by Amy Tolnitch
“Then we have been invaded by another one,” he grumbled. “Probably going to be just as much trouble.”
Giselle decided to have some wine. How could they calmly sit there discussing ghosts of all things, as if there was no question of their existence? Were the inhabitants of Falcon’s Craig mad?
“Lady Giselle,” the earl said. “Please excuse my uncle’s … opinions. He has an eccentric nature.”
“Aye, and glad of it,” Gifford responded. “Still does not change what I saw.”
“Well, it has been a bit dull around here with Muriel gone,” Piers said as he stabbed a chunk of cheese.
Cain rolled his eyes. “I, for one, am quite happy she has departed.”
Even the earl believed this? Giselle thought in amazement. “Who is Muriel?” she found herself asking.
Piers answered her. “Muriel was a troublesome ghost who refused to leave Falcon’s Craig. Well, until Amice managed to figure out why, and helped her reunite with the ghost of the man she loved.” He put his hands on the table, and leaned close. “ ‘Twas quite a touching sight to see.”
Giselle opened her mouth but no words came out. Surely, they jested, she thought with increasing misgivings.
“Enough of this talk,” Lady Amice said. “Clearly, this is disturbing to Giselle.”
“Aye,” Giselle managed to utter, thinking that disturbing was far too mild a term. She felt as if she had been thrown into another world, so far from her life at Kerwick as to defy description. She clutched a handful of her bliaut in her fist, determined not to reveal the panic she felt.
Piers rose in a fluid motion. “Cain, I would like a private word with you,” he said, his tone somber.
The earl lifted a brow and nodded. “Amice, can you see to our guest?”
“Of course.” Lady Amice ran a fingertip down the earl’s cheek, and he smiled before he kissed her.
“Lady Giselle,” Piers said with a cool nod.
She took another sip of wine. In a few moments, the table was empty but for her and Lady Amice. Saraid had excused herself to tend to some matter with Gifford following, but Giselle sensed enough of Saraid’s censure to know her task was a pretext to leave Giselle’s presence.
Perhaps I remind her of her sin in abandoning the church, Giselle thought crossly.
Lady Amice gazed at her with a pensive expression. Giselle fought the urge to squirm on her seat and kept her expression blank. To be serene in the face of chaos is a tribute to God’s greatness, she told herself. “Lady Amice, I am unaccustomed to being idle. Is there something I can do to aid you?”
The lady quirked a smile. “I do not suppose you know aught of expelling ghosts.”
Giselle paled. “Nay, I—”
“I was jesting. I am not convinced Gifford saw what he believes he did.”
“Oh.” Giselle glanced down, then back to Amice. “I have some skill with a thread.”
“Come, let us walk.” Lady Amice put a hand on her round belly. “I feel if I remain in one place for too long, I may be anchored there.”
Giselle moved forward and took Lady Amice’s arm to help her up. With the touch, her mind filled with the vision of a tiny baby girl, with blue eyes like her father’s and her mother’s dark hair. She swayed and blinked.
Lady Amice gazed at her with concern. “Are you well?”
Giselle swallowed.
“You did not eat.” Lady Amice took a cloth and piled in some cheese and bread, folding the edges. “Take this with you.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Giselle glanced at Amice’s stomach. “When is she due to arrive?”
“She?”
“The babe.”
“Very soon. Why do you say she? How do you know?”
It occurred to Giselle that Lady Amice did not question her prediction. “I … it is just that if I were to bear a babe, I would wish for a girl.”
“Hmm.” The lady looked unconvinced. “I imagine my lord would like the babe to be a boy.”
Giselle frowned. “If he cares for you, he should love any child you bear, boy or girl.”
She realized her tone had been unduly harsh when Amice touched her shoulder. “And I believe he shall.”
Giselle followed Lady Amice out of the hall and up into a sunlit solar. Guinevere padded along behind her. Rush mats covered the floor and a fire warmed the room, though one window opening was unshuttered to let in the breeze. Giselle went to stand at the window while Lady Amice sat heavily upon a stool. Guinevere discovered a patch of sun and plopped down as if she’d put down roots.
“If you do indeed have skill with a thread, I would be pleased. I do not,” Lady Amice admitted with a wry laugh. She pointed to a basket. “That is an example of my work.”
Giselle pulled out a large piece of linen and unrolled it. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Strands of gold thread were sewn into the material in an apparent attempt to depict something. She turned the piece first one way and then the other but could not recognize what that something might be.
“ ’Tis pathetic, is it not? I keep trying, then ripping out the threads. I fear the linen is too worked over to be of any use.”
Lady Amice sounded so forlorn that Giselle’s spark of laughter died. “I embroidered many tapestries for the Abbess to sell,” she said, “but … they all depicted religious scenes.” She cautioned a look at Lady Amice, and found her smiling.
“Not one honoring the Goddess Eostre?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.
“Nay.” Giselle bit her lip, oddly reluctant to offend the lady by condemning her pagan views.
“Ah, well, I suppose the Goddess Eostre shall have to wait. You say the Abbess sold your work?”
Giselle nodded. “The income helped the abbey to buy what we could not produce ourselves.”
Lady Amice lifted a brow. “You must be very talented.”
Pride is a sin, Giselle reminded herself. “So it was said.”
“Would you consider making a tapestry in honor of my … first child?” A trace of sorrow flickered over her face, and Giselle wondered if the lady had miscarried. It was common enough, but Giselle could not imagine being with child at all, let alone grasp the pain a woman must feel when losing one.
“Of course, my lady. ‘Twould be my privilege. What would you like it to be?”
Lady Amice tilted her head and stared out the window. “Something warm and beautiful, with rich colors displaying the bounty of nature around us.”
