"Good morning, my dear!" Aunt Elinor chirped happily, as she looked up from daintily slicing a piece of venison from the tray of cold meats in front of her. "You're looking in fine spirits this morning."
"Good morning, Aunt Elinor," Jenny said, sending her a reassuring smile; then she cast a puzzled look up and down the table at the silent men who were also present: Sir Stefan, Sir Godfrey, Sir Lionel, Sir Eustace, Arik, and Friar Gregory. Aware of the strange silence and downcast eyes of the men, she said with a hesitant smile, "Good morning, everyone."
Five male faces slowly lifted to hers—pale, strained faces whose expressions ranged from glazed pain to befuddled confusion. "Good morning, my lady," they echoed politely, but three of them winced and the other two shaded their eyes with their hands. Only Arik seemed normal this morning, which meant he had no expression at all, and he said absolutely nothing to anyone. Ignoring him completely, Jenny looked at Friar Gregory, who seemed to be in no better condition than the others, and then she looked at Royce. "What's wrong with everyone?" she asked.
Royce helped himself to the white wheaten bread and cold meats laid out on the table, and the men reluctantly followed suit. "They're paying the price of last night's orgy of drunkenness and wenc—er, drunkenness," Royce amended, grinning.
Surprised, Jenny glanced at Friar Gregory, who'd just lifted a cup of ale to his lips. "You, too, Friar Gregory?" she said, and the poor man choked.
"I'm guilty of the former, my lady," he sputtered with chagrin, "but I plead complete innocence of the latter."
Jenny, who'd failed to note the word Royce had swiftly altered, gave the priest a puzzled look, but Aunt Elinor piped up, "I anticipated just such a malady as this, my dear, and early this morning, I went down to the kitchens to prepare a nice restorative, only to find there was not so much as a snip of saffron to be had!"
The mention of the kitchen drew Royce's instant attention, and for the first time he seemed to study Lady Elinor with great interest. "Do you find my kitchens lacking in other items—items which might make all this—" he gestured to the rather tasteless leftover sops from last night, "more pleasing to the palate?"
"Why assuredly, your grace," she replied at once. " 'Twas quite a shock to me to find such a woefully understocked kitchen. There was rosemary and thyme, but no raisins, or ginger paris, nor canel, oregano, or cloves to speak of. And I didn't see a nut in the place, except one poor, wizened chestnut! Nuts are such wonderful compliments to delicate sauces and delicious desserts—"
At the mention of "delicate sauces and delicious desserts," Aunt Elinor suddenly became the focus of undivided masculine attention. Only Arik remained disinterested, ostensibly preferring the joint of cold goose he was eating to rich sauces and desserts.
"Go on," Royce invited her, his speculative gaze riveted on her with rapt fascination. "What sorts of things would you have prepared—assuming you had the necessary ingredients, of course?"
"Well, let me think," she said, her forehead furrowed in a little frown. "It's been decades since I presided over the kitchens in my own lovely castle, but—oh yes—there were baked meat pies with crusts so light and lovely they melted in the mouth; and—take for example that hen you are eating," she said to Sir Godfrey, warming to her new position of culinary expert. "Instead of being cooked on a spit and served dried out and tough as canvas, which it is, it could have been simmered in half broth, half wine, with cloves, mace, fennel, and pepper, then laid upon a trencher so the juices made the bread ever so tasty.
"And there's so much one can do with fruits like apples, pears, and quince, but I'd need honey and almond and dates for the glazes and, canel, too, but as I said, there's little to be found of any of that in the kitchens."
Royce eyed her intently, his cold goose forgotten. "Would you be able to find the things you need here at Claymore or perhaps at the village market?"
"Much of it, one would suppose," Aunt Elinor promptly replied.
"In that case," Royce said in the tone of one issuing a royal edict, "the kitchens are now in your hands, and we will all look forward to excellent meals in future." Glancing toward Sir Albert Prisham, who was nearing the table, Royce arose and informed him, "I've just put the kitchens in the charge of Lady Elinor."
The thin steward's face was carefully blank, and he bowed politely, but the hand on the white cane clenched into a fist as he replied, "As I said, food is of little importance to me."
