Jane, who had no prayers in her, considered this new bit of informa-tion.
She had no idea how long it was before Alais and Marguerite came to silent agreement and rose
pon-derously to their feet.
"Come, my lamb," Marguerite said, touching Sibelle's shoulder. "Time to rest now."
"But—" Sibelle began.
"No prayers can help the poor lad, anyway. He died in sin. There's nothing even the blessed Mother can do to save his soul."
"Come away, my lady." Alais added her urgings as the girl hesitated reluctantly.
Jane waited on her knees, unwilling to rise, if her numb legs would let her rise, until Sibelle acquiesced to her women. She kept her mouth firmly shut. No era was a good one to argue religious philosophy. An era where torture and execution awaited those who
didn't follow the current party line or the right pope was an especially dangerous place to voice an opin-ion. So she kept still and fumed over the notion of eternal damnation for anyone who didn't receive the sacraments. These people believed it; that was what made excommunication such a powerful political weapon.
Sibelle didn't hesitate for long. She crossed herself and let Marguerite help her up. "Kings and priests shouldn't bring God into their arguments," she com-plained, expressing an opinion of her own.
"Come away," Alais coaxed. "You're cold, my love. Let's get you to bed."
Jane waited until the other three left before climb-ing to her feet. It took a few minutes of stumbling painfully around the dark chapel before she got enough circulation back to attempt the walk up to her room. She picked her way silently through the sleeping forms in the main hall, managing to find her way up the stairs and into her bed without any light. Berthild didn't seem to be anywhere for her to trip over as she passed through the storeroom. The dogs were already comfortably curled up on the fur bed-cover.
Once in bed, she thought it would be easy to find sleep. The day had gone on forever, and she was wea-rier than she'd ever been in her life. But sleep didn't come, although she gradually grew warm and relaxed, and the image of the dying boy didn't haunt her as she thought it would. The regret was there, but not so sharp and immediate as it had been. Perhaps the hours in the chapel had done something to allevi-ate her sense of blame. But still she couldn't sleep. The events of the day had been too overwhelming, and the realization that she was trapped forever in an alien culture was hitting her with the force of a blow.
She didn't toss restlessly, just lay on the straw mat-tress and listened. To the roar of blood in her ears, to the dogs' breathing, to rodents skittering among the storage barrels. She made a mental note about bring-ing in some hungry cats from the tithe barn. Some-time, very late, the storeroom door creaked open. She assumed it was Berthild until she heard the unmistak-able, soft clinking of chain mail. She started up with a terrified gasp. Her hand grasped the hilt of the dagger she made a habit of leaving under her pillow. Melisande whuffed gently and got up to investigate, in no hurry to attack the intruder.
Jane started to slip out of bed, not sure whether to hide, call out, or follow the dog into the storeroom.
She was saved from having to decide by the sound of Berthild's voice whispering words Jane couldn't make out. The girl must have tucked her sleeping pallet somewhere out of the way. Berthild's question received an equally soft answer. There was a muffled giggle, then sounds of chain mail and clothes being shed. Jane waited stiffly in the dark. Melisande bolted back into the alcove as though someone had
shoved her through the curtain. It would seem that Berthild's guardsman lover had arrived. He must have waited until he thought the chatelaine deeply asleep before venturing in.
She wondered if she should throw him out or let the couple be. She valued her privacy, which was hard to come by in the communal atmosphere of the castle. She would
She had no idea how long it was before Alais and Marguerite came to silent agreement and rose
pon-derously to their feet.
"Come, my lamb," Marguerite said, touching Sibelle's shoulder. "Time to rest now."
"But—" Sibelle began.
"No prayers can help the poor lad, anyway. He died in sin. There's nothing even the blessed Mother can do to save his soul."
"Come away, my lady." Alais added her urgings as the girl hesitated reluctantly.
Jane waited on her knees, unwilling to rise, if her numb legs would let her rise, until Sibelle acquiesced to her women. She kept her mouth firmly shut. No era was a good one to argue religious philosophy. An era where torture and execution awaited those who
didn't follow the current party line or the right pope was an especially dangerous place to voice an opin-ion. So she kept still and fumed over the notion of eternal damnation for anyone who didn't receive the sacraments. These people believed it; that was what made excommunication such a powerful political weapon.
Sibelle didn't hesitate for long. She crossed herself and let Marguerite help her up. "Kings and priests shouldn't bring God into their arguments," she com-plained, expressing an opinion of her own.
"Come away," Alais coaxed. "You're cold, my love. Let's get you to bed."
Jane waited until the other three left before climb-ing to her feet. It took a few minutes of stumbling painfully around the dark chapel before she got enough circulation back to attempt the walk up to her room. She picked her way silently through the sleeping forms in the main hall, managing to find her way up the stairs and into her bed without any light. Berthild didn't seem to be anywhere for her to trip over as she passed through the storeroom. The dogs were already comfortably curled up on the fur bed-cover.
Once in bed, she thought it would be easy to find sleep. The day had gone on forever, and she was wea-rier than she'd ever been in her life. But sleep didn't come, although she gradually grew warm and relaxed, and the image of the dying boy didn't haunt her as she thought it would. The regret was there, but not so sharp and immediate as it had been. Perhaps the hours in the chapel had done something to allevi-ate her sense of blame. But still she couldn't sleep. The events of the day had been too overwhelming, and the realization that she was trapped forever in an alien culture was hitting her with the force of a blow.
She didn't toss restlessly, just lay on the straw mat-tress and listened. To the roar of blood in her ears, to the dogs' breathing, to rodents skittering among the storage barrels. She made a mental note about bring-ing in some hungry cats from the tithe barn. Some-time, very late, the storeroom door creaked open. She assumed it was Berthild until she heard the unmistak-able, soft clinking of chain mail. She started up with a terrified gasp. Her hand grasped the hilt of the dagger she made a habit of leaving under her pillow. Melisande whuffed gently and got up to investigate, in no hurry to attack the intruder.
Jane started to slip out of bed, not sure whether to hide, call out, or follow the dog into the storeroom.
She was saved from having to decide by the sound of Berthild's voice whispering words Jane couldn't make out. The girl must have tucked her sleeping pallet somewhere out of the way. Berthild's question received an equally soft answer. There was a muffled giggle, then sounds of chain mail and clothes being shed. Jane waited stiffly in the dark. Melisande bolted back into the alcove as though someone had
shoved her through the curtain. It would seem that Berthild's guardsman lover had arrived. He must have waited until he thought the chatelaine deeply asleep before venturing in.
She wondered if she should throw him out or let the couple be. She valued her privacy, which was hard to come by in the communal atmosphere of the castle. She would
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