normal breath again. And not until she heard him on the steps did she scurry from beneath the bed to her own chamber.
But then what? How could she get out without being seen? The servant she was supposed to be had no particular business in the lady's chamber if the chamber held no lady, but she did not want to go through the cavern. She didn't ever want to go there again. Then, there was nothing for it, but to leave through the door, blatantly, as if she had merely been about her duties. They would be going to matins, and mayhap would not see her.
She hoped.
* * *
"I tell you, someone was in the chamber."
Melisande, cringing within, ordered composure to her body and indifference to her countenance as she poured wine into the Norman lord's drinking horn.
Chrétien laughed, and helped himself to another rasher.
"He is not used to sleeping alone," said Hugh, with a loud guffaw.
"Did you see him?" Chrétien asked.
"It was too dark." the Norman lord replied. Impatience lingered in his frown.
"Hear him, then?"
"I am not sure what it was. But someone was there."
"Ha. You imagined it, Alain. You were so deep into your cup, it was a wonder you did not drown."
Hugh's raucous roar at Chrétien's jibe infected the others.
The Norman lord feigned a glower that did not even fool her. It seemed to be the way of these Normans to behave so irreverently toward their lord, and it seemed to be his way to accept it of them. Fyren would have killed a man for such.
Robert leaned into his cup of ale, with a wicked smile on his face. "Mayhap it was a maid that sought him out."
"Aye, a maid." Chrétien rammed an elbow in Robert's ribs.
The men again laughed. For the life of her, Melisande could not see what was so funny about that.
"Nay," said Hugh. "It was his bride, come to see what she has missed."
"Did she find it?" came a shout from the back.
"Aye. That's why she left."
The Normans and Saxons alike roared, slapped their great fists on the trestle tables, and pounded each other on the back. She did her best to hide her confusion and appear unconcerned about their odd banter. But whatever would it be that she was supposed to have found?
Oh. But then, why would she have left? She had never been able to make much sense of what other people thought was funny.
Rubbing at a smudge on the rim of his horn cup with the seam of his cloak, the Norman lord continued his ineffective scowling.
The cloak! The poison, spread across the rim where he wiped! She froze with horror as he lifted the cup to his lips. Could it kill him? She didn't know.
Melisande lunged with a scream, knocked the horn cup from his hand, across the table and to the floor. A dull crack. Red wine spread on the stone floor like dark blood.
She raised her head slowly, slowly turned, gulped. All around her, men stared. Stared as if her wits had suddenly gone begging.
"I am sorry, my lord. I slipped on something, I think. A bone, mayhap."
The Norman's black eyebrows cocked at an absurdly curious and high angle.
She rose and scurried around the trestle table, and bent to pick up the cup. "Please, I will find you another cup. This one is damaged."
"It will do, Edyt."
"Nay." She said it too quickly, too quickly snatched it from his reach. "I will wash it, and if it leaks, I will bring you another."
Before he could stop her, she fled from the hall, to the wooden outbuilding that housed the kitchen and scullery. She scrubbed at the tainted rim with a rough cloth and sand, lathered the soft soap onto it, scrubbed again. Dare she trust it, even then? Surely, none of the poison could be left. Could it? Once again, she took the coarse cloth and scrubbed.
Then she saw the crack in the yellow-grey horn. Relief flooded her. Now there could be no argument of replacing it.
"Nelda," she called, "Hurry and find the lord another cup. This one will not do. It has a crack."
Nelda's eyes too showed the effect of her mad move. Then, with the look of the all-suffering servant, Nelda
But then what? How could she get out without being seen? The servant she was supposed to be had no particular business in the lady's chamber if the chamber held no lady, but she did not want to go through the cavern. She didn't ever want to go there again. Then, there was nothing for it, but to leave through the door, blatantly, as if she had merely been about her duties. They would be going to matins, and mayhap would not see her.
She hoped.
* * *
"I tell you, someone was in the chamber."
Melisande, cringing within, ordered composure to her body and indifference to her countenance as she poured wine into the Norman lord's drinking horn.
Chrétien laughed, and helped himself to another rasher.
"He is not used to sleeping alone," said Hugh, with a loud guffaw.
"Did you see him?" Chrétien asked.
"It was too dark." the Norman lord replied. Impatience lingered in his frown.
"Hear him, then?"
"I am not sure what it was. But someone was there."
"Ha. You imagined it, Alain. You were so deep into your cup, it was a wonder you did not drown."
Hugh's raucous roar at Chrétien's jibe infected the others.
The Norman lord feigned a glower that did not even fool her. It seemed to be the way of these Normans to behave so irreverently toward their lord, and it seemed to be his way to accept it of them. Fyren would have killed a man for such.
Robert leaned into his cup of ale, with a wicked smile on his face. "Mayhap it was a maid that sought him out."
"Aye, a maid." Chrétien rammed an elbow in Robert's ribs.
The men again laughed. For the life of her, Melisande could not see what was so funny about that.
"Nay," said Hugh. "It was his bride, come to see what she has missed."
"Did she find it?" came a shout from the back.
"Aye. That's why she left."
The Normans and Saxons alike roared, slapped their great fists on the trestle tables, and pounded each other on the back. She did her best to hide her confusion and appear unconcerned about their odd banter. But whatever would it be that she was supposed to have found?
Oh. But then, why would she have left? She had never been able to make much sense of what other people thought was funny.
Rubbing at a smudge on the rim of his horn cup with the seam of his cloak, the Norman lord continued his ineffective scowling.
The cloak! The poison, spread across the rim where he wiped! She froze with horror as he lifted the cup to his lips. Could it kill him? She didn't know.
Melisande lunged with a scream, knocked the horn cup from his hand, across the table and to the floor. A dull crack. Red wine spread on the stone floor like dark blood.
She raised her head slowly, slowly turned, gulped. All around her, men stared. Stared as if her wits had suddenly gone begging.
"I am sorry, my lord. I slipped on something, I think. A bone, mayhap."
The Norman's black eyebrows cocked at an absurdly curious and high angle.
She rose and scurried around the trestle table, and bent to pick up the cup. "Please, I will find you another cup. This one is damaged."
"It will do, Edyt."
"Nay." She said it too quickly, too quickly snatched it from his reach. "I will wash it, and if it leaks, I will bring you another."
Before he could stop her, she fled from the hall, to the wooden outbuilding that housed the kitchen and scullery. She scrubbed at the tainted rim with a rough cloth and sand, lathered the soft soap onto it, scrubbed again. Dare she trust it, even then? Surely, none of the poison could be left. Could it? Once again, she took the coarse cloth and scrubbed.
Then she saw the crack in the yellow-grey horn. Relief flooded her. Now there could be no argument of replacing it.
"Nelda," she called, "Hurry and find the lord another cup. This one will not do. It has a crack."
Nelda's eyes too showed the effect of her mad move. Then, with the look of the all-suffering servant, Nelda
Similar Books
In the Court of the Yellow King
Tim Curran, Cody Goodfellow, Gary McMahon, C.J. Henderson, William Meikle, T.E. Grau, Laurel Halbany, Christine Morgan, Edward Morris
