maneuver on the woman’s part but she chose to believe that Dame Beatrice had merely moved to get out of the sweeper’s way.
“What do you want?” Dame Beatrice repeated, her tone even more annoyed this time.
Eleanor gestured at the bustle around them as the hal was prepared for the arrival of many visitors. “Father Hubert told me people wil soon be arriving for something he cal ed a shire court. Can I be of any help? I hope that I—”
“Help?” the woman cut her off sharply before she could finish. Dame Beatrice bent forward. Squinting, she looked Eleanor square in the face and gave a caustic laugh. “What do you know but embroidery and lute playing, little girl?”
“I—”
“Roger had no business bringing court-reared women to Harelby. What’s a border castle to do with ornaments like the pair of you? What use wil you be in a siege? You’re nothing but a pair of extra mouths taking up warm places by the fire that would be better suited to proper women.”
Eleanor fought hard to keep her temper even as she was stunned into silence by the woman’s attack. It was true she was a courtier, which meant she was used to viciousness being disguised with honeyed words. Dame Beatrice’s blunt statements were hurtful but almost bracingly refreshing. Which didn’t
make Eleanor any less tempted to bite Beatrice’s work-reddened finger when it was shaken under her nose.
“Dame—” she began, only to be cut off once again.
“What use wil you be when the Scots next besiege Harelby? Know you how to nurse the sick or deliver a babe? Do you know a kitchen garden from a
midden? Know you the reeve from the hayward?” Dame Beatrice rattled the ring of keys she wore on her belt. “Keep your sister company in the bower,
girl, and leave the running of this castle to me.”
“Happily wil I leave the castle to you,” Eleanor answered.
As the chatelaine was so eager to point out, she was court-reared. She could speak gentle and fair to a princess who slapped her for no better reason
than that she was closer than the servant who had spil ed the wine. So she could speak fair and gentle to a chatelaine who feared losing her power to
inexperienced outsiders. She could deal pleasantly with anyone, she thought, except Stian of Harelby.
“It is true I know little of English ways. I would but learn from you if you wil al ow it, Dame Beatrice,” she added as the chatelaine began to turn from her.
Her conciliatory words brought nothing but a sneer to the chatelaine’s attractive face. “I’ve no time to teach a grown woman how to run a household.”
“I did not mean—”
Beatrice waved toward the tower stair. “Be gone, girl. Keep to the bower with your sister and her ladies and out of my way.”
Eleanor decided it was just as wel to give up the field to this intransigent woman. She sighed, tucked her hands—hands that were bal ed into tight, tense fists—into her sleeves and walked past the snickering guardsmen toward the stairs.
As she went she heard Dame Beatrice complain bitterly, “I told Stian he would do wel to marry Nicolaa Brasey. The lad should have fol owed his own
mind and gotten Roger’s permission afterward.”
The woman’s rancor scraped against Eleanor’s already raw senses. Fresh pain squeezed at her heart for no reason she could understand. She wanted
to run away.
Instead, she turned before going up the stairs and said, “How could Stian fol ow his own mind, Dame Beatrice? He doesn’t have one.”
* * * * *
“Nothing is going right today. I’ve jumbled up the pattern.”
Eleanor threw down her embroidery and looked at the half circle of women sitting beneath the window in Lord Roger’s bedroom. Along with Edythe there
was Blanche, the gentlewoman they had brought with them to Harelby. There were also the red-haired twin sisters of one of Lord Roger’s neighbors,
seventeen-year-olds named Morwina and Fiona. The girls had been placed in Dame Beatrice’s care, she’d
“What do you want?” Dame Beatrice repeated, her tone even more annoyed this time.
Eleanor gestured at the bustle around them as the hal was prepared for the arrival of many visitors. “Father Hubert told me people wil soon be arriving for something he cal ed a shire court. Can I be of any help? I hope that I—”
“Help?” the woman cut her off sharply before she could finish. Dame Beatrice bent forward. Squinting, she looked Eleanor square in the face and gave a caustic laugh. “What do you know but embroidery and lute playing, little girl?”
“I—”
“Roger had no business bringing court-reared women to Harelby. What’s a border castle to do with ornaments like the pair of you? What use wil you be in a siege? You’re nothing but a pair of extra mouths taking up warm places by the fire that would be better suited to proper women.”
Eleanor fought hard to keep her temper even as she was stunned into silence by the woman’s attack. It was true she was a courtier, which meant she was used to viciousness being disguised with honeyed words. Dame Beatrice’s blunt statements were hurtful but almost bracingly refreshing. Which didn’t
make Eleanor any less tempted to bite Beatrice’s work-reddened finger when it was shaken under her nose.
“Dame—” she began, only to be cut off once again.
“What use wil you be when the Scots next besiege Harelby? Know you how to nurse the sick or deliver a babe? Do you know a kitchen garden from a
midden? Know you the reeve from the hayward?” Dame Beatrice rattled the ring of keys she wore on her belt. “Keep your sister company in the bower,
girl, and leave the running of this castle to me.”
“Happily wil I leave the castle to you,” Eleanor answered.
As the chatelaine was so eager to point out, she was court-reared. She could speak gentle and fair to a princess who slapped her for no better reason
than that she was closer than the servant who had spil ed the wine. So she could speak fair and gentle to a chatelaine who feared losing her power to
inexperienced outsiders. She could deal pleasantly with anyone, she thought, except Stian of Harelby.
“It is true I know little of English ways. I would but learn from you if you wil al ow it, Dame Beatrice,” she added as the chatelaine began to turn from her.
Her conciliatory words brought nothing but a sneer to the chatelaine’s attractive face. “I’ve no time to teach a grown woman how to run a household.”
“I did not mean—”
Beatrice waved toward the tower stair. “Be gone, girl. Keep to the bower with your sister and her ladies and out of my way.”
Eleanor decided it was just as wel to give up the field to this intransigent woman. She sighed, tucked her hands—hands that were bal ed into tight, tense fists—into her sleeves and walked past the snickering guardsmen toward the stairs.
As she went she heard Dame Beatrice complain bitterly, “I told Stian he would do wel to marry Nicolaa Brasey. The lad should have fol owed his own
mind and gotten Roger’s permission afterward.”
The woman’s rancor scraped against Eleanor’s already raw senses. Fresh pain squeezed at her heart for no reason she could understand. She wanted
to run away.
Instead, she turned before going up the stairs and said, “How could Stian fol ow his own mind, Dame Beatrice? He doesn’t have one.”
* * * * *
“Nothing is going right today. I’ve jumbled up the pattern.”
Eleanor threw down her embroidery and looked at the half circle of women sitting beneath the window in Lord Roger’s bedroom. Along with Edythe there
was Blanche, the gentlewoman they had brought with them to Harelby. There were also the red-haired twin sisters of one of Lord Roger’s neighbors,
seventeen-year-olds named Morwina and Fiona. The girls had been placed in Dame Beatrice’s care, she’d
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