The rest of the dishes had been parcooked, then set aside until the moment he took his seat, to be finished when he finally appeared. They were still roughly made, and hardly seasoned at all, but at least they weren’t burned, stone-cold or half raw. She couldn’t do anything about the wretched cheese or the withered vegetables, but the burned crusts were cut from the bread before it reached the High Table. When Bretagne strolled in, he was presented with rolls and slices of venison and pork along with his ale—this served to signal the start of the meal, and while people were eating bread and meat, the rest of the dishes were finished and brought out in the order in which they cooked.
And if Bretagne didn’t seem to notice the change, she could see that others at his tables did, and were reacting well, casting her glances of approval or sullen glares. The latter she put down in her mind as Ursula’s creatures and probable sources of trouble.
Bretagne stuffed himself and was apparently just as pleased with the somewhat topsy-turvy order of his meal, which had begun with meat instead of soup. He just crammed himself with whatever was presented to him, as he had last night, and swilled vast quantities of his harsh ale. Gwynn got a decent meal, the first since she had left home, kept her eyes cast down, and hoped he would not notice that she had her own cup now, which was filled with the same ale cut with two-thirds water, which made it barely drinkable. The entertainment was much the same as it had been last night—and all through the meal, her dread of what was to follow grew.
But when the last of the dishes had been presented and eaten, Bretagne was engrossed in a cockfight and did not seem disposed to leave. The noise was such that she could not even get his attention, and so she retired without any fanfare—
She just hoped that he wouldn’t be angry with her presumption.
No one else seemed to notice, either—well, except for poor Sir Atremus, whose eyes followed her as she sought the stair on her own. She felt his gaze on her long after she was actually out of sight. When she reached Bretagne’s bedchamber, she took a stone she had left warming on the hearth and shoved it deep in the bed, while icy drafts made the hearth flames dance.
Tonight, however, was not going to be a repetition of her bridal night. She had taken certain precautions to make sure of that. From a certain little sponge steeped in vinegar and herbs deep within her secret places, to keeping her hair bound in its braids, from disrobing entirely, much though she shuddered at the thought of his hands on her, to that little cask of strong spirits she had discovered in the back of one of the storerooms….
That last would be her defense, at least, until her body had hardened itself to his assaults. She had left more herbs steeping in the cask, and now drank down a full goblet of the stuff, which burned like fire and left bitter lees in her cup.
Then she stripped nude, made her other preparations, and clambered quickly into the now warmer bed, where she waited, with the covers pulled up tight to her chin. And by the time he appeared in the door of his chamber, having finally noticed that she was gone, she was well and truly numb, both in body and in spirit.
She lay still and endured his attentions—but, thanks to her drink, with far less pain than the previous night.
And for his part, he was sodden enough with drink that he scarcely noticed, except to mutter curses and call her a “stone” and an “ice bitch” once or twice. And when he was finished, once again he rolled over in all of the blankets, leaving her aching and empty—
And horribly aware of a loneliness that took her entirely by surprise and made her force down tears that she would not shed.
She eased out of bed, gathered her things and, throwing her mantle over her nakedness, climbed the stairs to the solar.
Robin was there already, asleep in the trundle. Now she cleaned herself, donned a warm shift, disposed of the sponge back into its cup of vinegar and herbs, tended the new bruises with wormwood ointment, and climbed wearily into the narrow cupboard bed, to sleep, at long last, the exhausted sleep she had longed for since she had left her father’s house so long ago that it seemed an age and not a fortnight past.
The next morning it was Robin who woke her; then began the work she hoped would occupy her time, if not her mind—returning Clawcrag to something like civilized surroundings.
It was a battle every step of the way, but at least each day saw some gains, in allies if not in progress. Bretagne was probably not aware that she had brought some moneys with her, over and above the dower price and her income, which was, of course, now his. These were dispensed with frugal care and much wrangling to get herbs and seasonings, some variety in foodstuffs, the wherewithal to set up a proper stillroom. These things were not to be had in the village, of course, but somehow word that there was a new bride at Clawcrag had percolated to the countryside. Within two days, there were peddlers packing themselves up to the gate, and if they had herbs and spices, she left orders to let them in. Astonished servants found themselves down in the marshes cutting rushes, out in the meadows gathering the withered remains of lavender and rosemary ahead of the storms of winter. She was busy from rising to sleeping—but not so much so that she failed to notice Atremus or what he was doing for her, quietly, in the background.
When a servant was insolent or refused to obey her orders, if one of the senior servitors had not gotten to the miscreant, she could be sure that Atremus would be delivering a tongue-lashing or even a beating, if the occasion warranted. He saw to it that she was served by armsmen who did so with a good temper, even if it meant replacing them with those assigned by the captain’s orders. By small deeds and careful intervention, he smoothed the way for her, until the results that she had obtained in the comfort level of the keep made everyone sensible of the fact that in obeying her, they increased their own ease. These little gifts of time and effort were like roses strewn at her feet….
