Fairy Tale Romance Collection

  “I herded the sheep out the back door. One ewe lamb was frightened, however, and wouldn’t come out, and so I went in to get her. Even then she wouldn’t let me lead her. I had to pick her up and carry her. On the way out, some burning thatch fell on my arm and burned away my sleeve.” He said dryly, “So you see what a hero I am.” For the second time in my life.

  “Hero? I’m not familiar with this word.”

  “’Tis from the Greek, a word meaning someone with great strength and courage. Someone who protects and defends.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed.” She put the cloth aside and reached for the flask. “Indeed, you are a hero. I like this word hero.”

  She was so beautiful and seemed so unaware of it. The wisps of blonde hair danced around her pink-tinted cheeks just as he had captured them in his painting. But even more devastating than her physical beauty were the glimpses he had seen of her heart and soul.

  God help him.

  “So what did you do? How did you put out the fire on your arm?”

  He stretched out his right hand, palm up.

  She gasped. “Oh, my lord, you should have told me.” Before he knew what she was about to do, she took his unmangled hand and plunged it into the bucket of clean water. She stuck her other hand in and began to rub his palm to clean it, since it was black with soot and ashes. The hand was not badly burned, and he struggled to steel himself against the sensations spreading through him from her massaging fingers.

  She pulled his hand out. “No blisters. That is good.” Then she began dabbing it dry with a clean cloth.

  She turned her attention back to his badly burned arm. She picked up the flask and poured honey over the blisters. The thick, golden liquid felt cool and soothing, sending a chill up his arm and across his shoulders.

  “How did the fire start?” she said.

  “I don’t know, but our entire barley and oat crop is gone, I’m sorry to say. It is a tragedy, especially because of the severity of this drought. By God’s grace we still have the wheat supply in the smaller barn.” The wheat by rights belonged exclusively to him, but he couldn’t let the villagers starve. He resolved to buy enough barley and oats to last the village through the winter.

  A worried furrow creased her brow. “Surely no one would have deliberately set the fire.” She took his hand and poured honey over his palm, rubbing it in with her finger.

  He pulled his hand away. She looked up in surprise.

  He shook his head. “That isn’t necessary. The hand isn’t badly burned.”

  Annabel stared at him a moment. “I’m sorry. Let me clean it off.” She picked up the wet cloth, but he took it from her.

  “I can do it.”

  “Of course.”

  After he finished, she began loosely wrapping his blistered forearm with a strip of cloth.

  The pain seemed to intensify as she did so. “It is a severe burn, my lord. You must allow either me or Mistress Eustacia to inspect it every day and continue applying the honey.”

  She took another cloth and wet it in the bucket. Then she leaned forward and wiped his forehead.

  Surprised by the action, he started back and examined her face. He could see from her expression that wiping his face did not embarrass her.

  Because she feels nothing for me, nothing a sister wouldn’t feel for a brother, or a servant for her lord. She reached out to wipe his right cheek, but he took the cloth from her and wiped his own face.

  For a few moments — when she said she’d been searching for him — he’d wondered if her feelings for him were deeper, more tender than was appropriate. But no. She felt only the natural compassion and concern she would have felt for an animal — the same emotion he’d felt for the sheep in the barn.

  “I’ll get you something for the pain. I believe I have some chamomile in the bag I brought from home.”

  “Nay. Pray have someone fetch another bucket of water. That is all I require.” Dawn was beginning to show a gray glow at the windows.

  She held his gaze for a moment then curtsied. “Yes, my lord.”

  As he watched her leave, the pain in his arm seemed to spread all through him, giving him a headache. The pain was intense, but as he closed his eyes, he couldn’t stop remembering the sweetness of her expression, the kindness of her words and actions … the gentleness of her touch.

  His chest constricted painfully. He was a fool.

