Needle in the Blood by Sarah Bower Page B

the earl is absent from his castle rather than anything to do with her husband. Gytha’s plans are going to have to wait.
    “What happened to him?” she asks, wondering if she might have known him. He might well have sought refuge from a harridan like Judith in the relaxed atmosphere of Lady Edith’s household.
    “He was killed just before Hastings. He was on his way to meet the king when his party was intercepted by Norman raiders.”
    “And yet you’re here? Prostituting yourself to the Bastard’s brother? Why?”
    Judith’s face remains impassive, though its expression seems to become more set, as though she has assumed a mask of herself, and her neck and ears flush a deep, dull pink. Margaret stops brushing Gytha’s hair.
    “Obviously you can’t be expected to understand these things. The earl came to me as a man of honour. He had known my husband slightly. He praised his valour and loyalty, knightly qualities in any gentleman, he said, whether he be Saxon, Norman, or the Emperor of Byzantium. He understood I was skilled at fine needlework. He explained his vision to me, that he wished to make a faithful record of the actions of great men at a turning point in history. For the enlightenment of those who come after them. He thought my rank and experience would help to bring balance to the work and that his sister would be grateful for a companion of equal status in whom to confide. He promised to make good all the damage done to our estates during the occupation, swore on the Cross to keep my husband’s lands under his personal authority until my work here was finished. He even sent me some of his own men to help me get in the harvest. I believe it would have dishonoured Emeric’s memory to refuse his offer.”
    “You dropped into his palm like a ripe plum, Judith. He’ll look after your estates so he can marry you off to one of his vassals once he’s finished with you himself. That’s what men do with us women; they take what they want and hand us on like batons in a relay. Only the high born ones dress it up by talking about honour and reciting poetry.”
    “Oh, so she is one of us now, is she?” laughs Margaret.
    “You’re pulling my hair. Here, give me the brush. If you carry on like that, I’ll be bald.”
    “He quoted Virgil,” says Judith doubtfully.
    “‘Quid faciat laetas segetes, quo sidere terram uertere, Maecenas.’”
    “You know Latin?” All eyes upon her now, except for the servant, Leofgeat, who is on her way to the door with a pile of wet towels. Even the one with the tic falls still. Damn. That was stupid. Nobody here must know, or even guess, her connection with King Harold.
    “No, not really.” She gives a dismissive shrug. “I was once in a household where the lord liked to read aloud to us in the evenings. For our improvement, he said, though personally I think it was to make us fall sound asleep so that he and my lady could enjoy one another’s company undisturbed. I have a gift for remembering words, that’s all. I’m not sure what it means; I just know it’s something about farming.”
    “Why are you here, then,” asks Judith, her composure recovered as Gytha found herself wrong footed, “if you’re so set on defying the Normans?”
    “Me? Oh, I had no choice. Now, I’d like to get dressed before I freeze all over again. I doubt even the earl’s handpicked men could be harvesting on a day like this.”
    The women carry her new clothes to the hearthside. Gytha unwinds her towel and stands naked in the guttering firelight, shadows licking her body, seeking out its curves and hollows, bringing roses to her skin. Outside, rain continues to lash the building, drumming on shutters, clattering against the great workshop windows, and now the wind has got up, and snarls around corners, sniffs under doors. There is a hiatus, a confusion in their ritual, as the women look at Gytha and note the line of dark hair running down the center of her belly, forming, with her