Rhuddlan’s great hall, while the King of England met with her father. And used her as a whip to bring Gwynedd to heel. Even now they were probably settingthe price of her ransom. She dreaded finding out what her life would cost her father, and Wales.
The maidservant had not gone away. She pulled back the bedcovers, exposing Arianna’s naked flesh to the sting of the cold morning air.
“God’s death!” Arianna leapt up, snatching at the fur-lined robe Edith held out. But the woman’s bovine smile didn’t waver. She had a round, poxed face, with small, squinty eyes like squash seeds and wren-brown hair that hung in strings over her bony shoulders, like a hank of flax. She had yet, in four days, to say anything to Arianna beyond the commonest banalities.
“It’s too fine a day to be a slug-a-bed, milady,” Edith said, and smiled again.
Arianna gritted her teeth around another blasphemous curse. Couldn’t the fool woman see that she was a prisoner? She could spend the day abed or up and pacing the floor and it would make little difference.
Nevertheless Arianna did get up, going over to the laver by the window. As she washed, the ringing of the chapel bell drifted in on the breeze, calling the faithful to worship. But she wouldn’t be able to attend Mass until after the nooning. It was the only time she was allowed out of the bedchamber, and even then she was accompanied by guards—two thick, knotty fellows, each big enough to carry off the prize ram at a wrestling match.
On a stool beside the empty brazier, Edith had set a tray of manchet bread glazed with honey and a pot of ale, and Arianna sat down to break her fast. “ ’Tis wash day, milady,” Edith said, as she stripped the bed. “You’ll be having nice fresh, clean sheets this night.”
“Thank you, Edith,” Arianna said, giving the woman the warmest smile she could muster. It was hardly Edith’s fault that she was a prisoner of the Normans, and Arianna felt guilty for having taken her temper out on the hapless servant.
Her arms loaded with linen, Edith bustled from theroom. Arianna wandered over to the window. It was indeed a beautiful morning, though it had poured rain throughout the night, turning the yard into a sea of mud. At least she hadn’t been shut up within the keep’s stone vault this time. Her prison was a comfortable chamber in the long, two-storied timbered hall within the bailey.
The yard below her window was alive with activity. A cook, lugging a steaming cauldron, emerged from the kitchen, almost colliding with a baker who performed a fancy two-step while balancing a tray of loaves on his head. Now that the chapel bell had ceased its pealing, she could hear the smack of the laundresses’ wooden paddles beating sheets in the wash trough. A cart piled high with new rushes for the floors rattled by beneath her window.
Just then the watchman blew his horn and the gate swung wide. A dozen men on horseback clattered at a fast trot across the drawbridge, the man in the lead bearing the standard that had haunted her dreams—a black dragon on a bloodred field.
Rache and lyam-hounds dashed among the flying hooves. The pack bayed in a fever of excitement, red tongues lolling. A man bore a slaughtered boar’s head on the point of a spear, while another blew on the hunting horn, announcing the kill. The black knight reined up before the hall. He must have been out hunting since dawn. His horse’s sides were flecked with foam from the gallop of the chase, but still the spirited charger danced about, so a squire had to run up and hold the stirrup for the knight to dismount. The squire, she saw by the flash of his red hair, was that wretched, traitorous boy.
The knight had on spurred boots that were higher than was fashionable, reaching to his knees. His plain leather tunic was slit up the side for riding. It revealed thighs encased in tight chausses that hugged every sinew of lean, hard muscles built from hours spent in the tilting
The maidservant had not gone away. She pulled back the bedcovers, exposing Arianna’s naked flesh to the sting of the cold morning air.
“God’s death!” Arianna leapt up, snatching at the fur-lined robe Edith held out. But the woman’s bovine smile didn’t waver. She had a round, poxed face, with small, squinty eyes like squash seeds and wren-brown hair that hung in strings over her bony shoulders, like a hank of flax. She had yet, in four days, to say anything to Arianna beyond the commonest banalities.
“It’s too fine a day to be a slug-a-bed, milady,” Edith said, and smiled again.
Arianna gritted her teeth around another blasphemous curse. Couldn’t the fool woman see that she was a prisoner? She could spend the day abed or up and pacing the floor and it would make little difference.
Nevertheless Arianna did get up, going over to the laver by the window. As she washed, the ringing of the chapel bell drifted in on the breeze, calling the faithful to worship. But she wouldn’t be able to attend Mass until after the nooning. It was the only time she was allowed out of the bedchamber, and even then she was accompanied by guards—two thick, knotty fellows, each big enough to carry off the prize ram at a wrestling match.
On a stool beside the empty brazier, Edith had set a tray of manchet bread glazed with honey and a pot of ale, and Arianna sat down to break her fast. “ ’Tis wash day, milady,” Edith said, as she stripped the bed. “You’ll be having nice fresh, clean sheets this night.”
“Thank you, Edith,” Arianna said, giving the woman the warmest smile she could muster. It was hardly Edith’s fault that she was a prisoner of the Normans, and Arianna felt guilty for having taken her temper out on the hapless servant.
Her arms loaded with linen, Edith bustled from theroom. Arianna wandered over to the window. It was indeed a beautiful morning, though it had poured rain throughout the night, turning the yard into a sea of mud. At least she hadn’t been shut up within the keep’s stone vault this time. Her prison was a comfortable chamber in the long, two-storied timbered hall within the bailey.
The yard below her window was alive with activity. A cook, lugging a steaming cauldron, emerged from the kitchen, almost colliding with a baker who performed a fancy two-step while balancing a tray of loaves on his head. Now that the chapel bell had ceased its pealing, she could hear the smack of the laundresses’ wooden paddles beating sheets in the wash trough. A cart piled high with new rushes for the floors rattled by beneath her window.
Just then the watchman blew his horn and the gate swung wide. A dozen men on horseback clattered at a fast trot across the drawbridge, the man in the lead bearing the standard that had haunted her dreams—a black dragon on a bloodred field.
Rache and lyam-hounds dashed among the flying hooves. The pack bayed in a fever of excitement, red tongues lolling. A man bore a slaughtered boar’s head on the point of a spear, while another blew on the hunting horn, announcing the kill. The black knight reined up before the hall. He must have been out hunting since dawn. His horse’s sides were flecked with foam from the gallop of the chase, but still the spirited charger danced about, so a squire had to run up and hold the stirrup for the knight to dismount. The squire, she saw by the flash of his red hair, was that wretched, traitorous boy.
The knight had on spurred boots that were higher than was fashionable, reaching to his knees. His plain leather tunic was slit up the side for riding. It revealed thighs encased in tight chausses that hugged every sinew of lean, hard muscles built from hours spent in the tilting
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