found herself sleeping on a pallet in the loft along with the assorted book peddlers, cock masters, tinsmiths, jongleurs, and pilgrims who seemed to make up the majority of their fellow guests for the evening. Or she could have been expected to bed down in the hay of the stables with Sergei and the other guests grooms and squires. But those alternatives, which had once loomed frighteningly, now seemed oddly preferable to this
this
intimacy with this man.
Stop dawdling and close the door, said de Jarnac, pulling his tunic off over his head. The landlord's boy should be here soon with my water, and you're letting in the cold.
His hands dropped to the laces of his braies. Attica turned in a barely disguised panic and fled.
She washed as best she could at the well in the yard. The water was shudderingly cold and the night air chilled by the gusting breeze, and she had to be careful not to wet her hair, in case the dye she'd rubbed into it after leaving Châteauhaut should come off. Quickly drying her face and hands on a length of linen from the courtier's bags, all she could think about was how she longed to strip off her dusty clothes, as de Jarnac had doubtlessly done, and wash the dirt and sweat from her body with a basin of warm water. Or better yet, sink into a deep, sweetly scented, steaming bath.
Sighing, she bent to tuck the towel back into the satchel. The light from the torch near the stable flared, catching onthe edge of what looked like a book. Curious, she pulled it out, oddly affected to find herself staring at a small, plain breviary. So this is what Olivier de Harcourt was asking for , she thought sadly. With an unexpected twinge of sadness, she thrust the book back into the satchel and buckled it closed.
Tossing the bags over her shoulder, she crossed the manure-strewn yard toward the noise of the common room. At the bottom of the inn steps she paused, one hand on the railing, to stare uncertainly at the muted golden light that glowed through the cracks around the shuttered windows.
When the comtesse d'Alérion traveled, she stopped the night at abbeys or in the manor houses and castles of her class, where beds were always made available to noble travelers. Never in her life had Attica sat down to eat in the common room of an inn. On those rare occasions when Blanche did have need to pause at such a place, the comtesse would remain in her litter, resting in the shade of a tree, while servants were sent running to bring any required refreshment out to the yard.
Attica herself was too much the daughter of Robert d'Alériona rough, hard-drinking, loud-mouthed Norman knightto have grown up to share her mother's haughty arrogance. Yet there was no denying that the room before her was an alien world, and the thought of having to keep up this wearing pretense of maleness in front of so many peopleso many men made her heart sink.
Before she could give way to the cowardly impulse to retreat without supper to her bed, Attica ran up the three shallow steps to the door and pushed it open. A blast of warm, noisy air slammed into her with an impact that was almost physical. She found herself confronting a strange, dimly lit masculine world, murky with smoke from thetorches and thick with the smells of damp wool and male sweat and the fumes of spilt wine and ale. A confusing medley of rough voices and ribald laughter and one uninhibited, high-pitched feminine squeal swirled around her. She pushed herself forward, searching the room for a familiar pair of broad shoulders and a darkly handsome face amongst the unkempt heads and huddled forms of the strangers who jostled one another on the rough benches.
She saw an aging knight, his tunic tattered and shiny, his dark beard threaded with gray, and a ruined monk, his black hair bristly and stiff over the relic of his tonsure. Then a man's laugh rang out, deep and clear and blessedly familiar. She felt a flood of warm relief and turned.
De Jarnac sat at the
Stop dawdling and close the door, said de Jarnac, pulling his tunic off over his head. The landlord's boy should be here soon with my water, and you're letting in the cold.
His hands dropped to the laces of his braies. Attica turned in a barely disguised panic and fled.
She washed as best she could at the well in the yard. The water was shudderingly cold and the night air chilled by the gusting breeze, and she had to be careful not to wet her hair, in case the dye she'd rubbed into it after leaving Châteauhaut should come off. Quickly drying her face and hands on a length of linen from the courtier's bags, all she could think about was how she longed to strip off her dusty clothes, as de Jarnac had doubtlessly done, and wash the dirt and sweat from her body with a basin of warm water. Or better yet, sink into a deep, sweetly scented, steaming bath.
Sighing, she bent to tuck the towel back into the satchel. The light from the torch near the stable flared, catching onthe edge of what looked like a book. Curious, she pulled it out, oddly affected to find herself staring at a small, plain breviary. So this is what Olivier de Harcourt was asking for , she thought sadly. With an unexpected twinge of sadness, she thrust the book back into the satchel and buckled it closed.
Tossing the bags over her shoulder, she crossed the manure-strewn yard toward the noise of the common room. At the bottom of the inn steps she paused, one hand on the railing, to stare uncertainly at the muted golden light that glowed through the cracks around the shuttered windows.
When the comtesse d'Alérion traveled, she stopped the night at abbeys or in the manor houses and castles of her class, where beds were always made available to noble travelers. Never in her life had Attica sat down to eat in the common room of an inn. On those rare occasions when Blanche did have need to pause at such a place, the comtesse would remain in her litter, resting in the shade of a tree, while servants were sent running to bring any required refreshment out to the yard.
Attica herself was too much the daughter of Robert d'Alériona rough, hard-drinking, loud-mouthed Norman knightto have grown up to share her mother's haughty arrogance. Yet there was no denying that the room before her was an alien world, and the thought of having to keep up this wearing pretense of maleness in front of so many peopleso many men made her heart sink.
Before she could give way to the cowardly impulse to retreat without supper to her bed, Attica ran up the three shallow steps to the door and pushed it open. A blast of warm, noisy air slammed into her with an impact that was almost physical. She found herself confronting a strange, dimly lit masculine world, murky with smoke from thetorches and thick with the smells of damp wool and male sweat and the fumes of spilt wine and ale. A confusing medley of rough voices and ribald laughter and one uninhibited, high-pitched feminine squeal swirled around her. She pushed herself forward, searching the room for a familiar pair of broad shoulders and a darkly handsome face amongst the unkempt heads and huddled forms of the strangers who jostled one another on the rough benches.
She saw an aging knight, his tunic tattered and shiny, his dark beard threaded with gray, and a ruined monk, his black hair bristly and stiff over the relic of his tonsure. Then a man's laugh rang out, deep and clear and blessedly familiar. She felt a flood of warm relief and turned.
De Jarnac sat at the
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