By the time her courses came upon her—which, being a sign that she was not with child, relieved her so much that she spent an hour weeping as she had not done until that moment—the old rushes, filthy and greasy and full of garbage, had been cleaned from the Great Hall and replaced, the fireplaces cleaned, the chimneys cleared.
Her time coincided with the first great snowfall of the season, which had the unfortunate consequence of keeping Bretagne from hunting or riding out with his men-at-arms. As the snow piled up on the road, on the walls, and in the court, he glowered at it, and her, as if he thought she was somehow to blame.
He sat in his chair in the Great Hall, drinking from noontide on, looking more and more sullen as the day progressed. She ignored him, going about her duties, though she felt bloated, pallid and ungainly as a toad. At least there were friendlier faces now, even among the men-at-arms; as she had known, better meals won her supporters where soft words would have worked in vain. The hall filled early with men made idle by the snow, and as the storm worsened, the hall grew darker; she signaled for the torches to be lit and more wood to be brought in.
But as she supervised the laying out of the baskets of bread before the evening meal after making sure that the cooks knew there would be no putting back of dishes tonight, Bretagne suddenly came to life. He got to his feet and seized her arm, grabbing her so hard that he left bruises.
“My lord!” she gasped, choking back a whimper of pain. “My lord, what—”
He ignored her, dragging her by main force toward the stairs, and up them. She tried to keep up with him, but he took the stairs two at a time and she could not possibly match that with
her skirts encumbering her, tangling in her legs. In a ghastly echo of her bridal night, she tripped and fell several times, only to be hauled abruptly to her feet and dragged onward.
When they reached his bedchamber, she was hurled inside to land on the hearth as he slammed and barred the door, then turned toward her with a face full of fury.
“Strip!” he shouted. “God’s blood, you puny, puling milksop. If I can’t have some sport out of doors, I’ll have it within, poor amusement though you are!”
“But, my lord—” she whispered. “But—”
With a roar, he picked her up and threw her on the bed, then yanked her skirts over her head.
And that was when he discovered her state.
If he had been angry before, he was in a fury then, and for the first time, he showed what he was truly made of.
“Useless barren bitch!” he howled. “No good for futtering, and can’t even hold a babe in the belly! I’ll teach you—”
And he delivered a blow to the side of her face that knocked her off the bed and onto the floor. The first blow knocked her half senseless, so that she scarcely felt the rest of the beating, which was just as well. She had the wit to remain limp, a dead weight, so that when he tossed her about, she didn’t break any bones. But when he finally wore his fury out, she throbbed and ached from head to toe, her lips were split and swollen, and she couldn’t see out of one swollen eye. His last blow left her sprawled on the bearskin on the hearth, as he stood over her, panting.
She expected him to kill her then, she truly did. But he stared down at her, then abruptly threw open the door. “Out,” he snarled. “Take yourself somewhere I can’t see you. And don’t trouble to be in my bed again until you’re fit to plant seed in.”
She didn’t need to be told twice; she stumbled out of the door and somehow got herself up the stairs to the solar, to fall into her own safe little bed and curl up into a ball of misery and pain.
And Robin, faithful Robin, was at her side before she had begun to gather her wits enough to look for help.
She heard Robin’s firm footsteps and raised herself up to turn toward the door, her vision a blur. Robin’s hands grasped her shoulders and turned her toward the light.
The curse that the maid hissed out would have suited the crudest of stable hands. “A bucket of snow,” she said to someone out of sight in the doorway, and she helped Gwynn to sit up. “What can I do?”
“A cup of my wine.” She managed the words through swollen, split lips. Her head spun; the pain was worse than anything she had ever felt in her life. Robin brought her the bitter, herb-laced wine, and put the cup into her hands; she would have liked to gulp it down but with her lips so swollen and bruised, she had to drink it carefully or it would be wasted, dribbling out of her mouth.
“Now what?” Robin asked as she took the empty cup from Gwynn’s slack hands.
“I’ve the snow,” said an uncertain and profoundly shocked male voice from the door. Gwynn was too far gone in misery to react or she would have been profoundly shamed, for it was Sir Atremus. Oh, she did not want him to see her like this, did not want him to know…
Half of her was afraid he would grow angered and attack Bretagne. Half of her was afraid he would not care….
“Bring it here, and get another,” Robin ordered as briskly as if the knight was a mere servant. “And go to the kitchen and get some soup.”
“I need…to go to bed,” Gwynn said thickly.