  Annabel only managed to take a short nap before she was needed in the kitchen. When she stepped out into the manor courtyard, it seemed the entire village was milling there, staring at the smoking ashes and blackened walls of the barn. A sad sight indeed, weighing her down with a feeling of dread. The tragedy of the fire had ignited emotions, and angry grumblings emerged from the throat of more than one villager. Annabel could understand why. They’d all helped with the harvest, even Annabel’s family for once, and every family was to get a share of the harvest. Now all their hard work would yield them nothing.

  Stephen broke away from the crowd and came toward Annabel. He said quietly, so no one else could hear, “Bailiff Tom is saying that this is the work of a curse, that someone has brought a scourge to our village.”

  Stephen’s words made the back of her neck prickle. There had been ugly talk when Annabel was a small child about a curse on Glynval, started when frost killed all their spring crops and their grain harvest was ruined by drought. Some had pointed fingers at Stephen, who was barely six years old. Because of his twisted body and the odd way he walked, some people were afraid of him, afraid he was cursed. Even though she had been young, she remembered her terror for her friend.

  Annabel felt ill. “I hope nobody is listening to him.”

  “I hope not, either.” Stephen brushed his blond hair out of his eyes.

  “Who does he say brought the curse?” she whispered. “He isn’t saying it outright, but I believe he means Lord le Wyse.”

  Annabel felt her mouth go dry. “That’s terrible.”

  “I know.” Stephen stared thoughtfully across the yard of the manor house, his face deceptively calm and peaceful.

  “Perhaps I should tell Lord le Wyse, warn him.”

  “I don’t think you should get involved.” Stephen’s expression changed to concern as he looked at her. “Lord le Wyse can take care of himself. He’s wealthy and powerful, and the people he brought with him from Lincoln are very loyal to him. No, you shouldn’t say anything. He might blame the messenger.”

  Perhaps Stephen was right. Lord le Wyse was rather unpredictable. Who knew how he might react to the news?

  With a final nod, Stephen walked away to begin his day’s work, while Annabel went to help Mistress Eustacia with the morning meal.

  As the manor staff and castle builders sat down in the upper hall, a little later than usual, to break their fast, impassioned discussions arose over the cause of the fire. As she listened to the various theories, Annabel hated to think that someone in the demesne, including the workers gathered at this table, would have set the fire deliberately. Surely it had been an accident, as some men suggested. Annabel heard Beatrice spout, “But whether accident or no, whoever did this should be banished from Glynval. We’ll have to survive on thin pea gruel this winter, if we survive at all, thanks to the scoundrel who started that fire.”

  Their situation was dire. Most lords would simply let them starve, but Annabel didn’t believe Lord le Wyse would allow that. She hoped he would find a way to get more grain.

  If only they could have the kind of faith she had read about in the Bible. Of course they should leave their doubts behind and trust God, but ever since the Great Pestilence had killed a third of the people of Glynval, the ones who were left seemed determined to blame God. She’d heard them speak of it many times. They believed God was a cold, unfeeling Sovereign who inflicted suffering on people arbitrarily. Their distrust and hopelessness did not bode well for her village.

  Annabel looked over the morning’s kitchen duties, hers to tend until Mistress Eust
acia returned from settling an argument between two servant girls. From the chastisement coming from outside the door, Annabel realized she could be alone for some time.

  Suppressing a sigh, she stirred the frumenty with a wooden paddle then swung the pot back over the fire so it would continue to cook. There, the worst is done. Now for the sweeping. She lifted her arm to wipe the sweat that had beaded above her lip and saw that Lord le Wyse stood just inside the door. Her heart fluttered, she supposed from seeing him so unexpectedly.

  “Mistress Eustacia sent me to have my bandage changed.” He looked disgruntled.

  She adjusted the pot so that it wasn’t directly over the fire then wiped her hands on her apron.

  He sat down impatiently on the bench against the wall.

  Annabel rummaged through the shelves until she found a container of honey and some bandages, smiling to herself at his reluctant compliance. Then she took the cloth bag of comfrey leaves Mistress Eustacia had sent someone to pick.

