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 cros
s.
“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?”
Maud’s limp brown hair did somewhat resemble a tail, and the way her eyelids drooped over wide-set eyes in her long face did even more to evoke the face of a donkey.
Both girls stepped forward, quickly closing the gap between them. A few girls screamed and scrambled away, while others yelled, “Hit her!” “Fight!” and “Don’t let her talk to you like that!”
A whistle cut through the chaos, so loud and shrill it made Annabel cover her ears.
All voices ceased. Every eye faced the door where Mistress Eustacia stood with her hands on her hips, her face flushed and her jaw set.
She glared for a long moment at Maud and Beatrice then allowed her fierce gaze to rove around the room. “Fighting is reason enough for dismissal or punishment.”
Dismissal for paid workers, some form of punishment for indentured servants like Annabel.
Mistress Eustacia went on in a hoarse voice that, though quiet, reverberated off the stone walls. “Shocked at your behavior, I am. You sound like a bunch of half-drunk men with your talk. Have you no shame, speaking of your lord that way?”
Maud looked down at her hands, but Beatrice narrowed her eyes and turned her head to the side, staring defiantly at the wall.
“Some one of you, a few minutes ago, when your lord and master was getting ready for bed, shamelessly came and tried to tempt him.”
Annabel closed her eyes, her stomach sinking.
“Who did this? Who knows?”
Silence.
“Tell me now or tell me later, but when I find out who it was, that maid will be punished.”
A few murmurs of “Yes, Mistress” came from the girls.
“Now every last one of you, to bed. Take a strap to all of you, I will.” Mistress Eustacia’s face glowed red and her large bosom heaved, as though from physical exertion. “It would serve you all a good lesson if the master turns you out and hires from the village girls of Glynval. And tomorrow I will expect you all to work two extra hours” — a few soft groans echoed around the room — “for this misbehavior and disrespect for your own lord. For shame.” She leaned over and blew out the small torch in the iron sconce nearest the door. The maids blew out the remaining candles while Mistress Eustacia watched, hands on her hips. “To bed.” She turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
After a few moments of silence, Annabel heard soft weeping.
“What are you crying for?” a voice whispered loudly.
From the direction of the crying came, “What if she tells Lord le Wyse what we were saying? Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll do to us?”
Instead of reassurances, there was an uneasy silence. Several moments passed and the crying started up again. This time, no one said a thing.
Ranulf walked into the manor house and saw that it was empty.
No, not empty. A woman stood in the corner, her back to him. She wore a beautiful silk dress of deep red, her hair covered by a gold-embroidered coif.
His feet moved slowly, as if weighed down, as he was compelled to go to her.
She turned and Ranulf saw her face. “Guinevere.”
A baby rested in her arms, and her lips were set in that familiar, cold smile. She held the baby out toward him, but he realized the infant was strangely pale, even gray. Dead.
Guinevere began to laugh, a sinister sound that sent a chill down his back. She laughed as though mocking him, a noise he’d heard often. She threw the baby at him. He tried to catch the child, but his arms wouldn’t move fast enough. But instead of falling to the ground, the baby disintegrated into dust and blew out the open window.
His wife continued to laugh at him. Then she sneered. “No one could ever love you. Look at you. You’re hideous.” She lunged toward him, her silk dress glimmering in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Her hands wrapped around his neck and she began choking him, pressing hard against his throat. He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t seem to lift his hands to fight her. He was suffocating, hurting, dying.
Ranulf opened his eyes and gasped. His own hand was at his throat, and he realized he’d been dreaming.
He swallowed, his throat sore, as if Guinevere had truly been choking him. He could see his wife’s eyes as she attacked him, bloody and animallike, and he shuddered.
Will I ever be free from this nightmare? Free from the hold she has over me? Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. He flung them away angrily. Even in death, she had the power to make him feel like he was repulsive.
Chapter
6
When Sunday came, Annabel put on her best dress and tied her white-linen covering around her hair. With the rest of the servants, she headed down the lane toward the square tower of the old stone church, just visible over the trees. Each member of the lord’s household was required to attend Mass every Sunday, unless they could prove, or successfully feign, sickness.
The small parish church was the most noteworthy building in Glynval, but was naught in comparison to the abbey churches and cathedrals in and around London. Nevertheless, the maidens all grew quiet as they entered the high-ceilinged nave, genuflected, and crossed themselves. Then they each found a spot to kneel.
As Annabel knelt to pray, she pictured herself in St. Paul’s Cathedral, with its beautiful stained glass windows depicting various biblical stories. She almost believed she was there — until she opened her eyes and beheld the stark gray walls and the one murky mural over the chancel arch, featuring the devil and his demons casting people into hellfire.
The bells began to ring and Annabel bowed her head and prayed silently, thanking God for the day’s respite from work, for Mistress Eustacia’s kindness to her, and for Lord le Wyse not punishing her for breaching his privacy. She hoped from now on she could keep her distance from him and remain unnoticed in the large crowd of servants.
The parish priest, Sir Matefrid, plodded down the aisle, a crucifix in one hand, his censer in the other. He wore a long velvet robe, the same one he wore every Sunday, with a chain around his neck that hung so low the attached crucifix rested on his protruding belly. His face bore no wrinkles and very little gray sprinkled his brown hair, but the way he stooped gave him the appearance of a much older man.
Annabel’s heart beat faster as she watched him, thinking of the question she would to put to him after Mass. O Father God, please let him say yes. r />
Sir Matefrid had barely reached the front of the sanctuary when Lord le Wyse strode in, bowed toward the altar, and, without looking up, took his place with the rest of the kneelers just to Annabel’s left. Unable to curb her curiosity, her eyes devoured his richly embroidered waistcoat, trimmed in crimson velvet, and his crisp white sleeves. The ornate clothing did not surprise her, but his behavior once he was kneeling did. He clasped his hands, his eyes shut, his lips moving silently in prayer. His brow furrowed in concentration as he leaned forward, looking truly humble.
Glancing around, Annabel saw nearly everyone she knew, including Stephen, who knelt beside his mother. Adam stood, fidgeting restlessly beside his father, while Gilbert talked with one of the masonry workers. Margery knelt nearby, but her much-older husband, the miller, was not beside her, as he rarely ever graced the small church with his presence. Margery was whispering intently with two other maidens. Annabel watched them for a moment as they hid a laugh behind a hand or yawned and looked around.
Hardly anyone, besides Lord le Wyse, even pretended to pray.
The priest took his place before the altar and the boys of the choir began to sing a plainsong hymn in Latin. Thanks to her father’s teaching, she was able to translate the words in her head, in spite of the choirboys’ bad pronunciation.
O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
Annabel thought the chorus rather ironic, since no one looked the least like they were actually rejoicing. Some appeared solemn, including Lord le Wyse, who stared straight ahead.