his; he had not, Hugh noted, moved his foot since Bevis’ chin came to rest on it.
Miles and Bevis had been out about woodward duties from not much after dawn today, away to Skippitt Coppice to see where best to start the autumn cutting. Most times lately when Miles went out, George from the village went with him and, “I think he might do well enough in my place the while until you find someone else,” Miles had told Tom over dinner. “He knows what he’s seeing when he looks at it.”
That would be something to tell Mother when she came home, Hugh thought. What they would do for a woodward was one of the things she had talked of when he was taking her and Ursula to St. Frideswide’s. He had taken the chance to ask her then when she thought to come home and been relieved when she said, “Before Miles leaves us, surely.”
He had been half-afraid she was thinking of nunhood for herself. It would be the most straightforward way to fulfill Sir Ralph’s order that she live a virtuous, unmarried life, and almost Hugh could want it to be that simple for her. Almost but not quite.
Nor did he want it for Ursula, he had admitted to himself. She had been quiet out of the ordinary on the ride to St. Frideswide’s. Once, to Hugh’s pleasure, she had started to whistle back to a linnet in a hedgerow as they rode past, but Lady Anneys had reminded her that whistling was unladylike and Ursula had fallen quiet again, until—outside the cloister door in St. Frideswide’s guesthall courtyard when Hugh had lifted her up for a better embrace good-bye—she had clung to him and whispered in his ear, “I wish I was going home with you.”
He had whispered back, “I wish you were, too,” but had set her down and let the waiting nun take her hand as he turned to embrace his mother, too.
She had said nothing, only when she drew back from him had looked deeply into his eyes as if searching for something before briefly touching his cheek and turning away. He had stood there in the courtyard, watching as she and Ursula went inside, until the door was closed behind them, shutting them in and him out, and then he had ridden away, as oddly bereft as if that door would never open to let either of them out again.
To the good, he was not bereft by Lucy being gone to stay with Elyn. That was merely pleasant; but along with missing Lady Anneys and Ursula, he missed Tom sharing the loft with him and Miles. Before she had left, Lady Anneys had told Tom he should move into the lord of the manor’s bedchamber above the parlor when she was gone. “It’s yours,” she had said. “You may as well grow used to it.”
‘But where will you sleep?“ Tom had protested.
‘Not there again, if I can help it,“ she had said. ”In the girls’ chamber with Lucy, probably.“
But it was odd to have Tom gone from their own chamber. “It’s not that we miss your snoring,” Miles had told Tom the first morning after he had shifted. “It’s just hard getting used to the quiet.” They had been standing in the hall, breaking their morning fast, and Tom had thrown a heavy-crusted chunk of bread at him. Miles had ducked out of the way and Bevis had seized the crust for his own.
Now Miles gave a wide yawn and sat up.
‘Don’t,“ said Tom without opening his eyes. ”If you start moving, I’ll have to.“
‘All right,“ Miles said and put his head down again.
Hugh, still stroking the brush down Baude’s back, said, “I’m thinking to hare-hunt tomorrow morning. Helinor,” the manor’s cook, “says she wouldn’t mind some fresh meat for the pot. Either of you interested in coming?”
Tom stretched and said, “Yes. Good. I’ll come.”
Miles mumbled into the crook of his arm, “Not me.”
They sat in silence a little longer, until Miles said, still without lifting his head, “Did you know there’s a copy of Sir William’s will in Sir Ralph’s strong-chest,
Miles and Bevis had been out about woodward duties from not much after dawn today, away to Skippitt Coppice to see where best to start the autumn cutting. Most times lately when Miles went out, George from the village went with him and, “I think he might do well enough in my place the while until you find someone else,” Miles had told Tom over dinner. “He knows what he’s seeing when he looks at it.”
That would be something to tell Mother when she came home, Hugh thought. What they would do for a woodward was one of the things she had talked of when he was taking her and Ursula to St. Frideswide’s. He had taken the chance to ask her then when she thought to come home and been relieved when she said, “Before Miles leaves us, surely.”
He had been half-afraid she was thinking of nunhood for herself. It would be the most straightforward way to fulfill Sir Ralph’s order that she live a virtuous, unmarried life, and almost Hugh could want it to be that simple for her. Almost but not quite.
Nor did he want it for Ursula, he had admitted to himself. She had been quiet out of the ordinary on the ride to St. Frideswide’s. Once, to Hugh’s pleasure, she had started to whistle back to a linnet in a hedgerow as they rode past, but Lady Anneys had reminded her that whistling was unladylike and Ursula had fallen quiet again, until—outside the cloister door in St. Frideswide’s guesthall courtyard when Hugh had lifted her up for a better embrace good-bye—she had clung to him and whispered in his ear, “I wish I was going home with you.”
He had whispered back, “I wish you were, too,” but had set her down and let the waiting nun take her hand as he turned to embrace his mother, too.
She had said nothing, only when she drew back from him had looked deeply into his eyes as if searching for something before briefly touching his cheek and turning away. He had stood there in the courtyard, watching as she and Ursula went inside, until the door was closed behind them, shutting them in and him out, and then he had ridden away, as oddly bereft as if that door would never open to let either of them out again.
To the good, he was not bereft by Lucy being gone to stay with Elyn. That was merely pleasant; but along with missing Lady Anneys and Ursula, he missed Tom sharing the loft with him and Miles. Before she had left, Lady Anneys had told Tom he should move into the lord of the manor’s bedchamber above the parlor when she was gone. “It’s yours,” she had said. “You may as well grow used to it.”
‘But where will you sleep?“ Tom had protested.
‘Not there again, if I can help it,“ she had said. ”In the girls’ chamber with Lucy, probably.“
But it was odd to have Tom gone from their own chamber. “It’s not that we miss your snoring,” Miles had told Tom the first morning after he had shifted. “It’s just hard getting used to the quiet.” They had been standing in the hall, breaking their morning fast, and Tom had thrown a heavy-crusted chunk of bread at him. Miles had ducked out of the way and Bevis had seized the crust for his own.
Now Miles gave a wide yawn and sat up.
‘Don’t,“ said Tom without opening his eyes. ”If you start moving, I’ll have to.“
‘All right,“ Miles said and put his head down again.
Hugh, still stroking the brush down Baude’s back, said, “I’m thinking to hare-hunt tomorrow morning. Helinor,” the manor’s cook, “says she wouldn’t mind some fresh meat for the pot. Either of you interested in coming?”
Tom stretched and said, “Yes. Good. I’ll come.”
Miles mumbled into the crook of his arm, “Not me.”
They sat in silence a little longer, until Miles said, still without lifting his head, “Did you know there’s a copy of Sir William’s will in Sir Ralph’s strong-chest,
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