kirtle seemed rash and chaotic.
Mint and rosemary had been strewn into the rushes and the sweet, spicy scent floated around them as his boots crushed the leaves. By comparison, her bare feet seemed vulnerable.
He squeezed her wrist in a grip that was commanding but not hurtful. Her hand felt fragile in his larger one. Puny.
Her weapons were her wits and her courage. They would have to be enough.
She willed her face not to blush as they passed Jennet the laundress on the steps to the Great Hall. Jennet had been her friend before and she wondered if she would join Genna and Ysanne in their scorn.
“Milady?” Jennet offered, propping her basket on one of her hips.
Brenna unfocused her eyes, willing herself not to see her, to not see any of them.
“I’ll get yer sister, milady.” Jennet lifted the hem of her skirt as if to run. “She’s the cause of this, she is.”
Gratitude welled in Brenna’s heart that all of them had not turned against her. “Gramercy, Jennet,” she whispered, the words coming out rough.
The sound of clattering tankards and laughing men grew louder, gusting around the walls from the depths of the Great Hall. The scent of roasting meat and baking bread wafted into the air.
They passed more and more castlefolk lingering in the passageways and alcoves. Brenna caught little snippets of conversation as they passed.
“Serves ’er right,” said one as he gawked at her bonds. “She ought not astabbed him like that, she shouldn’t of.”
“Disobeyed her father, disobeyed her husband.”
“’Tis a shame the way women act these days.”
“Now if you get right down to it, women’ll be the downfall of England, they will.”
Taking a deep breath, she determined to not allow any of them to know of her turmoil. But her upper lip beaded with perspiration as they passed more and more curious onlookers and the full humiliation of being trussed up and paraded in chains sank in.
One woman caught sight of the bonds and gasped; the goblet she held clattered to the floor, splattering ale across three people who yelped and jumped back.
Brenna winced, wishing she could stare all of them down or could somehow cover that she was bound like a cur, following in her master’s wake. Even the very bones of her cheeks seemed they would melt from the fierce hot blush on her skin.
Straightening her shoulders, she stared at unlit sconces on the wall and allowed her vision to unfocus so all the weight of their gazes would not seem so sharp and frightening.
Somehow she would find her way to freedom and independence. She would head to Italy, lose herself in her artwork and forget Montgomery ever existed.
If that were possible.
But she doubted she would ever forget this humiliation. Or the kiss he’d given her. Or the way his lips had felt on her earlobe.
The heady thought terrified her.
If only her aim into his heart had been true. If only she had not hesitated. She cursed herself for that hesitation—for being a woman. If only she were a man mayhap she would not have had such moments of weakness.
Mayhap she could steal an eating knife and try again.
They stepped over the threshold of the great hall. For a moment, Brenna halted, stunned at the changes in the room. She had not seen the chamber in a year.
Servants bustled to and fro; soldiers lounged on benches at the trestle tables. Adele sat by the window, petting Duncan; Panthos lay at her feet. Gwyneth was conspicuous by her absence and Brenna wondered about that. With luck, she would be able to speak to Adele afore the feast’s end.
Her favorite tapestry depicting a foxhunt was missing. It had been in her family for three generations, and the wall looked lonely without it.
Bread trenchers lined the large table on the dais instead of silver ones. Beside the hearth, the comfortable padded seats where she had spent many pleasant evenings playing chess were also gone. In their place: hard, straight-backed chairs.
She closed her mouth. Montgomery
Mint and rosemary had been strewn into the rushes and the sweet, spicy scent floated around them as his boots crushed the leaves. By comparison, her bare feet seemed vulnerable.
He squeezed her wrist in a grip that was commanding but not hurtful. Her hand felt fragile in his larger one. Puny.
Her weapons were her wits and her courage. They would have to be enough.
She willed her face not to blush as they passed Jennet the laundress on the steps to the Great Hall. Jennet had been her friend before and she wondered if she would join Genna and Ysanne in their scorn.
“Milady?” Jennet offered, propping her basket on one of her hips.
Brenna unfocused her eyes, willing herself not to see her, to not see any of them.
“I’ll get yer sister, milady.” Jennet lifted the hem of her skirt as if to run. “She’s the cause of this, she is.”
Gratitude welled in Brenna’s heart that all of them had not turned against her. “Gramercy, Jennet,” she whispered, the words coming out rough.
The sound of clattering tankards and laughing men grew louder, gusting around the walls from the depths of the Great Hall. The scent of roasting meat and baking bread wafted into the air.
They passed more and more castlefolk lingering in the passageways and alcoves. Brenna caught little snippets of conversation as they passed.
“Serves ’er right,” said one as he gawked at her bonds. “She ought not astabbed him like that, she shouldn’t of.”
“Disobeyed her father, disobeyed her husband.”
“’Tis a shame the way women act these days.”
“Now if you get right down to it, women’ll be the downfall of England, they will.”
Taking a deep breath, she determined to not allow any of them to know of her turmoil. But her upper lip beaded with perspiration as they passed more and more curious onlookers and the full humiliation of being trussed up and paraded in chains sank in.
One woman caught sight of the bonds and gasped; the goblet she held clattered to the floor, splattering ale across three people who yelped and jumped back.
Brenna winced, wishing she could stare all of them down or could somehow cover that she was bound like a cur, following in her master’s wake. Even the very bones of her cheeks seemed they would melt from the fierce hot blush on her skin.
Straightening her shoulders, she stared at unlit sconces on the wall and allowed her vision to unfocus so all the weight of their gazes would not seem so sharp and frightening.
Somehow she would find her way to freedom and independence. She would head to Italy, lose herself in her artwork and forget Montgomery ever existed.
If that were possible.
But she doubted she would ever forget this humiliation. Or the kiss he’d given her. Or the way his lips had felt on her earlobe.
The heady thought terrified her.
If only her aim into his heart had been true. If only she had not hesitated. She cursed herself for that hesitation—for being a woman. If only she were a man mayhap she would not have had such moments of weakness.
Mayhap she could steal an eating knife and try again.
They stepped over the threshold of the great hall. For a moment, Brenna halted, stunned at the changes in the room. She had not seen the chamber in a year.
Servants bustled to and fro; soldiers lounged on benches at the trestle tables. Adele sat by the window, petting Duncan; Panthos lay at her feet. Gwyneth was conspicuous by her absence and Brenna wondered about that. With luck, she would be able to speak to Adele afore the feast’s end.
Her favorite tapestry depicting a foxhunt was missing. It had been in her family for three generations, and the wall looked lonely without it.
Bread trenchers lined the large table on the dais instead of silver ones. Beside the hearth, the comfortable padded seats where she had spent many pleasant evenings playing chess were also gone. In their place: hard, straight-backed chairs.
She closed her mouth. Montgomery
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