Wings of the Storm (14 page)

"Concern for a relative. I see. That's not so strange.

Off with your clothes now."

"No. But when I told him the only Welshwomen who were at Davington came with my granny Rosamunde, he said his kinswoman wasn't Welsh. And when I spoke Welsh to him—I always spoke Welsh with granny Rosamunde—he didn't act as if he understood me. What sort of person doesn't speak his own language?" Sibelle inquired suspiciously. "He laughed and said it was my accent, and that he'd been among the Normans too long. I just think he's very strange." She didn't comment further, as Alais and Marguerite began lifting her voluminous dresses over her head.

When the girl was down to wearing only a thin, threadbare linen shift, Jane, who'd been standing out of the way and digesting Sibelle's comments about Sir Daffyd, took the opportunity to walk around the nearly naked girl.

Sibelle's head followed her as she moved. "I know I've lost weight," she said, smiling. "It helps with all

the walking I have to do. My feet don't hurt all the time anymore."

"I'm glad you've lost weight," Jane told her, pat-ting her shoulder affectionately. "Sir Stephan will be delighted."

Melisande and her half-grown pups wandered into the bower and began sniffing curiously at all the silk laid out on the floor. Berthild pushed them away, then gathered up the material in a heavy armful and carried it into the bedroom, firmly shutting the door on any intrusion by the deerhounds.

Sibelle looked at the tub full of water, then undid the strings fastening the neck of her undershift, sighed like the bravest of martyrs, and let the shift fall to the floor.

She still wasn't perfect, certainly, but her body with its full breasts and girlish ungainliness was showing promise at last. She was going to have a tiny waist by the time Jane was through with her. Jane was willing to bet her hips, even without the extra flesh, were always going to be femininely rounded.

Jane helped her step into the tub. Her women pro-ceeded to bathe her thoroughly and wash her hair while Jane went to pick out a bolt of silk to start the first dress with. Sounds of splashing and laughter came from the bower.

She was pleased with the girl's enjoyment but also felt detached from the activity. For some reason a wave of homesickness was washing over her. Maybe it was just touching the silk. The weave of the cloth felt foreign to her, very different from the hand-loomed cloth she'd been helping the women work with for the household clothes. Maybe it was brought on by the sudden craving for a taste of popcorn.

"Or angel hair pasta with alfredo sauce," she mur-mured with whimsical longing. "Where are Columbus and Marco Polo when you need them?"

Maybe it was Sibelle's curiosity about Daffyd ap Bleddyn's not remembering his native language. Maybe he wasn't what he claimed. She understood about people not being what they claimed. She wouldn't put it past him to really be some peasant boy who'd stolen a dead knight's armor and identity so he could make his own way in the world. She didn't blame him for that; the higher on the food chain, the better the chance of survival.

Maybe it was her own language she missed, the

knowledge that if she spoke English there was no one in the world who would understand what she said.

Not even the Saxons down in the village would be able to make out more than a few English words.

Maybe none; she was having trouble learning their dialect.

She could hardly manage to think English any-more, she admitted. Someday she was just going to forget about it altogether. Jane Florian didn't exist. There was only Jehane FitzRose left. Perhaps it was better if she didn't think about home. This was the place where she had to survive. But she did miss a place where she was able to live with her own identi-ty, on her own terms. A place where she was in con-trol of her life. She missed that more than she did coffee.

She didn't cry. She did stand for a while with her fists clenched so tight the nails dug into the palms of her hands. She didn't know how long she remained in this tense position, but by the time the sad mood passed and she came back into the bower, Sibelle was finished with her bath.

The girl was dressed in a fresh shift, standing before the window, while Marguerite worked dili-gently at

combing out her long hair. It was drying quickly in the spring breeze wafting into the bower, stirring gently about her head in soft, honey-gold tresses.

Jane felt a slow grin lift her features. Pleased amusement lightened her heavy heart. The diet and the cute little button nose and the big blue eyes were all irrelevant. Once Stephan got a look at that hair, he'd be hooked. Blond. Honey. Apricot. Gold. Men went for the blondes every time.

She gave a wicked little laugh.
Stephen, my boy, just wait until you see what I've got waiting for
you. Frankly, you don't deserve her. Bring home a dragon carcass immediately, then we'll talk
terms.