  Lord le Wyse’s appearance was as sophisticated and tidy as she’d ever seen. His dark hair and beard were neatly trimmed, any minor singes from the flames gone. Not the smallest smudge of soot could be seen anywhere on his face, and he wore a crisp white shirt and bright blue velvet waistcoat that smelled of fresh air and dried lavender. Her lord was quite proper in his elegance. If only he would shave off his beard, he’d look positively noble.

  “One would never guess you were a hero last night.”

  “What do you mean?” He sounded irritable and his eye was narrowed. But the harshness of his voice no longer intimidated her as much as it once had.

  “I only meant that you don’t look at all like you did a few hours ago, when you rescued that lamb. You look as if you might be on your way to the king’s court in London.”

  “True. I’ve seen the king’s court, and there are no heroes there.”

  Her lips twitched with an involuntary smile, but instead of smiling back, Lord le Wyse deepened his frown. Annabel could see his mood was dark, probably because of the pain in his arm, and perhaps worry over the fire.

  She stood before him and began to unwrap his bandage carefully. His arm was raw, and blistered over a section a little wider than her hand. She winced. It had oozed watery blood, soaking the bandage in a few spots. She grabbed a pitcher of fresh water and a bucket and slowly poured it over his forearm. He sat unflinching, watching first her hands, then her face from his heavy-lidded eye. She dried his arm and poured more honey over it, placed some crushed comfrey leaves on top, then wrapped it with a clean bandage.

  As she worked, a thought occurred to her, and she asked quietly, “Would the king’s coroner investigate a fire like ours, to see if he could discover how it was set and if someone did it deliberately?” She knew the coroner was in charge of investigating deaths, though she had heard of him investigating other matters as well.

  “The coroner of this shire is a friend of mine. I have sent for him for just that purpose. However,” he said, fixing his eye intently on her face, his tone becoming harsher, “I don’t wish for the whole village to know of this, so you are not to tell.”

  “Of course not, my lord. I won’t say a word.”

  As she wrapped the bandage around his arm, his attention suddenly seemed arrested by her hand. He watched her with a new alertness, then grabbed her hand and turned it over to stare at the underside of her wrist.

  There on her pale skin was the bruise the bailiff had inflicted on her the day he cornered her inside the butcher shop. The bruise was the size of Bailiff Tom’s thumbprint, dark blue, with a slight green tinge in the middle.

  “How did you get this?” Lord le Wyse demanded.

  Her face went hot. She didn’t want to tell him, although she didn’t know why she should feel ashamed. It was the bailiff who should feel ashamed.

  He tightened his grip on her hand. “Tell me the truth,” he growled. “Did someone hurt you?”

  She swallowed, trying to gather her courage. “Bailiff Tom did it.”

  “When?”

  “Just before he shoved me into the street the day you almost ran me over with your horse.” She bit her lip, hoping he wouldn’t take offense.

  She became quite aware that he was still holding her hand, and she hadn’t finished with his bandage. His hand was warm, his palm slightly rough, his skin dark against her much lighter complexion. A cold fear was beginning in the pit of her stomach when he abruptly let go of her.

  She quickly finished wrapping his bandage and tied it securely.

  “What else did he do to you that day?” Lord le Wyse rasped in a strangled tone.

  “He held me against my will, threatened me, and told me I should marry him.”

  “Has he hurt you any other time?”

  “When I was doing laundry, he held me down, as you saw.” She chose not to tell him about the bailiff trying to kiss her in the butcher shop. She couldn’t think about it without feeling ill. Would Lord le Wyse blame her for the way the bailiff tried to force himself on her?

  “I never did anything to make him think I’d marry him,” Annabel said quickly, feeling compelled to explain. “I never thought of him as anything but my father’s friend. I never imagined he was having … thoughts about me. Well, after I saw him looking at me a few times, I realized … but never before that, and I never tried to do anything to — “

  “I don’t approve of the bailiff,” he said, interrupting her, “or anyone else, laying hands on you. If it happens again, you are to tell me of it immediately, and I will get rid of him and find a new bailiff. In fact, I’ll throw him out now.”

