Maid Marian (26 page)

A
FTER THAT DAY
I found myself sliding into the confidences I had longed for. The incident over the candied fruits had raised my worth in Lady Pernelle’s eyes from that of a mongrel to a hunting spaniel. Where before I had been a useless cleaner of linens and drapes, I was now a source for consultation, a woman who’d seen the insides of houses much greater than hers and who might advise the lady on the most critical points of style. What tapestry should be hung in the hall? What hairstyles were lately the most in fashion? Should young Stephen wear red hose with his ermine and velvet, or would the green be more becoming? All these questions I answered for her, confident that my knowledge of Warwick’s ways had not faded so much as to ruin my good sense.

The bishop’s visit was a great success, from the well-laid table to the luxurious furs we placed in the chapel to ease penitent knees, and the greatest portion of the credit for it was owed to me. Lady Pernelle said nothing in thanks, of course, but from that time on I was indispensable—exactly what I had hoped to become.

In the week before I had spent so much time searching markets for citron that I missed Clym’s visit and returned one night to find him waiting outside the manor walls, afraid to arouse suspicion by entering. Together we wandered off a pace to hold a hasty conversation, and from him I learned that Robin was safely entrenched in Denby and was nearing Sir Thomas’s well-fed heart by rising within the ranks of the kitchen. This made me laugh, for Robin had always been skilled at the fire, and I could too well imagine how he might become the favorite of the manor hearth. He would please them all, I was certain, from the lord to the dairy maids, and in the space of a month I was sure Sir Thomas would be ready to call him his most prized possession.

During these weeks at Sencaster Manor, I’d searched each chamber of my heart to seek out and soothe the ill feeling I bore this purported love between Clym and Annie. And, sadly, in the dark pit nearest my ribs and spine, I discovered the rank air of jealousy. For who had Annie to love but me? Did she not wish to save for me her every attention, her every kind word? I listened close to the peevish voice that asked these questions and resolved that I must hush it completely. Surely I could not allow such a mean spirit to live in my heart. I must embrace—nay, encourage—this romance for the joy it brought and not be overrun by my petty selfishness.

So I cautiously asked Clym how she did and if he’d become acquainted with her family, and I heard in return such a glowing report that it made me blush at my own hard feelings. Everything in his air and manner told me so plainly that he loved her that I shook my head at having been blind to the signs before. And as he told me of Annie’s words, of things she had done and what she had said, I begrudgingly saw the chance of love there, on her side too, and forced myself into an air of false joy.

I reported to Clym how my work went, but sadly had little of interest to tell him, for all that seemed to occur in Sencaster was preparation and care of noble guests. But he passed no judgment, merely took my message and bid me adieu, trekking away into the darkness to bear my words to my bold outlaw.

A
S FORTUNE WAS KIND,
June brought me closer still to the household, particularly to young Stephen, who by this time so resembled Hugh as to give me a start nearly each time we met. I doubt I had seen him since he passed nine years old, and he’d changed so by now that I’d scarcely have matched the child’s face to the one he now wore. These days he walked proudly, a tall lad of fifteen, young enough still to race in for supper, but old enough to take an interest in the affairs of Sencaster and his mother’s decisions.

Stephen had a great love of the hunt, and warm June weather took him often to the hills to chase about with his pack of dogs and return loaded down with limp harts and coneys. His mother encouraged him in this pursuit, but it wasn’t until the weather turned poor, during an odd bout of summer storms, that I came to see the reason why.

Lady Pernelle did all she could to keep Stephen from her court in the day, for he was just of an age and temperament that he had begun to question her judgment and add his opinions to cases before her. If a farmer came forward to speak for his land, stating the steward had been cheating him, Stephen was apt to side with the farmer while his mother, invariably, took the steward’s cause. If the sheriff presented a criminal slated for the gallows, Stephen would hear the poor man’s case while she gripped the arms of her chair with rancor. Stephen’s very veins seemed thick with independence and he turned a critical, discerning eye on every problem placed before him. These were matters of temper and spirit which drove his dear mother into fits of rage.

I was brought running from my stitching table, one dreary day, by such howls and shrieks that I thought Lady Pernelle must be dying. But I found her, rather, facing her son, her cheeks all drawn with spite and anger, reaching out to throttle his neck. Stephen was the stronger of the two by far, and as her hands neared his face, he grasped them roughly and pushed them away. So easily did he manage it that he threw his mother to a greater rage, and she shouted out words I’d not heard before, harsh-sounding French words that were new to me but made me blush all the same.

He took it all staunchly with a firm face, saying nothing, but looking at her with a steady gaze that made her fury boil even hotter. This battle went on for several long minutes until at last the lady crumpled, exhausted, like the angry bee who stings and dies. Stephen stomped out to make a nuisance of himself in the stables.

I soon found that this was common behavior whenever Stephen attended court, which he did at the first hint of rain. In fact, the household had learned to react with marvelous swiftness, so that while the lady still stewed internally, the clerks cleared the hall and blocked every door so no stranger could witness the family brawl. Servants and clerks then prepared to jump forward in case they were needed to defend their lady or their young master, for each was an equally valuable possession in the eyes of Sencaster.

Stephen’s actions puzzled me somewhat, for he needn’t go to the court, of course. He could while away these rainy days in some quiet pursuit that would keep his mother in her right frame of mind and save his neck from strangulation. But he seemed unable to keep away. He was drawn to the court by some unnatural force—this I know, for I watched him one day as he moped in the kennels, vainly seeking entertainment there.