"Well, it ought to be exceedingly important to you, Sir Albert," Lady Elinor informed him authoritatively, "for you've been eating all the wrong things. Turnips, fatty foods, and hard cheeses ought never to be eaten by those with gout."
His face hardened. "I do not have gout, madam."
"You will!" Aunt Elinor predicted gaily as she, too, arose, all eagerness to begin foraging about in the gardens and woods for her ingredients.
Ignoring her, Sir Albert said to his lord, "If you are ready to begin our tour of the estate, we can leave at once." And when Royce nodded, he added coolly, "I trust you will not find my stewardship lacking anywhere other than the kitchens."
Royce gave him an odd, sharp look, then he smiled at Jennifer and pressed a polite kiss to her cheek, but in her ear he whispered, "I suggest you have a long nap, for I intend to keep you awake all night again."
Jenny felt the warm flush stealing up her cheeks as Arik arose, obviously intending to remain at Royce's side during the inspection of the estate. Royce stopped him. "Accompany Lady Elinor on her expeditions," he said, and then in an odd, meaningful voice he added, "and see that nothing untoward happens."
Arik's face froze at this flat command to play escort to an elderly lady. He stalked off, positively radiating resentment and offended dignity, while Lady Elinor trotted excitedly at his heels. "We shall have a lovely time, dear boy," she said enthusiastically, "although this project will take several days, not merely one, for we're sorely in need of ingredients for my medicinals and ointments, as well as spices for food. I shall require clove to comfort the sinews, and mace, of course! Mace prevents colic, you know, as well as body fluxes and laxes—and then there's nutmegs, which are very beneficial for the cold and a bad spleen. And I shall take special care of your diet in particular, for you aren't well, you know. You've a melancholy disposition—I noticed that at once…"
Sir Eustace glanced around at the other knights, grinning wickedly. "Lionel," he called loudly enough to be heard by the departing giant, "would you say our Arik looks 'melancholy' just now? Or would 'piqued' be a better word?"
Sir Lionel paused in his chewing and studied Arik's rigid broad back, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he replied after a moment's thoughtful consideration, "Arik is vexed."
Sir Godfrey leaned back to have a look for himself. "Aggrieved," he concluded.
"Colicky," Stefan Westmoreland added with a grin. In shared camaraderie, the men looked to Jennifer, inviting her to join in their fun, but she was spared the need to refuse because at that moment, Arik turned and blasted a dark look at his cohorts which could have pulverized rock and would easily have terrified most men. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect on the knights, who returned his look and then burst into shouts of laughter, their mirth bouncing off the walls and echoing to the timbers, following Arik out the door.
Only young Gawin, who'd arrived just in time to see Arik and Lady Elinor depart, spoke up in Arik's behalf. Glowering at the others as he seated himself at the table, he said, " 'Tis no fit job for a knight—squiring an old woman about while she picks herbs and gathers nuts. 'Tis a job for a lady's maid, not a knight."
Lionel gave the boy a good-natured cuff. " 'Tis thinking like that which leaves you forever in Lady Anne's bad graces, my boy. Were you to squire her about while she picks flowers, you'd get further with the lady than you do by bristling up and trying to impress her with your manly glower—as you did last night." Turning to Jennifer, Sir Lionel said, "This halfling prefers glowering to gallantry. He thinks it's more manly, you see. And while
he glowers, Roderick dances pretty attendance upon Lady Anne and wins the fair maiden's heart. Would you care to enlighten him with a lady's point of view?"
Sensitive to Gawin's youthful embarrassment, Jenny said, "I cannot speak for Lady Anne, but I, for one, did not see anything to turn a lady's head in the person of Sir Roderick."
Gratitude flashed in Gawin's eyes before he turned a smug glance upon his fellows and then dug into his somewhat tasteless fare.
