The Merchant's Daughter (15 page)

“It is late, my dears. Are you ready, Annabel?”

She nodded, but the book in her lap was so heavy she was unable to stand.

He stood and stared down at her, still not saying anything. If only she knew what he was thinking. She suddenly remembered again the night she had seen him bent over in agony and the strange, animallike sounds of anguish that had come from him.
Such an impassioned man.
But at the moment she had the impression that he was forcing a look of indifference.

“Of course.” He took the book from her lap. “You may go.”

She hurried away from him, and Mistress Eustacia went out with her.

When Annabel got down to the undercroft, all lights were out and she could barely see to get to her cot. As she crawled under the sheet, Beatrice sat up in the bed beside hers.

“Annabel?” she whispered.

“Yes?”

There was silence before Beatrice finally asked, “What are you and Lord le Wyse doing every night?”

“I am reading to him. That is all.”

Beatrice sniffed. She sounded like she was crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you miss Lincolnshire, your home?”

“Not much.” She sniffed again, loudly. “I only wish I knew how to get Lord le Wyse to notice me.”

What could she say to that? “We are only servants, Beatrice. Perhaps it’s better not to be noticed.”

“Does he ever … you know … say nice things to you, tell you you’re pretty, when you’re reading together?”

“No, of course not. He summons me only because I understand Latin. I read, then I leave.” She didn’t want to tell Beatrice that the two of them actually had a conversation tonight. Beatrice wouldn’t take that well — or understand it was completely innocent.

“He is a good lord, don’t you think?” Beatrice wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“Yes, I think he is.”
Better than most, I suppose.
He seemed much kinder tonight, less judgmental of her. She remembered her profound relief and gratitude at the way he came to her aid, protecting her from the bailiff both in the field a few days ago, and today as she was doing laundry.

She could almost forget he told the bailiff that he was
fortunate
because she wouldn’t marry him. Almost.

Annabel awoke a few hours later to the sound of muffled yells from outside. She sat up in bed. Only a tiny shaft of light came through the shutters.
What could be happening in the middle of the night to cause such a commotion?

The undercroft door flew open, revealing a man’s form, an
eerie orange glow behind him. His shoulders heaved up and down as he gasped for breath.

“Fire! Come and help us!”

Then he disappeared.

Frightened squeals and gasps filled the room as several girls scrambled out of bed. Annabel jumped out of bed as well. She hastily pulled her oldest dress over her nightgown and ran outside with bare feet.

Chaos met her. Bright red-orange sparks shot into the night sky from the barn roof. Men ran back and forth, some bearing buckets, others pointing and shouting. A line began forming between the well and the barn; Annabel ran toward it and filled a space between two men, grabbing the full bucket from her left and heaving it into the hands of the man on her right. Gilbert Carpenter dashed from the front to the end of the line, ferrying empty buckets with a grim determination.

The stone barn was discharging red-hot flames from its huge door and tiny windows, flames so hot she felt as though her face was burning along with it, even from thirty feet away. The group’s efforts to put out the flames seemed hopeless. The thatched roof was completely engulfed, and the interior of the barn, along with the barley and oats stored within, were being completely destroyed.

Gilbert Carpenter came to a stop near Annabel and Bailiff Tom, who stood nearby. With labored breath Gilbert announced, “Many of the beams have given way. I don’t think we can possibly save anything inside.”

“Is everyone out?” Bailiff Tom stared at the burning building. The enormous barn housed not only the sheep and the entire barley harvest, but many of the laborers Lord le Wyse had hired to build his castle, who bedded down at the opposite end from the animals.

“Everyone’s accounted for,” the man to the left told Bailiff Tom, “except Lord le Wyse. I haven’t seen him since I first grabbed a bucket.”

Gilbert Carpenter flung his arms out wide and yelled, “Has anyone seen Lord le Wyse?”

“No,” one man said.

“Went to save the sheep,” another offered. A few men nodded in agreement.

Gilbert’s eyes darted to the barn. He ran and soon disappeared around the other side of the structure.

With only a moment’s hesitation Annabel left the line of men, who were still passing the buckets from hand to hand, and followed the path Gilbert Carpenter had taken. She ran past a huddle of maidens. Their arms around each other, they watched the fire as though dazed. Some cried and others yelled at her as she passed, but she didn’t hear their words. She ran as close to the barn as she dared, certain that the flames were singeing her eyebrows.

She came around the back side of the barn and nearly ran into Lord le Wyse and Gilbert Carpenter. Lord le Wyse’s arm was around the master mason’s shoulders as he seemed barely able to stay on his feet. Her lord looked alarmed. “Annabel! What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“I was searching for you.” Her mouth fell open as she got a better look at him. “My lord! Are you hurt?”

His hair stuck out in all directions, and his forehead and face were streaked with soot and sweat. He looked as though he’d been in the fire itself.

“I am well. The sheep are safe.”

Annabel’s gaze traveled down from his head and stopped on his arm. His charred sleeve, much of it burned away, hung from his elbow. His left forearm — the one mangled by the wolf years before — was covered with angry blisters. A lump formed in her throat as she imagined the pain he was feeling.

She tried to look into his face, to see his expression. Just then his shoulders swayed, like a hewn tree just before it collapses.

“We must get you back to the manor house and tend your burns at once.”