He greeted the hounds and checked their feet, but when the dogs turned to their morning meal, his own paws carried him back to the yard where he stared many minutes at the manor house front. What was he thinking? I could not know, but in a resolute moment of decision, he passed through the door and went for the court where he lasted an hour, or perhaps two, before the wild howls were heard again.

His actions intrigued me, and I longed for a chance to speak with him, for who would know better the ebb and flow of this court but the very son and heir? But serving girls have little reason to speak to the young master, and so I was forced to bide my time and keep my eyes on my embroidery.

At last one day my moment came. I happened to hear him speaking in the halls with his young companion, the bailiff’s son, who was being raised at Sencaster Manor. Stephen was talking most vividly of his desire to learn the quarterstaff. It seemed his battle masters considered the staff too common a weapon to teach the young lord, and they tried to content him with new swords and pikes, but Stephen was stubborn. He wished to learn that style of fighting that he had seen at the Nottingham fair, and of this he complained vigorously to his friend. I stole along the hall behind them and when the bailiff’s boy had gone, I slipped nearer to where Stephen stood.

“I could teach you the quarterstaff, Master Stephen,” I said, looking as serious as I could so he would not think I mocked him.

“You? What, you, a serving girl, can fight with the quarterstaff?”

“I had a superb teacher,” I said, with mock humility.

“But girls don’t fight. Everyone knows that.” His face, sadly, sank for a moment into youthful obstinacy.

“I had not thought, Master Stephen, that you were the sort of young lord who accepted things for what they appeared. Don’t you wish to test me, to see if I lie?”

“Yes,” he said cautiously, his face brightening a bit. “When can you show me?”

We arranged to meet when Lady Pernelle was at prayers that day, a time when neither of us would be missed. I bade him find time in the morning hours to trim us two stout crab-apple staffs. Then I bounded off to my work at the linens, fearful, always, of being caught.

S
TEPHEN WAS WAITING
in the empty stable when I arrived, a place we’d chosen for its solid roof and privacy, for it was rarely used but for storage. I examined his staffs and, taking up each, wrapped the ends with some lengths of wool I had brought with me. I’d no desire to have my head knocked and, even worse, feared what might become of me if I tapped Stephen’s pate too hard. Once finished, I began with patience to teach him as Robin had taught me, beginning slowly with simple strikes, then adding on theories of balance and footwork.

From time to time we stopped to rest, and Stephen, at last, grew talkative, loosened perhaps by the warmth of our fight and the realization that my claim had been true.

“Tell me, Kate, who is this mysterious master of yours? For truly, you are more adept with the cudgel than some of the men I saw fight in Manchester.”

“That I cannot reveal, Sir Stephen, for you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me!” he pestered, smiling and cajoling. “Is he a man of Sencaster? Does he fight in the fairs? Perhaps I’ve seen him.”

“Nay,” I laughed, shaking my head, “I won’t be telling, and you won’t trick me into it by asking all manner of foolish questions. You cannot play me as you play your mother, Master Stephen.”

“No one plays my mother,” he said grimly, standing so we might parry once more. “She is to be obeyed and not questioned.”

“By her servants, perhaps,” I said, raising my staff. “But you seem most ready to risk her anger.”

Stephen was quiet for a long moment, perhaps to concentrate on my staff, for I did bash his shoulder a time or two. At last I gave him a more routine task, blocking the same strike over again, and he found the breath to express his thoughts.

“Do you know that I had a brother?”

“Nay, I did not,” I said, lying as smoothly as I could.

“Aye, Sir Hugh was my older brother. He’s dead now.”

“That’s a pity,” I said, looking more sorrowful than I truly felt. “You must miss him.”

Stephen shrugged and seemed to put more energy to his blocks than he had before. “I never knew him well,” he said. “When he was alive he lived in Anjou, so I only saw him once or twice a year.”

I hated to press him on this further, for I’d glimpsed the boy’s fragile heart beneath his stern adult facade, and I knew it remained quite close to his surface. But I have never been good at dropping a notion once I thought it had merit, so I steeled my arms for more vicious blows and spoke clearly through the dusty air.

“How did he die?”

My steeled arms were all for naught. Stephen heard my words and stopped, feigning exhaustion so he might sit down.

“I do not know. Mother said he ate a meal meant for someone else and that it had been poisoned. But ’tis odd, that, for Hugh was particular over what he ate and was cautious above all else. He and my mother used to battle as we do, you know,” he said contentedly, as if the fact that his brother had done it before him made it less shameful. “At times I thought she might kill him, she’d whip herself into such a frenzy.”

“Do you know what they fought about?” I asked with caution, for I feared the moment when Stephen would realize he oughtn’t tell family tales to a servant.

“Oh, yes. Hugh had plans for the Sencaster lands that my mother didn’t approve. He wanted more fairs—he loved tournaments—and planned all manner of change and upheaval. I remember, the last time I saw him here, he told my mother in a fit of rage that he’d have her locked away in a convent if she continued to stand in his way. He said she could rot there for all he cared and live out her fading years solitary and impotent. I recall laughing at it at the time, for ’twas clear as he said it that he would be the one to find peace and solitude if mother were sent to a convent. But she went into such a temper that she almost died herself of the shakes after she’d gone for Hugh a dozen times. I thought one of them would have been done in for sure.”