the colorful language rolling through her mind wasn't English. In just a few days' time she was beginning to think in Norman French. She wondered inanely if her accent was improving as well.
Such speculation did nothing to alleviate her immediate problems. Suddenly wary of Sir Daffyd, she wondered if she should call DeCorte into the hall. Not that Raoul would be any match for the formidable younger soldier. Raoul and about a dozen guards might even the score considerably.
She rose and said, "Excuse me."
As she stepped off the dais, Switha and Alais came out of the chapel. She changed course to go to them. "It's over," Switha told her.
Jane gave an almost relieved sigh. At least the boy was out of pain. She crossed herself before she real-ized she actually meant the gesture. "His family?" she asked.
"They died of the fever. I'll see to the burial."
"Thank you. Sibelle?"
"Praying in the chapel," Alais answered.
Jane nodded. The light coming in the windows was beginning to fade. The tables would be set up for din-ner any minute now. Then the guards would wander in without any need to call them. She would speak to Bertram and DeCorte. They had to protect Lady Sibelle, but there was no need outright to offend the man who commanded the king's force in this part of the countryside. She could get Stephan in trouble if she wasn't careful. She fingered the dagger on her belt. It wasn't much protection, but there was also strength in numbers.
"I'll join Lady Sibelle at her prayers," she told the women. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder.
Sir Daffyd was lounging comfortably on his chair, one muscular thigh thrown casually over the sturdy armrest. The carved lines of his face reflected a somber mood, his eyes seeing into an inward dis-tance.
For a moment she thought she saw something familiar about the brooding cast of his features.
She shook off the urge to go to him and ask what was wrong. He wasn't a lamb who'd strayed into her keeping. Sibelle was. And he was the strongest eon-tender for the wolf who could snatch her away.
The day, she thought, had been one damn thing after another. She turned her back on Daffyd and went in to Sibelle.
9
It was. no hardship for Jane to fastthrough the dinner hour. From her place kneeling before the empty altar she could hear the sounds of the household at dinner, but she couldn't understand how anyone could find an appetite. Marguerite and Alais came and went and came back again as the long hours wore on.
She and Sibelle remained. She hoped her mind would go numb, as numb as her body gradually became.
The stones beneath her knees were hard, the chill of the unheated room seeped through the layers of cloth-ing and into tense muscle and bone. Early in the vigil, Alais placed a lit candle on the altar. Jane marked the time by watching the small spark of light eat its way through the fine beeswax. The scent of wax and honey spread out on the chapel air, lingering after the light died away.
Jane endured the hours with stubborn stoicism. This was proper. This was expected. This was what she'd been sentenced to. Once she entered a convent there would be regular prayers five times a day, fasting, and the narrow rules of the order. And there'd be many more long hours on her knees through all hours of day and night for saints' days and penitence and holy days and vigil for the dead and dying. This was her future, her life. After a few hours she thought she was going to go mad.
The older women stirred occasionally, easing tired bones. Sibelle simply kept her eyes on the altar, her lips moving in silently whispered prayer. While the faint golden light of the candle remained, it shed a warm glow over the girl's fine pink complexion. Sibelle's expression was serene with prayer. Her large eyes focused with intense concentration. Glancing at the overweight girl out of the corner of her eye, Jane made a startling discovery: Sibelle's face was actually quite pretty. After the light went out,
Such speculation did nothing to alleviate her immediate problems. Suddenly wary of Sir Daffyd, she wondered if she should call DeCorte into the hall. Not that Raoul would be any match for the formidable younger soldier. Raoul and about a dozen guards might even the score considerably.
She rose and said, "Excuse me."
As she stepped off the dais, Switha and Alais came out of the chapel. She changed course to go to them. "It's over," Switha told her.
Jane gave an almost relieved sigh. At least the boy was out of pain. She crossed herself before she real-ized she actually meant the gesture. "His family?" she asked.
"They died of the fever. I'll see to the burial."
"Thank you. Sibelle?"
"Praying in the chapel," Alais answered.
Jane nodded. The light coming in the windows was beginning to fade. The tables would be set up for din-ner any minute now. Then the guards would wander in without any need to call them. She would speak to Bertram and DeCorte. They had to protect Lady Sibelle, but there was no need outright to offend the man who commanded the king's force in this part of the countryside. She could get Stephan in trouble if she wasn't careful. She fingered the dagger on her belt. It wasn't much protection, but there was also strength in numbers.
"I'll join Lady Sibelle at her prayers," she told the women. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder.
Sir Daffyd was lounging comfortably on his chair, one muscular thigh thrown casually over the sturdy armrest. The carved lines of his face reflected a somber mood, his eyes seeing into an inward dis-tance.
For a moment she thought she saw something familiar about the brooding cast of his features.
She shook off the urge to go to him and ask what was wrong. He wasn't a lamb who'd strayed into her keeping. Sibelle was. And he was the strongest eon-tender for the wolf who could snatch her away.
The day, she thought, had been one damn thing after another. She turned her back on Daffyd and went in to Sibelle.
9
It was. no hardship for Jane to fastthrough the dinner hour. From her place kneeling before the empty altar she could hear the sounds of the household at dinner, but she couldn't understand how anyone could find an appetite. Marguerite and Alais came and went and came back again as the long hours wore on.
She and Sibelle remained. She hoped her mind would go numb, as numb as her body gradually became.
The stones beneath her knees were hard, the chill of the unheated room seeped through the layers of cloth-ing and into tense muscle and bone. Early in the vigil, Alais placed a lit candle on the altar. Jane marked the time by watching the small spark of light eat its way through the fine beeswax. The scent of wax and honey spread out on the chapel air, lingering after the light died away.
Jane endured the hours with stubborn stoicism. This was proper. This was expected. This was what she'd been sentenced to. Once she entered a convent there would be regular prayers five times a day, fasting, and the narrow rules of the order. And there'd be many more long hours on her knees through all hours of day and night for saints' days and penitence and holy days and vigil for the dead and dying. This was her future, her life. After a few hours she thought she was going to go mad.
The older women stirred occasionally, easing tired bones. Sibelle simply kept her eyes on the altar, her lips moving in silently whispered prayer. While the faint golden light of the candle remained, it shed a warm glow over the girl's fine pink complexion. Sibelle's expression was serene with prayer. Her large eyes focused with intense concentration. Glancing at the overweight girl out of the corner of her eye, Jane made a startling discovery: Sibelle's face was actually quite pretty. After the light went out,
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