He swayed again as he and Gilbert started forward, walking slowly. They made their way back toward the manor house, neither of them even looking toward the barn or the fire, which roared louder than the worst thunder and hail storm.

Several men hurried toward them, asking questions.

“Leave me be.” The lord’s harsh tone stopped them cold.

Annabel remembered what her mother had done when Durand had badly burned his hand. “He needs water,” she told Gilbert. “Two buckets at least.”

“I’ll go get the water, as I can carry more than you,” Gilbert said. “You help Lord le Wyse to the manor house.” He lifted the lord’s good arm from around his shoulders and placed it on Annabel’s. Then he hurried away toward the well.

Lord le Wyse leaned heavily on Annabel as they walked. Neither of them said a word. She suspected the lord was silent because of the pain, and she was concentrating on getting him safely to the manor. He was quite heavy, and she stumbled a couple of times in the dark, but she was thankful he seemed to grow a bit steadier as they moved along.

When they reached the steps of the manor house, which were too narrow to safely accommodate two people abreast, Lord le Wyse stepped away from her.

“I shall go first,” he said gruffly, “unless you’re afraid I may fall backward and crush you.”

The glow of the fire illuminated his features enough that she could see the corner of his mouth turned up, showing him to be in jest.

“Perhaps I will be able to step aside in time to avoid being crushed.” She lifted her eyebrows.

He winced, drawing his injured arm closer to his body. “Shouldn’t you rather have said, ‘It would be a privilege to break the fall of my lord’?”

A strange time for a sense of humor, but perhaps it took his mind off the pain. “Yes, my lord. Pray, make haste. We must get your arm in some cool water.”

“As you wish.” He started up the steps.

She followed his slow progress, and in her mind she listed all the things she would need to treat his burn.

“Lord Ranulf!”

Annabel and the lord stopped and looked behind them. Mistress Eustacia came panting across the yard with a pitcher in her hand.

“Water from the well?” he asked her.

“Yes, my lord.”

Annabel hastened down the steps and took the pitcher from Mistress Eustacia, whose eyes were full of tears.

“Gilbert Carpenter is bringing two more buckets. Do you know what to do for a bad burn?” Mistress Eustacia looked at Annabel.

Annabel nodded. “We’ll need some clean bandages, a flask of honey, and some comfrey if you have it.”

“I shall fetch them right away.” Mistress Eustacia’s voice cracked, and she hurried away.

Chapter
8

Once inside the upper hall, Ranulf sat in his
chair and watched the girl, Annabel, scurry to the corner of the room to fetch an empty bucket, still carrying the pitcher of water.

“Now, hold your arm over the bucket.” She set it down in front of him.

I was searching for you,
she had said. He couldn’t get the look on her face out of his mind. When she almost ran into him, when she saw his burned arm … He was foolish to think about it.

Now she leaned close, taking his hand in hers, and studied his burn. Her long blonde braid slipped over the shoulder of her shapeless work dress to dangle by his arm. Her eyes were gentle and the touch of her fingers was cool on his burning skin.

“I have to clean the burn so I can see the severity, and the cold water will be good for it.” She began, slowly, to pour the water over his arm. It was painful and soothing at the same time. The water ran out just as the door opened and Gilbert Carpenter came in bearing two buckets. Mistress Eustacia trundled in behind him.

“Oh, Lord Ranulf!” Her voice was soft but agitated. She had always grieved over every scrape he got into. He didn’t like to remember how she reacted to his wolf attack; the poor woman cried for weeks.

“My good woman, ‘tis only a burn.” The pain caused his voice to sound more like a snarl. He regretted taking his pain out on her, but she was used to his gruffness.

Gilbert set the buckets of water down beside him.

“Here you are, child.” Mistress Eustacia set a flask of honey and strips of clean linen on the table beside her.

Annabel stepped aside.

“You do it, my dear.” Eustacia got a stool and set it down in front of him, then motioned for Annabel to sit. “You seem to know how to treat a burn. I will watch you.” She wiped her eyes and her nose on a corner of her apron. “I looked in my store of herbs, but I’m afraid I have no comfrey. I shall send someone to pick some as soon as it’s daylight.”

Ranulf’s arm throbbed considerably more now that Annabel had ceased pouring water on it. He was relieved when she dipped the pitcher into the clean bucket of water and began pouring it over his arm again.

“It doesn’t appear as bad as I at first feared,” Annabel said. Her small nose and full lips made a pleasing silhouette against the low fire that still smoldered in the fireplace.
I should stop staring at her.

She took hold of his hand — his ugly, mangled hand — and held his arm up to the light.

“Does it hurt much?” Her bright blue eyes filled with compassion as she looked into his face — his scarred cheek, his patched eye, his beard that covered the worst scars.

He grunted, wanting to reject her pity.

Just then, the door burst open and Gilbert’s little boy, Adam, came running into the upper hall. “Father! What happened? Did you see the fire?”

Gilbert tried to shush the boy, but Adam came straight up to Annabel and peered down at Ranulf’s burned arm.

“Oooh. That is the worst burn I’ve ever seen!”

Ranulf looked to the boy’s father, hoping he would remove the child posthaste.

Before Gilbert could take more than a step, Annabel said very softly, “Adam, I need to bandage my lord’s arm, so why don’t you go with your father to see if the men need help fighting the fire?”