monks to get word to her. That must suffice.” And with that, he was gone, leaving her to stare after him in dismay. Jonet’s sister was older. What if she had died? What if she was away or just could not come? And who would care for Jonet till Mary came? But she had no power over him. Though he had clearly weakened in those few brief seconds, she had no idea why he had done so, and it did not matter, anyway, because he had recollected himself all too soon.
She had to think, and the best way she could imagine to do so at the moment was to proceed with drying her hair. Removing the wet bodice, she found a simple red woolen loose gown in one of the bundles and slipped it over her head. Tying the ties at the neckline, she fastened a colorful tapestry bodice over it, lacing and tying it at the waist with gold cording. There was no need for girdle or belt, and the day was warm enough so that she needed no other wrap.
Outside, she found a sheltered place to sit near the cook fires, settled herself, and began to draw her brush slowly and carefully, as she had been taught, through her tangled, damp tresses. It was a tedious, difficult procedure, one she was accustomed to having someone else—usually Jonet—do for her, and soon her right arm was too tired to wield the brush. She rested it in her lap and wondered what on earth she would do on the journey, not to mention in London, without Jonet.
The breeze was gentle. It scarcely stirred her wet hair. She raised her brush again, not caring now about the new tears wetting her cheeks. She tried changing hands, attempting to brush with her left, but it was not even as strong as the right. After three strokes, she quit in frustration.
“Give me the brush, mi geneth ,” Sir Nicholas said gently behind her, “or it will never be dry.”
She looked up in surprise. He had changed out of his mail chausses into tawny hose and leather buskins, but he still wore his brigandine, and though he had removed his sword and baldric, his dagger was suspended through a metal ring at the brigandine’s waist. Wordlessly, she handed him the brush, and if he was not as efficient as Jonet, he was stronger, and he made little work of drawing the brush through her long hair. She was certain he must have things he would rather be doing, but when she suggested that one of his men might replace him at the task, his response was brief, spoken with a curtness she had come to recognize as his way of saying he did not want to discuss the matter.
Her hair was still damp when the evening meal was served, but the night was warm, and she did not fear catching a chill. Before she retired to her bed, she plaited the tresses as Jonet always had, and if the job was not as neat, at least it was done. Alone in the empty tent, she listened to the sounds of the men in the camp, prayed for Jonet, and racked her brain for a way to convince Sir Nicholas to stay at Wolveston until Jonet was well or, God forbid, until she died; but, when morning came, Alys had not even thought of a way to convince him to let her see Jonet.
The camp awoke earlier than usual. Sir Nicholas wanted to be away by dawn’s light, and at that time of year, the dawn came almost on the heels of the dark. There was a fog, but he made it clear that he had no intention of allowing it to delay him.
Alys had no immediate chance to debate his decision with him, for he sent his squire and Ian to wake her.
“How fares Mistress Hawkins?” she demanded, sitting up and clutching the covering close about her.
“She still lives, mistress,” Tom said.
“Then I would see her,” Alys told him. “I’ll go at once.”
Ian said, “Nay, mistress, the master ha’ said you mun be ready when the others be, or he’ll coom hisself tae dress you.”
She did not doubt him, but the thought of simply riding off and leaving Jonet was nearly too much to bear. “I do not know how I shall get on without her,” she said, choking back tears.
Tom stammered, “
She had to think, and the best way she could imagine to do so at the moment was to proceed with drying her hair. Removing the wet bodice, she found a simple red woolen loose gown in one of the bundles and slipped it over her head. Tying the ties at the neckline, she fastened a colorful tapestry bodice over it, lacing and tying it at the waist with gold cording. There was no need for girdle or belt, and the day was warm enough so that she needed no other wrap.
Outside, she found a sheltered place to sit near the cook fires, settled herself, and began to draw her brush slowly and carefully, as she had been taught, through her tangled, damp tresses. It was a tedious, difficult procedure, one she was accustomed to having someone else—usually Jonet—do for her, and soon her right arm was too tired to wield the brush. She rested it in her lap and wondered what on earth she would do on the journey, not to mention in London, without Jonet.
The breeze was gentle. It scarcely stirred her wet hair. She raised her brush again, not caring now about the new tears wetting her cheeks. She tried changing hands, attempting to brush with her left, but it was not even as strong as the right. After three strokes, she quit in frustration.
“Give me the brush, mi geneth ,” Sir Nicholas said gently behind her, “or it will never be dry.”
She looked up in surprise. He had changed out of his mail chausses into tawny hose and leather buskins, but he still wore his brigandine, and though he had removed his sword and baldric, his dagger was suspended through a metal ring at the brigandine’s waist. Wordlessly, she handed him the brush, and if he was not as efficient as Jonet, he was stronger, and he made little work of drawing the brush through her long hair. She was certain he must have things he would rather be doing, but when she suggested that one of his men might replace him at the task, his response was brief, spoken with a curtness she had come to recognize as his way of saying he did not want to discuss the matter.
Her hair was still damp when the evening meal was served, but the night was warm, and she did not fear catching a chill. Before she retired to her bed, she plaited the tresses as Jonet always had, and if the job was not as neat, at least it was done. Alone in the empty tent, she listened to the sounds of the men in the camp, prayed for Jonet, and racked her brain for a way to convince Sir Nicholas to stay at Wolveston until Jonet was well or, God forbid, until she died; but, when morning came, Alys had not even thought of a way to convince him to let her see Jonet.
The camp awoke earlier than usual. Sir Nicholas wanted to be away by dawn’s light, and at that time of year, the dawn came almost on the heels of the dark. There was a fog, but he made it clear that he had no intention of allowing it to delay him.
Alys had no immediate chance to debate his decision with him, for he sent his squire and Ian to wake her.
“How fares Mistress Hawkins?” she demanded, sitting up and clutching the covering close about her.
“She still lives, mistress,” Tom said.
“Then I would see her,” Alys told him. “I’ll go at once.”
Ian said, “Nay, mistress, the master ha’ said you mun be ready when the others be, or he’ll coom hisself tae dress you.”
She did not doubt him, but the thought of simply riding off and leaving Jonet was nearly too much to bear. “I do not know how I shall get on without her,” she said, choking back tears.
Tom stammered, “
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