“Then let me get you there,” Robin said, and helped her to strip to her shift, then got her under the covers and packed hot stones in with her. She needed those stones, for the next thing that Robin did was to pack the snow in cloths to lay against her swollen, bruised face. Chill warred with warmth as she lay back in her bed, willing her wits to stay with her.
“I’ll kill him,” Robin muttered, bringing her a change of snow packs.
“No,” Gwynn said flatly, forcing each word out between thick and uncooperative lips. “There is no way that we can touch him in the world of men that we can survive. You will not try, I order you not to. Stay out of sight, watch what you say, say nothing as much as possible. I do not want your true nature uncovered. And remember this, revenge is not our right, only justice.”
“Then surely we’ll—” Robin began, “surely now— ”
“Perhaps,” Gwynn replied slowly. “But I do not know. Remember the Threefold Law, Robin. If what we do is not just, it will rebound upon us threefold.”
“At least let us make preparations!” Robin growled, her voice dropping nearly an octave with anger.
“That, we can do,” she conceded, and dabbed at an icy trickle of water from the melting snow. “Tomorrow, Robin, tomorrow. And—beware your voice.”
Robin made a little sound of satisfaction then and confined herself to changing the snow packs, helping Gwynn to eat the soup, and bringing her a second cup of her wine. That second cup had the desired effect of sending her, at last, into aching slumber.
She remained in the solar all the next day; the swelling had gone down in her face, but she was not minded to present herself to the curious gaze of Bretagne’s people. She half expected the business of the keep to go to pieces without her supervision, but to her pleased surprise, a steady trickle of servitors came up to her for orders. These were, by and large, the older servants—the ones that predated Bretagne’s rule, who had served under his mother and father. She made sure to sit with her back to the window, her face in shadow, a glare of light behind her; they kept their eyes purposefully averted. No one wanted to see what Bretagne had done, but they knew, and she knew that they knew, and it shamed all of them.
Robin brought her meals—and one surprise that touched her deeply, for one of the cooks had somehow contrived a dish of custard. Eggs, there were, of course, but for cream, someone would have had to go down to the village, in the snow. Evidently someone had, and she ate the gift, for gift it was, with gratitude.
She spent most of that day, when she wasn’t sleeping or giving servants directions, in a careful mental inventory of what she had brought here beneath the secret bottoms of her chests, and in perusing a small, handwritten, leather-bound book. There were no mirrors in the keep, not even one of polished metal, so only Robin’s descriptions told her how ghastly she looked. At least by the end of that day she was able to see out of both eyes clearly and able to eat something other than custard and soup.
Robin went down for more solid fare at the evening meal and came back with bread, dripping, slices of meat and a dish of apples stewed in honey. And news.
“Ursula,” Robin said crisply, “is in your place.”
“And she may have it,” Gwynn countered. “At board or bed. Wife and lady, she cannot be, which leaves her only—” She shrugged.
“Unless…” Robin said darkly.
“Which is why we will begin with preparations this night. If our cause is just, we will know, and we will be ready.” Gwynn said nothing more, and Robin knew better than to pursue the subject any further.
She ate her meal, with a care when chewing, for her jaw still ached abominably. And then, they waited, waited for the keep to settle for the night, and for everyone—especially those in the room below—to fall asleep.
Only when the last sounds from below had died away
, did she motion to Robin, who got quietly to her feet, moved silently to the door and closed and barred it from within.
Then, together, they moved all of the furniture against the wall—the beds, of course, were built into the wall itself—then cleared the rushes away from the floor, piling them in a heap to one side. Then both chests were opened, the contents set aside, and from the bottom of the first, Gwynn took up a length of black cord. She tied a piece of chalk to one end, and as Robin stood in the middle of the room and held the free end, Gwynn used the chalk to inscribe a nine-foot circle on the stone flags of the floor. Then Gwynn sat down with a mortar and pestle, ingredients from the chest and a mixing bowl.
It was not so much the ingredients, though several of them were uncommon, and probably unobtainable here, as what Gwynn whispered over them that was important….
An hour later she and Robin were on their knees, carefully following the chalk-line, painting in the line of the chalk with a very special paint.
And doing so with extreme care. Robin laid in the first coat; Gwynn followed along behind, making certain that there was not so much as a hairline crack that was not coated with the paint, and whispering under her breath. When it dried, it would be a color just slightly darker than the stone, so that even if someone kicked the rushes aside, it would not be immediately obvious, and yet the outline of the circle would be easy to see when the rushes were taken away. Together they painted the initial round of the circle, then began to widen it, making it a band as wide as her thumb was long, until they used up the last of the paint. They left it for an hour or so to dry, then spread the rushes back over the floor and moved the furnishings back. By morning, when the paint had cured, it would be impossible to take it up without scouring the first layer of the stone away.