sheet and woven blanket on his pallet.
'No dreams,' she promised, crossing her fingers behind her back and trying not to imagine how the Countess's women would react to a second disturbed night in a row.
Richard handed the cup to her and lay back on the pillow. 'Can I sleep in the squires' dorter with Thomas tomorrow? He said that I could.'
Catrin smoothed the dark hair from his brow. 'You seem to have made a friend in him, don't you?' she murmured.
'He's going to teach me to throw a spear tomorrow.' There was relish in Richard's voice which did nothing to soothe the alarm his statement had roused in Catrin.
'On your own?'
'Oh no, with the other squires and one of the Earl's serjeants. I can go, can't I?' Alarm filled Richard's own voice. 'I don't have to stay here with all these women?'
Catrin did not know whether to be annoyed or amused. A typical male, she thought, wishing that she was one too and could abandon the bower for the freedom of a grassy field and a lesson in spear throwing. At least he would be occupied and benefiting from the experience. 'No,' she said with a smile, 'you don't have to stay.'
'And I can sleep in the dorter?'
'The Earl will have to be asked about that, and the Countess too, but I cannot see that they will object. On the morrow, I will ask them. Time for rest now.' She arranged the blanket over his shoulder and gave his hair a final smooth. Then she went to prepare herself for bed. By the time she had removed her wimple and gown, he was sound asleep.
'Bless him,' said Edon, glancing his way with a soft look. 'Let us hope he sleeps sound tonight.'
'Etheldreda said that her potion would ease his slumber.'
'Then it will. She might look like a hag, but she knows her nostrums. Do you want me to comb out your hair?'
It was on the tip of Catrin's tongue to say that she could manage. Since Lewis had died, no one had touched her hair. Lewis had loved to comb it and then spread it over his lean, brown hands. In those days she had scented it with rosemary and jasmine, and dressed her braids with bright ribbons and bindings. 'If you wish,' she said. At least it was clean. Before Amice's funeral that afternoon, she had begged a small container of the Countess's scented soap, purloined a pail of warm water from the kitchens, and scrubbed herself from crown to toe. A mark of respect to the dead, she had told the others when they looked at her askance, but it had been more than that, the cleansing almost a self-baptism as she began another life.
Unfastening the strip of leather at the tail of her plait, she pulled her fingers through her braid to loosen the twists, then sat still for Edon to do the rest.
'Your hair's quite pretty to say that it's black,' Edon remarked as she began to draw the comb down through Catrin's tresses. 'I wish mine was as shiny.' She fingered one of her own locks. 'Still, I should not complain. Mine is fair, and that's the sort that all the troubadours worship. Geoffrey says it reminds him of a cornfield rippling in the wind.' She gave her head a small toss.
Catrin remembered Lewis saying that her hair put him in mind of black silk, but she kept her silence. She had no intention of using her dead husband to compete with the paragon Geoffrey. Besides, it was true that to conform to the romantic ideal of beauty, a woman needed hair the colour of a parsnip, eyes of insipid pale blue, and a nature as sweet as a nectar-filled flower. Possessing none of these traits, Catrin had long since learned to live with what she had, and good luck to those more fortunate.
Still, it was pleasant to have someone dress her hair, and when Edon finished Catrin reciprocated gladly.
At the far end of the room, Rohese de Bayvel and another young woman were performing the same task for each other, whispering and giggling.
Edon cast a glance in their direction. 'Rumour has it that Rohese has a lover among the castle knights,' she murmured, leaning back at the tug of the comb, 'but no one knows
'No dreams,' she promised, crossing her fingers behind her back and trying not to imagine how the Countess's women would react to a second disturbed night in a row.
Richard handed the cup to her and lay back on the pillow. 'Can I sleep in the squires' dorter with Thomas tomorrow? He said that I could.'
Catrin smoothed the dark hair from his brow. 'You seem to have made a friend in him, don't you?' she murmured.
'He's going to teach me to throw a spear tomorrow.' There was relish in Richard's voice which did nothing to soothe the alarm his statement had roused in Catrin.
'On your own?'
'Oh no, with the other squires and one of the Earl's serjeants. I can go, can't I?' Alarm filled Richard's own voice. 'I don't have to stay here with all these women?'
Catrin did not know whether to be annoyed or amused. A typical male, she thought, wishing that she was one too and could abandon the bower for the freedom of a grassy field and a lesson in spear throwing. At least he would be occupied and benefiting from the experience. 'No,' she said with a smile, 'you don't have to stay.'
'And I can sleep in the dorter?'
'The Earl will have to be asked about that, and the Countess too, but I cannot see that they will object. On the morrow, I will ask them. Time for rest now.' She arranged the blanket over his shoulder and gave his hair a final smooth. Then she went to prepare herself for bed. By the time she had removed her wimple and gown, he was sound asleep.
'Bless him,' said Edon, glancing his way with a soft look. 'Let us hope he sleeps sound tonight.'
'Etheldreda said that her potion would ease his slumber.'
'Then it will. She might look like a hag, but she knows her nostrums. Do you want me to comb out your hair?'
It was on the tip of Catrin's tongue to say that she could manage. Since Lewis had died, no one had touched her hair. Lewis had loved to comb it and then spread it over his lean, brown hands. In those days she had scented it with rosemary and jasmine, and dressed her braids with bright ribbons and bindings. 'If you wish,' she said. At least it was clean. Before Amice's funeral that afternoon, she had begged a small container of the Countess's scented soap, purloined a pail of warm water from the kitchens, and scrubbed herself from crown to toe. A mark of respect to the dead, she had told the others when they looked at her askance, but it had been more than that, the cleansing almost a self-baptism as she began another life.
Unfastening the strip of leather at the tail of her plait, she pulled her fingers through her braid to loosen the twists, then sat still for Edon to do the rest.
'Your hair's quite pretty to say that it's black,' Edon remarked as she began to draw the comb down through Catrin's tresses. 'I wish mine was as shiny.' She fingered one of her own locks. 'Still, I should not complain. Mine is fair, and that's the sort that all the troubadours worship. Geoffrey says it reminds him of a cornfield rippling in the wind.' She gave her head a small toss.
Catrin remembered Lewis saying that her hair put him in mind of black silk, but she kept her silence. She had no intention of using her dead husband to compete with the paragon Geoffrey. Besides, it was true that to conform to the romantic ideal of beauty, a woman needed hair the colour of a parsnip, eyes of insipid pale blue, and a nature as sweet as a nectar-filled flower. Possessing none of these traits, Catrin had long since learned to live with what she had, and good luck to those more fortunate.
Still, it was pleasant to have someone dress her hair, and when Edon finished Catrin reciprocated gladly.
At the far end of the room, Rohese de Bayvel and another young woman were performing the same task for each other, whispering and giggling.
Edon cast a glance in their direction. 'Rumour has it that Rohese has a lover among the castle knights,' she murmured, leaning back at the tug of the comb, 'but no one knows
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