The Merchant's Daughter (8 page)

“But what of his scars?” Beatrice’s shrill voice rose about the laughter. “Aren’t you curious to see how extensive” — she lingered over the word
extensive
— “they are?”

Laughter echoed throughout the large room, and Annabel pressed her hands over her ears to keep out their banter as they discussed the possibilities.

How could they speak so of their lord, and he only one floor above them?

She could take no more of their talk. And besides that, she didn’t think she could fall asleep until she visited the privy. Annabel quietly slipped from her bed, and after putting her dress back on, hurried across the room and out the door. She shut it behind her with a sigh of relief at escaping the group’s notice.

The dark silhouette of trees surrounded her, alongside the manor house and a few outbuildings illuminated by the moon. Standing still to listen, she heard only the faintest rustling sounds around her. She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt her knife.

She turned and rushed through the trees, down the newly worn path to the women’s privy. Holding her breath as she hurried, almost running, her gaze darted around in search of any perceptible movement. She made it to the small wooden building and shut herself inside.

When she came out of the privy, she looked around again. Nothing moved and there were no ominous sounds, only a frog croaking in the distance. She began walking back along the path, wrapping her arms around herself, feeling the cool night air on her face.

Annabel dreaded going back into the undercroft with the other maids. But not wanting to be caught outside alone by anyone — especially the bailiff — she walked steadily toward the manor house.

She then noticed someone coming through the trees — not along the path toward her, but far to her right. She froze. The form was too tall to be any woman she knew. Had he seen her? Annabel ducked behind a large oak and watched.

The figure wandered among the trees, veering away from her into the thick of the forest. She was fairly certain now that the figure was Lord le Wyse, based on his height and his build. She started to sidle quietly away, hoping he wouldn’t hear or see her. Then he fell to his knees on the ground.

Is he hurt? Does he need help?
Perhaps she should go get Mistress Eustacia.

Before she could rush away, he bent forward and moaned as though from deep inside. The sound grew, raw and wrenching, until it became a howl. Then he bowed lower and was still.

Was he sick? Somehow she sensed his pain was not physical. She watched and listened, but he didn’t move.

The silence seemed to weigh on her shoulders. She wanted to get away before her lord saw her, as he clearly wished to be alone, but she was afraid of making a noise and drawing his attention.

Her legs were beginning to cramp with fatigue, impelling her to take a step toward the manor house. Her foot landed on a twig and it snapped with a loud crack.

She stopped and held her breath, watching Lord le Wyse’s bent body. After several frozen minutes, she tried again. When she stepped back onto the path, this time her footfall made no sound. She walked carefully until she reached the clearing and the manor house. Darting inside the undercroft, she hurried to her bed.

The room was quiet except for the heavy breathing of sleep. Annabel got undressed and crawled under her sheets. But when she closed her eyes, Lord le Wyse’s anguished body posture and groans haunted her.
What caused him such pain?

As she pondered her lord’s actions, a loneliness settled over her as a burden in her chest. Even though she was in a room full of people, an occurrence she had rarely ever experienced before, she had never felt so alone. She tried not to think about how hurt she felt by her mother’s and brothers’ treatment of her. She pushed the thoughts away, but they stubbornly returned, until
the tears streamed from her eyes and she was hard-pressed to keep silent.

The next morning the clouds hung low, threatening rain, as Annabel carried a bucket of water into the kitchen, setting it down beside the stone hearth. Mistress Eustacia gave her a sharp look.

“Are you well? Your eyes are puffed up as though bees have stung you.”

“I am well, Mistress.” Annabel shook her head and turned her face away, not wishing to confess the true cause of her puffy eyes.

After last night, she was startled to see Lord le Wyse at the head of the table, his usual place. He seemed in a wretched temper throughout the morning meal, however, grunting or snapping at anyone who spoke to him. His hair was brushed back off his forehead and he looked haggard, his pallor heightened by the dark circles under his eyes.

Terrified of drawing his wrath, she filled his cup, her hand trembling lest she should spill anything upon him. Mercifully, he ignored her, and she accomplished the task and moved on. Throughout the meal, however, she found herself glancing in his direction, but he showed no sign that he had seen her the night before.

After the maidservants, carpenters, and stone masons had broken their fast, they all dispersed to their various tasks. Annabel headed toward her mistress.

The older woman sighed heavily and wiped her face with her apron. “I’m off to the kitchen to prepare the midday victuals. Annabel, I need you to set to rights the upper hall. Sweep and strew new rushes and straw — that’s a good lass.”

The upper hall was now completely deserted. Annabel went to work ridding the room of the old rushes that had lost their freshness, as well as the dirt tracked in by all the workers coming in for their meals. She cleaned the entire room except for the screened-off section where Lord le Wyse slept.

She hesitated. Should she find Mistress Eustacia and ask if she was allowed to clean behind his screen, in her lord’s sleeping quarters? She would waste time going out to the kitchen to speak with her, and it seemed too trivial for that. Besides, she wanted to show Eustacia she was competent and eager to do a thorough job. Lord le Wyse was outside supervising the building work; he could be gone for hours, or he could come back at any time. What would he say if he caught her in his private area? Annabel glanced at the door and shook her head. Surely she would hear the door open and could scurry away before he saw her.

