud’s long face. She was about to retort that he was a furniture maker, not a cripple. But Beatrice broke in, “You have something against cripples?” She seemed half in jest and half cross.

“Why? Are you partial to cripples?” Maud challenged.

“Perhaps.” Beatrice smiled broadly. “Consider Lord le Wyse. He’s the man I think is the handsomest of all.”

This brought loud exclamations from the other girls. Some thought she was crazy, others agreed.

“But the lord’s not a cripple,” a Lincoln girl put in stoutly. “His hand is a bit maimed, but there’s nothing wrong with his legs.”

“How do you know?” Beatrice asked suggestively, making the girls laugh. “If I could have any man I wanted, I’d choose Lord le Wyse. Who’s afraid of a little eye patch, a lame hand, and a few scars? He’s rich as the king of England and twice as tall.” Her voice turned smooth and silky. “We’d have beautiful, rich children.” Beatrice ended with a high-pitched cackle.

The room erupted into a bedlam of squeals, taunts, and laughter.

Annabel sank down into the straw mattress as anger welled up inside her. Lord le Wyse was rude, had a bad temper, and seemed to especially dislike her. Still, she didn’t like the way they were disrespecting their lord. If Lord le Wyse heard them talking so, what would he do? His anger would stop their laughter and send them running for cover.

“Lord le Wyse wouldn’t let you anywhere near him, you freckle-faced goat of a girl.”

The tone of disdain in Maud’s voice made Annabel cringe. Several
Ooohs
and ohs went through the crowd. She scrunched down even lower, wondering if Beatrice would laugh about the insult or get angry. Her answer came when Beatrice leaned forward, clenching her fists. “I’d rather be a goat than a donkey’s behind. Why are you wearing your tail on your head?”