an assent to his disjointed phrases, still managed to be able to listen to de Kyme and give the correct response in the right place.
Nicolaa hoped Petronille would be able to stay for longer than the few days she had said was all she could afford to be absent from her husband and household in Stamford. Petronille was a balm that Nicolaa sorely needed at the moment, especially with difficult guests like Philip de Kyme, who was, at that moment, casting angry glances about him.
The object of his disgruntlement, his stepson Conal, stood laughing and drinking a cup of wine a short distance away in the company of her own son, Richard. The pair had finished eating and had strolled over to watch a trio of tumblers who were cleverly balancing on each other’s shoulders and dropping down and back in almost constant motion, all within the confines of a tiny patch of floor. One of the tumblers was female, her legs encased, for modesty’s sake, in thin woollen stockings under her skirt. But for all the covering, her shapeliness could be seen as she flew up and down between the hands of her two partners and Nicolaa saw that Richard’s eyes were fixed in an avid stare on her antics while Conal, son of de Kyme’s wife from her first marriage, watched Richard, amusement on his face.
They made a handsome pair, the two young friends, so recently dubbed into knighthood. Richard had hair that was almost as bright a red as her own had once been, with a genial manner and a strength of limb and shoulder that promised to soon equal his father’s. Beside him Conal looked slim, but his tall lanky build was deceiving, for Nicolaa had seen him best larger and more experienced men on the practice field. He was fair, like his mother, and his features were finely drawn, giving his full mouth and bright grey eyes an almost feminine look.
Nicolaa shook her head. Richard, she knew, was a lecher, just as her father had been. Somehow it was more disturbing in an offspring than a parent, but she gave thanks that his inclinations were not like Conal’s who, although it was never spoken of openly, was suspected of liking members of his own sex in preference to females. This conjecture stemmed from the fact that he seemed to show none of a young man’s usual interest in women. To be fair, neither did he seem attracted to any of the young pages or squires with whom he came into daily contact and Nicolaa was sure that Richard would not have befriended Conal if there was any suspicion of an aberration in his sexual proclivities. The hint of sodomy was ever apparent in de Kyme’s complaints of his stepson, however, and in his bewailing of no heir to carry on his line. There were de Kyme’s aplenty in Lincoln, he would moan, but not one of them his own true son. Then he would look pointedly at the long-suffering woman to whom he was married and shake his head. It was fortunate that tonight his wife, Sybil, had asked to be excused from the feast, pleading illness as an excuse to keep to her bed.
Nicolaa shrugged. It was nothing to do with her. She remembered vaguely from her own youth that there had been some ruckus at the time of de Kyme’s marriage to Sybil, who was older than he and a widow with a young son. Philip had apparently wanted to wed another, but the girl had been of low birth and dowerless and Philip’s father had threatened his son with the loss of his inheritance if he did not wed Conal’s mother. Recently, he had taken to constantly referring mysteriously to the fact that, had he been allowed his own inclinations in the matter of his marriage, he would have heirs aplenty and it was not too late to rectify the matter. So repetitive were his complaints that no one took much notice of them anymore, not even Gerard, who was closest to de Kyme in that they often shared the pleasure of the hunt or the sampling of some new wine from Poitou.
Nicolaa gave herself a mental shake. That morning the castle chaplain had spoken at Mass of the dangers of
Nicolaa hoped Petronille would be able to stay for longer than the few days she had said was all she could afford to be absent from her husband and household in Stamford. Petronille was a balm that Nicolaa sorely needed at the moment, especially with difficult guests like Philip de Kyme, who was, at that moment, casting angry glances about him.
The object of his disgruntlement, his stepson Conal, stood laughing and drinking a cup of wine a short distance away in the company of her own son, Richard. The pair had finished eating and had strolled over to watch a trio of tumblers who were cleverly balancing on each other’s shoulders and dropping down and back in almost constant motion, all within the confines of a tiny patch of floor. One of the tumblers was female, her legs encased, for modesty’s sake, in thin woollen stockings under her skirt. But for all the covering, her shapeliness could be seen as she flew up and down between the hands of her two partners and Nicolaa saw that Richard’s eyes were fixed in an avid stare on her antics while Conal, son of de Kyme’s wife from her first marriage, watched Richard, amusement on his face.
They made a handsome pair, the two young friends, so recently dubbed into knighthood. Richard had hair that was almost as bright a red as her own had once been, with a genial manner and a strength of limb and shoulder that promised to soon equal his father’s. Beside him Conal looked slim, but his tall lanky build was deceiving, for Nicolaa had seen him best larger and more experienced men on the practice field. He was fair, like his mother, and his features were finely drawn, giving his full mouth and bright grey eyes an almost feminine look.
Nicolaa shook her head. Richard, she knew, was a lecher, just as her father had been. Somehow it was more disturbing in an offspring than a parent, but she gave thanks that his inclinations were not like Conal’s who, although it was never spoken of openly, was suspected of liking members of his own sex in preference to females. This conjecture stemmed from the fact that he seemed to show none of a young man’s usual interest in women. To be fair, neither did he seem attracted to any of the young pages or squires with whom he came into daily contact and Nicolaa was sure that Richard would not have befriended Conal if there was any suspicion of an aberration in his sexual proclivities. The hint of sodomy was ever apparent in de Kyme’s complaints of his stepson, however, and in his bewailing of no heir to carry on his line. There were de Kyme’s aplenty in Lincoln, he would moan, but not one of them his own true son. Then he would look pointedly at the long-suffering woman to whom he was married and shake his head. It was fortunate that tonight his wife, Sybil, had asked to be excused from the feast, pleading illness as an excuse to keep to her bed.
Nicolaa shrugged. It was nothing to do with her. She remembered vaguely from her own youth that there had been some ruckus at the time of de Kyme’s marriage to Sybil, who was older than he and a widow with a young son. Philip had apparently wanted to wed another, but the girl had been of low birth and dowerless and Philip’s father had threatened his son with the loss of his inheritance if he did not wed Conal’s mother. Recently, he had taken to constantly referring mysteriously to the fact that, had he been allowed his own inclinations in the matter of his marriage, he would have heirs aplenty and it was not too late to rectify the matter. So repetitive were his complaints that no one took much notice of them anymore, not even Gerard, who was closest to de Kyme in that they often shared the pleasure of the hunt or the sampling of some new wine from Poitou.
Nicolaa gave herself a mental shake. That morning the castle chaplain had spoken at Mass of the dangers of
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