She came forward and took the girl affectionately by the shoulders. "Sibelle, my dear, you are beautiful.

Such hair!"

Sibelle leaned forward into her embrace. She whispered confidentially into Jane's ear, "Granny Rosamunde said I got it from my great-grandfather Geoffrey. His grandmother was a witch. That's why I don't mind learning from Switha. It's in the blood." She kissed Jane on the cheek, and asked, "May we make a kirtle now?"

Jane was delighted to do some sewing. Never mind if the sewing machine wouldn't be invented for hun-dreds of years. She didn't need a sewing machine; she had a household full of women with busy fingers will-ing to work to her direction. She drew designs with charcoal on the bower walls, measured with knotted string, cut with primitive scissors that she kept hav-ing to send back to the blacksmith for sharpening.

They cut out and sewed three new combinations of lightweight summer shifts and overdresses in peach and salmon and apple green for Sibelle. For herself Jane made summer overdresses in royal blue and bright yellow. The stronger colors suited her dark complexion. Her face was tanning quickly to a bronzed glow from no more than the lightest expo-sure to the spring sun.

When the dresses were done, Jane brought out some of the embroidery thread in her bags. The women were as amazed by the jewel-bright colors and varied textures as they'd been with the silk cloth.

They were enthralled by the wonders and marvels brought from the paynim East. She handed out multi-ple skeins of perle cotton thread, and busy fingers set to work once more.

One afternoon, as the sun grew long through the high bower window, she and Sibelle sat together, sharing the width of the round, floor-stand embroi-dery hoop as they worked on different sections of skirt decoration.

Into the companionable silence, Sibelle suddenly asked a question. "What will you do with all the goods in your bags? Other than make dresses for me?"

"For which you may repay me with many thanks when you're baroness of Sturry," Jane replied, needle poised thoughtfully as she tried to remember if the chevron stitch she'd just blithely taught Sibelle was in use yet. She decided it was too late to worry about it now and went on embroidering.

"I will indeed."

"Good."

"About the other goods?"

She stuck needle in cloth and looked at the girl. Sibelle's eyes twinkled with amusement. She'd lost more weight, and it was showing in her face. Her cleft chin was becoming a prominent and attractive feature; cheekbones were starting to emerge, adding a hint of elegance. Her hair was hanging in two thick braids, the ends covered in embroidered casings Jane had finished just the day before. She'd added a few garnet beads to the pattern worked onto linen-backed silk and was satisfied the girl was dressed in the height of the era's fashion. She just wished Stephan would come home so he could appreciate it. And she was glad Sir Daffyd hadn't paid a visit to Passfair lately so he couldn't. She'd asked DeCorte to keep track of any news of the Welshman. She had Sibelle's welfare to think of. Never mind her own.

"Well?" Sibelle asked after a considerable silence from Jane.

"What am I going to do with my goods? I'm not sure."

"You've spices and jewels and gold besides the silk. I'm sorry I looked, but I was curious. And you don't lock the room. You're very trusting."

"The key's lost, and the blacksmith hasn't made a new one yet."

"Oh. But what will you do with it all? Did you bring it all from Jerusalem? Why?"

"Yes, I brought it with me from the Holy Land. We had no more wealth in land, but my husband and father left me with wealth in rare and precious things. I have no idea what to do with them. Trade them for gold somehow, I suppose. Use the gold to pay my entrance into a convent."

Sibelle nodded her agreement with this strategy. "But you need merchants in order to trade. Merchants come from London to Canterbury. And traders come to Dover and to Reculver on the coasts. We need a way to make them all come here." She smiled bright-ly. "We could hold a fair."

"A fair?"

"All the big towns have summer fairs," Sibelle pointed out enthusiastically. "If we had a fair here, and did it every year, Passfair could become a big town as well. Which would make Sir Stephan far more prosperous, and that would be good for every-one."

Jane sat back on the bench, leaning against the

cool stone wall. "A fair?"