  “Nay, please don’t do that. Everyone would hate me if I caused the bailiff to lose his place.” Besides, he’d be so angry, he’d find some way to revenge himself on her, she was sure.

  Lord le Wyse had looked pale as she worked on his burn, a sign that he was suffering more than he pretended, but now his face was flushed.

  Her heart clenched strangely in her chest at the look on his face. “I will tell you if it happens again. I think he will leave me alone now that you have spoken with him.”

  “Very well.”

  Chapter

  9

  Mistress Eustacia, who was fully capable of changing Lord le Wyse’s bandage, asked Annabel to perform the task that night after the evening meal. Annabel was a bit suspicious of Eustacia’s intentions, and worse, she was afraid the lord was suspicious too, but she had to obey. She only prayed Lord le Wyse wasn’t having thoughts about her like Bailiff Tom, or even Gilbert Carpenter.

  The thought was so unnerving that she kept her eyes down and said nothing while she sat on a low stool before him and unwrapped his bandage. She bathed his burns in cold water again, poured more honey over the wound, and began rewrapping his arm, inadvertently brushing his leg with her hand.

  “I beg your pardon,” she murmured.

  “You must be tired. You don’t have to read tonight if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh, I want to.” She looked up and met his eye, then quickly looked down. “That is, if you wish it.”

  When she finished re-bandaging his arm, he got up and retrieved the Bible. As he handed it to her, their hands touched. She pretended not to notice, not wanting to react the way Beatrice would have reacted if her hand accidentally touched Lord le Wyse’s. It was more sad than amusing, the way Beatrice tried so hard to get the lord’s attention, as Lord le Wyse obviously didn’t seek or enjoy the maid’s attempt at flirting. Annabel actually empathized with him.

  She began to read and came to the story about the sinful woman who washed Jesus’s feet with her tears. At the end of the story, Jesus said, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

  How wonderful to know that Jesus didn’t condemn women like the priest did. Even with a sinful woman, he didn’t rant about how evil she was. He forgave her and said kind words to her. If only Sir Matefrid could read this! How different his sermons would be.

  Ranulf was hardly listening as the
girl read. He couldn’t take his mind off the bruise on her wrist and the way he’d felt when he saw it, thinking about the bailiff hurting her. He didn’t want to sympathize with her; he wanted to believe she had encouraged the bailiff’s advances. But if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t believe that. At the same time, he felt like a fool for thinking well of this servant who was young and beautiful — indeed, for thinking of her all.

  He tried to concentrate on her lively voice as she continued with the next parable.

  A twinge of conscience hit him when she read Jesus’s words, “My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice.” He felt another twinge when Jesus asked, “Where is your faith?” after calming the storm. But he refused to think about why.

  When she read the account of the demon-possessed man whom Jesus healed, again Jesus’s words were like a hot iron on his heart. “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” He was becoming more and more uncomfortable with the girl’s lilting voice. What was wrong with him tonight? Usually the Bible made him feel peaceful. Now it seemed to reach right into his soul with one hand and squeeze his throat with the other.

  She came to the story where Jesus healed a woman with an issue of blood. Jesus said, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.” Peace. Where was his peace? For that matter, where was his healing? Before he could recover, she was reading the account of Jesus accompanying Jairus to his home, where his daughter had just died. Jesus said, “Don’t be afraid; just believe, and she will be healed.”

  All at once it was as if a voice was saying to him, You are afraid. Just believe and I will heal you.

  Ranulf’s thoughts stilled as he pondered those words.

  Was he afraid? And would God heal his scars? He hated his scars because of what they had cost him — his wife’s love. But even if his hand had been whole and his face and body completely unscarred, she still would have rejected him.

  Besides, his conscience told him it wasn’t a physical healing he needed.