Jenny spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon closeted with the seamstresses whom Sir Albert had recruited from the village to assist her in the preparation of garments. The steward was certainly efficient, Jenny thought as she delved down into the trunks that had been brought to her. Efficient and cold. She didn't like him at all, though she wasn't certain exactly why. Based on Agnes's words this morning, all the serfs at Claymore certainly held the thin man in high esteem. Esteem and a twinge of fear. Frustrated with her odd, emotional reactions to everyone here, and with the endless, uneasy silence of the women in the room, she studied the array of rich, colorful fabrics flowing over the bed and draped over the chairs. They lay like bright splashes of liquid jewels—ruby silks shot with gold, silver and gold brocades, amethyst velvets, sapphire taffeta shimmering as if sprinkled with diamonds, and rich, glowing satins in every shade of the spectrum from pearl to emerald to onyx. Beside them lay soft English wools in every imaginable weight and color, from brightest yellow and scarlets to shades of cream, gray, tan, and black. There were cottons from Italy, striped horizontally and vertically; richly embroidered linen for gowns and shirts, sheer, almost transparent linen for chemises and undergarments; shimmering tissues for veils; and buttery leather for gloves and slippers.
Even allowing for complete wardrobes for Royce and herself and Aunt Elinor, Jenny could scarcely conceive of ways to use so much. Overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task that lay ahead, and by her lack of imagination and knowledge of fashion, Jenny turned a little dazedly to the two enormous trunks overflowing with furs. "I think," she said aloud to Agnes as she gathered up an armful of luxurious dark sable, "that this could be used to line a cape made of that dark blue velvet for the duke."
"The cream satin," Agnes burst out almost desperately, then she closed her mouth and her face resumed its habitual frown.
Jenny turned to her in relieved surprise that the woman—whom she'd just learned had been seamstress to the former mistress of Claymore—had finally offered a voluntary word. Trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm for the idea, Jenny said, 'The cream satin? Truly? Do you think the duke would wear that?"
"For you," Agnes said in a choked voice, as if forced to speak by some inner fashion consciousness that cried out against the misuse of the sable, "not him."
"Oh," Jenny said, startled and pleased by the combination suggested. She gestured to the white fur. "And that?"
"The ermine to trim the sapphire brocade."
"And for the duke?" Jenny persisted, more pleased by the moment.
"The dark blue velvet, the black, and that dark brown."
"I've little knowledge of fashion," Jenny admitted, smiling with pleasure at the suggestions. "When I was young, 'twas of no interest to me at all, and later—these past years—I've lived in an abbey, and the only fashions I saw were the garments we all wore. But I comprehend already that you've a wonderful eye for how things will look, and I'll gladly take all your suggestions."
Turning, she surprised a startled look on Agnes's face, and something that might almost have been a smile, though Jenny rather suspected it was due more to her admission to having been in an abbey than her compliment to Agnes's taste. The other two seamstresses, both plain-faced young women, seemed to have thawed slightly as well. Perhaps they found her less "the enemy" if she'd been living in peace as a pious Catholic these past years.
Agnes stepped forward and began gathering up the fabrics, including the linen and cottons, which had already been singled out for specific uses. "Can you do the design for the cape and gown?" Jenny asked, bending to scoop up the cream brocade. "I haven't much idea how it should be cut, though I'll help with the cutting, of course. I'm more clever with shears than I am with a needle, I fear."
A muffled sound like a swallowed giggle escaped one of the younger women, and Jenny turned in surprise to find the seamstress called Gertrude suffused in an alarmed flush. "Did you laugh?" Jenny asked, hoping she had, regardless of the reason, for she longed desperately for some sort of female camaraderie.
Gertrude's flush deepened.
"You did laugh, didn't you? Was it because of what I said about being handy with shears?"
The woman's lips trembled and her eyes almost popped out as she strained to keep her nervous mirth contained. Without realizing that she was staring the poor woman down, Jenny tried to imagine what the maids could be finding funny about her skill with shears. A thought struck her, and her mouth dropped open. "You heard about that, did you? About what I did—to your master's things?"
If anything, the poor woman's eyes widened yet more, and she looked at her friend, swallowed a giggle, then looked back at Jennifer. " 'Tis true then, my lady?" she whispered.
Suddenly the desperate deed seemed rather funny to Jenny, too. She nodded gaily. " 'Twas a dreadful thing to do—worse than sewing the armholes closed on his shirts and—"
"You did that, too?" And before Jenny could answer, the two seamstresses let loose great, gusty shouts of laughter and began to nudge each other in the ribs, nodding with approval. Even Agnes's lips were trembling with mirth.