Resolute, Annabel rounded the corner of the screen. She swept around the bed and tried not to look at anything. She intended to simply finish her sweeping and move on, but her gaze was arrested by three painted pictures that were propped against the wall. They were similar enough that she guessed they were all created by the same artist. She continued with her sweeping and tried to stare down at the floor, but her eyes kept flitting to the paintings. Finally she stopped her work and bent to examine them.

The first illumination depicted a dead woman lying on a wooden bier. Around her stood many people, but they were all looking away from her, at a baby lying on a similar, smaller bier. The child was swaddled and its eyes were closed, its tiny fists resting against its chest.

The next one portrayed a group of skeletons smiling maniacally, holding up tankards as if in a toast. Behind the skeletons stood several people bent over and weeping into their hands.

Annabel ached for the person who had painted such a scene. The artist’s hurt and sorrow showed in each character, each color choice, each line. The pain-filled paintings brought to mind what she had seen last night in the forest — Lord le Wyse bent over, moaning in anguish. Perhaps these paintings held the answer to the mystery of why he was in so much agony.

The third picture was a wolf snarling at a young woman who, from her plain, ragged dress, was a poor villager or servant.
A young, dark-haired man stood between her and the wolf with an upraised arm, bracing for the wolf’s attack.

Annabel leaned closer. This last image was somehow familiar, and she gasped as she remembered the story the maidens from Lincoln had told the night before about the wolf attack causing Lord le Wyse’s scars.

The sound of footsteps made her realize someone else had entered the room and was walking toward her. She’d been so engrossed in the paintings, she’d barely noticed.

“What are you doing here?” a voice rasped behind her.

Annabel spun around. Her heart leapt into her throat at the fierceness of Lord le Wyse’s tone. His eye was rimmed in red and his jaw muscles twitched as he clenched his teeth. Would he strike her? She shrank back.

“Answer me!” he commanded. “What are you doing?” His dark eye flashed as his words rumbled from deep in his chest. “No one is allowed behind this screen.
No one.
Do you understand?”

She opened her mouth to answer him, but no sound came out.

“Go.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t know,” she mumbled as she stumbled away from him and out of his reach, the broom still clutched in her hand.

As she darted past, she glanced up at his face. A flicker of some inscrutable but intense emotion passed over his features.

She hurried to the corner of the room where she’d left her basket of fresh rushes. Should she leave? Lord le Wyse’s presence in the room was so unnerving, she could hardly breathe.

She snatched up the basket. What else could she do but go on with her work? She grabbed a handful of straw and dried lilac and clumsily strewed the prickly stalks on the flagstones.

Footfalls echoed in the sparsely furnished room. She glanced over her shoulder as Lord le Wyse’s broad back disappeared through the entry and he shut the door behind him.

Annabel leaned against the cold stone wall. She should never have gone into his sleeping area, should never have had the audacity to examine his private things, those paintings. The
memory of his angry face looming over her felt forever embedded in her mind. His lip curled and she saw the flash of white teeth and the rage in his eye.

Would she be punished? She’d wanted only to do her duty and avoid Lord le Wyse. Instead she’d enraged him, the last thing she ever wanted to do.

Chapter
5

Annabel retreated to the hot kitchen as the
rain sprinkled her head. Sitting as far as she could from the huge fireplace and the pungent smell of two pigs roasting on a spit, she and Mistress Eustacia chopped beans and leeks and cabbage. Eustacia commented on how much nicer things would be once the lord’s new home was finished. Annabel murmured a reply, then listened to the rain pattering on the roof and against the shuttered windows.

Lord le Wyse burst through the door.

A puddle formed around his feet, his beard dripped, and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead and temples. His fine linen shirt, alarmingly transparent, clung to his shoulders and arms, revealing muscular upper arms and shoulders.

His eye locked with Annabel’s and she glanced away, uncomfortable with seeing him again, especially in such a disheveled state. She looked down at the cabbage then chanced another glimpse.

He was still looking at her. Her heart thumped painfully against her chest as his eyebrows drew together and his lips parted. What would he say? Would he tell Mistress Eustacia that she’d snooped in his sleeping area when she was supposed to be cleaning? Would her mistress regret making Annabel her helper, thinking her too nosy to be trusted?

But by the look on his face, she actually wondered if he would tell her he was sorry for yelling at her earlier. That was foolish thinking, of course. Lords didn’t apologize to servants.

She ducked her head, trying to concentrate on the cabbage, thankful for the dim light in her corner of the room.

“My lord!” Mistress Eustacia fussed anxiously. “You must get out of those wet things at once. You’ll be sick, perhaps with some deadly fever, and then what will become of the rest of us, says I?”

“Dry clothes … Precisely why I’m here.”

“In your trunk — oh, nay, saints have mercy, your shirts are all here.” Eustacia jumped up, spilling beans and leeks onto the floor. Annabel immediately dropped to her knees to pick them up.

“I shall iron one this minute, this minute, I shall.” Mistress Eustacia went to the basket of clothing she had taken in off the line the day before.