"It could be arranged," Sibelle said with confi-dence. "It wouldn't take long to send word to Canter-bury. Or to Dover and Reculver. If the traveling mer-chants know there's nobles—Sturry and Passfair and Blackchurch for certain—looking for fine goods, they could be persuaded to come. And Sir Daffyd's sol-diers would come also if there were wine and weapons merchants."

"Who have you been talking to?" Jane asked, look-ing at the girl through narrowed eyes.

"Bertram."

"I thought so." She tugged thoughtfully on her veil. It wasn't a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. It would be good for the villages. Why not bring mod-ern commerce and culture to this little corner of Kent?

"Very well," she agreed. She stood and straight-ened her dress. "We'll see if we can arrange it for sometime this summer."

Sibelle gave a complacent nod. "Bertram has it all planned out."

"I'm sure he does." Jane had great faith in Bertram. "He and I had better talk right away."

13

"Why, today of all days,did I have to fall off my horse!" Sibelle complained from the grassy spot where she'd tumbled. Her horse, probably more surprised by the girl's sudden fall than she was, had shied over to the far side of the orchard. It remained there, peering at them almost accusingly, as Jane and the groom helped Sibelle to her feet.

"Are you all right?" Jane asked, patting the girl for signs of broken bones.

"I don't understand how it happened," Sibelle went on as if she hadn't heard Jane. "Perhaps I wasn't paying proper attention. I suppose my mind was on the fair. It's such a lovely day for it. The merchants'

tents and carts look so bright and colorful spread out across the pasture. I must have forgotten what I was doing."

"Are you all right?" Jane repeated the question louder.

"Oh, yes. Ow! No. I must have twisted my foot under me." Sibelle let out a dramatic wail. "I will not miss the fair! Jehane, you mustn't tell Alais and Mar-guerite! If they think I've been hurt, they won't let me go to the fair. You know what they're like. We can sneak off to the fair now and—"

"The merchants haven't even set up their wares yet, love," Jane answered. "It's barely dawn." She knelt in the grass while the groom helped steady Sibelle. "How bad does it hurt?"

"Not at all. Don't touch that! Hardly at all."

"A bit of swelling. Can you walk?"

"Of course."

"Well, try."

"You're so demanding."

Jane raised her eyes to see laughter mixed with pain on the girl's face. Sibelle was very changed from the frightened girl Stephan had brought home only two months before. Jane really couldn't see any of the old Sibelle in the svelte, shining-haired, good-natured young woman who now shared her days.

"It's not so bad," she told her. "You'll make it to the fair. Go back to your room for a while and soak your ankle in cold water. That should take care of most of the swelling and soreness. By this afternoon you'll be able to come down to the pasture. I could send the merchants up to the castle with their best wares if necessary, but it wouldn't be as much fun. Not on such a nice day."

Sibelle's eyes were alight with inspiration. "Couldn't I have the peasants carry me from booth to booth in a chair?"

"You could, but you'd look damned silly." Jane rose to her feet. "Fetch the horse," she directed the boy.

"Lean on me for a moment, dear. The fair will be there tomorrow, too, you know," she reminded Sibelle, just in case the muscle strain proved to be worse than she thought.

"I will be there today," Sibelle declared stubbornly. "I will rest this morning, though the waiting will be awful." She sighed dramatically, complaining as the groom returned with the horse, "I've never been any-where or done anything, Jehane." The boy lifted her up, and she grasped the reins firmly. "What's it like to have adventures?"

Jane stood among the sweet-scented boughs of the apple orchard and looked at the girl in crossed-armed consternation. "Ask Sir Stephan," she advised.

"But you've seen so much of the world. What's it like?"

"Uncomfortable. I think I've told you too many romances," she added, a smile softening her lips. She patted Sibelle's mount's flank. "Go home and soak your foot. I'll see you at the fair."

"All right." The girl turned the horse's head, and she and the groom rode off.

Jane remounted and rode slowly toward the vil-lage. It was a long time before she could get to the fair as well. She wanted a new fence built for the pad-dock, so she had to talk to Cerdic this morning about having some straight young timber felled from the coppice.

"Why," she wondered aloud to the birds and beasts of the field, "is there always something else that needs doing?" She made her trip to the village, where Cerdic was as eager as she was to get the details taken care of so they could get on with enjoying the holiday on this bright late-April morning.