When the two younger women had left, Jenny went into Royce's room with Agnes to give her samples of his clothes so that she might use them to gauge his measurements for the new ones. There was something strangely intimate and oddly poignant about handling his doublets and cloaks and shirts.
He had amazingly broad shoulders, Jenny thought with a tingle of pride as she held a woolen tunic out to Agnes—and surprisingly few clothes, she noted, for a man of such wealth. What he had was of the finest quality, but it had seen much wear—a silent testimony to a man whose concerns had been with matters far weightier than clothing.
Many of his shirts were slightly frayed at the wrists, and buttons were missing from two of them. He was badly in need of a wife, Jenny thought with a whimsical little smile, to look after such details. No wonder he'd reacted with such pleasure, months ago in camp, when she'd volunteered to do mending. A sharp stab of guilt pierced her for the deliberate damage she'd done to what few articles of clothing he apparently had. Unlike the maids, she no longer found that funny, and the fact that they did puzzled and concerned her. It seemed rather odd, but then there was much about Claymore that struck her as being odd.
Now that the dam of reticence had been broken, Agnes seemed willing to talk at length about how to proceed with all the garments, and when she left, she actually smiled shyly at Jenny, but that, too, bothered Jenny as much as it pleased her.
When the maid left, Jenny stood where she was in Royce's bedchamber, her forehead knitted into a puzzled frown. Unable to come up with any answers, she flung a light mantle over her shoulders and went out to seek answers from the one person with whom she felt free to talk.
Sir Eustace, Sir Godfrey, and Sir Lionel were in the bailey, seated upon a low stone bench, their faces covered in a fine sheen of sweat, their swords dangling limply from their hands—obviously trying to recover their strength after a night of carousing and an afternoon devoted to practice with swords. "Have you seen Friar Gregory?" Jenny asked.
Sir Eustace thought he'd seen the friar talking to the wagoner, and Jenny started off in the direction he indicated, not certain exactly which of the stone buildings clustered around the vast inner perimeter of the castle wall was the one which housed the wagons. The kitchen, easily identified by its high, elaborate chimney structure, was next to the castle itself. Beside the kitchen was the store, the brewhouse, and a lovely chapel. Across the bailey from her was the smithy, where a horse
was being shod and where Gawin was busily polishing Royce's shield, ignoring the stacks of armor and weapons waiting to be mended by less exalted hands than his. The wagon shed was beside it, and beyond the wagon shed were the stables, a piggery, and a large dovecote, which appeared to be empty of birds.
"Are you looking for someone, your grace?" Jenny whirled around in surprise at the sound of the friar's voice. "Yes, for you," she replied, laughing at her own jumpiness. "I wanted to ask you about… about things," she said, casting a cautious glance at the hundred people about the bailey who were busy at various tasks. "But not here."
"A stroll outside the gates perhaps?" Friar Gregory suggested, immediately comprehending her desire to speak where they'd not be observed or overheard.
When they approached the guards at the gate, however, Jenny received a shock. "I'm sorry, my lady," the guard said with polite implacability, "but my orders are that you cannot leave the castle except in the company of my lord."
Jenny blinked at him in disbelief. "What?"
"You cannot leave—"
"I heard you," Jenny said, controlling a sharp spurt of anger, "Do you mean I'm—I'm a prisoner here?"
The guard, a seasoned soldier with vast experience in battle and none at all in dealing with noble ladies, shot an alarmed glance at the sergeant-of-the-guard, who stepped forward, bowed formally, and said," 'Tis a question of… er… your safety, my lady."
Thinking he meant that she might not be safe in the village after what happened yesterday, Jenny made an airy motion with her hand. "Oh, but I don't intend to go further than yon trees and—"
"I'm sorry. My lord's orders were specific."
"I see," Jenny said, but she didn't see at all, and she didn't like the feeling of being a prisoner one bit. She started to turn away, then she rounded on the hapless sergeant. "Tell me something," she said in a low, ominous voice. "Is this… restriction… against anyone leaving the castle, or only me."