Giselle sat on a stool and began picking out the threads. It was no use. Lady Amice was right, the fabric had just been too worked over. She sorted through the basket and found another bundle of fabric, this one a long length of white linen. “Perfect,” she said, half to herself.
“What shall you do if you do not marry Piers?” Lady Amice suddenly asked.
Giselle stilled. It was as if the lady had peered into her thoughts and cut to her core. “I would take my vows, my lady,” she whispered.
“Do you not want children?”
“I …” Giselle found she couldn’t answer. She had believed her life neatly mapped out, her future clearly set, one that did not include a husband or children. With the thought of a babe, a strange, warm feeling bubbled inside her, and for a moment, she was back in her vision. “I have never thought about such, my lady.”
“Well, perhaps ‘tis time you did.” Lady Amice stood and arched her back. “Oh, but I wish the babe would come. My back plagues me every moment.”
“I could make you an ointment to rub into your skin.”
“My, you are a clever woman.” Lady Amice put her hand over her mouth as she yawned. “If naught else, you could earn your own livelihood with your skills.”
Giselle stared at her, a tight kernel of an idea taking root. Earn her own livelihood? Make her own way? It was inconceivable. Wasn’t it?
“I am going to lie down for a bit. Do not stay shut up in here too long. ‘Tis a lovely day.”
“Aye, my lady.”<
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Lady Amice stopped at the door. “And do not forget to eat,” she added in a knowing voice. “I would not wish you to become … lightheaded again.”
After she left, Giselle stared at the door. Did Lady Amice sense what had happened was more than a combination of lack of food and a chance assumption? She swallowed, fear suddenly tightening her throat.
You must be more careful, she told herself. Keep your secrets hidden, where they cannot hurt you.
“I cannot marry her,” Piers said baldly.
Cain eyed him with clear concern. “Is it the girl you object to or the idea of marriage?”
“Both.” Piers made a fist. “You have an heir well on the way. Asides, I have little to offer a bride.”
“You have your name.”
Piers gave him a baleful look.
“I would grant you Styrling Castle.”
“Nay. Truly, I do not want it. I am happy to raise horses and,” he grinned, “keep the ladies of the castle pleasured when the spirit moves me.”
“Are you?”
For a moment, Piers hesitated, the question raising a yearning buried deep inside him. He shoved it away. “Very. And as for the girl …” He stretched out his arms. “She has made it clear she has no interest in pressing marriage. Why the woman would wish to return to a nunnery is beyond my comprehension, but it seems she is intent on doing so.”
Cain rolled a quill in his fingers. “Though the Bishop sent her away.”
Piers frowned. “This whole business does not feel right.”
“I agree.”
“I think I should send a message to the Bishop of Ravenswood. I have a right to learn why he sent her from Kerwick, why she has not taken her vows, and why he kept Father’s letter all this time.”
“I have already taken that step.”
Piers blinked, then smiled. “My thanks.”
“I also asked him to recommend another nunnery if Kerwick will not accept her return.”
“Surely there is a place for her.”
Cain gave a faint smile. “With enough coin, there should be.”
“I will pay the fee.”
“It is not necessary. Falcon’s Craig has enough wealth.”
Bitterness left a sour taste in Piers’s mouth. Though he loved his brother, a part of him could not help being resentful that he was beholden to Cain for everything. He knew he was fortunate—most men in his position had to choose to fight or to join the church. He had nothing against a good battle, but it would be tiresome to do naught but move from one enemy to another. “I will see to it. The last sale of horses I made to the Earl of Whitbourne should cover the cost of one nun.” His mouth turned down.
“Is there aught else amiss, Piers?” Cain gazed at him steadily. “Of late, you seem not quite yourself.”
Piers crushed the urge to howl in sheer anguish. If you only knew how right you are, he wanted to say. But no, Cain shouldered enough burdens, had done enough for Piers. He would not thrust this dilemma upon his brother’s shoulders as well. Particularly not when the birth of his child was imminent. “I am fine.”
And as he turned to leave, he almost believed it until the sound of soft laughter echoed in his mind.
Hours into sketching a design for Lady Amice’s tapestry, a ray of sunlight spilled across the parchment and Giselle glanced up to look out the window. A slight breeze brought the scents of Falcon’s Craig to her nose: salt, the inescapable odor of animals, and the fragrant scent of flowers and lush grass. She stood and walked over to the window.
It overlooked part of the bailey. Below, people walked to and fro carrying bundles and leading horses, all of the activity punctuated by calls back and forth. She smoothed her hands over her skirts and took in the busy scene.
She didn’t think she could ever become accustomed to the noise and frenzy of activity. Life at Kerwick had been hard, but quiet, the slow rhythm of the days blending into each other. She could spend most of a day without hearing another’s voice.
Her heart ached with the loss. Suddenly, she felt as if the solar walls closed in on her with nowhere to go. “Dear Lord, why am I here?” she whispered.
He did not answer.
She put away her sketches and descended the stairs. The chapel beckoned her like a small anchor in a roiling sea. As she made her way across the bailey, however, she spied a low-walled garden.
Perhaps there would be some arnica there, she thought, remembering Lady Amice’s discomfort. When she passed through the gate, she paused and smiled in pleasure. Someone had taken great care with the garden.
Grassy walkways spread out in a labyrinthine pattern, edged by apple and pear trees. Raised beds held so many herbs and flowers, Giselle could scarcely take it all in. As she moved into the garden, she smelled lavender. Deep into the garden she saw a squat stone structure. No doubt the well-loved bathhouse, she thought, wrinkling her nose.
She stopped at an overgrown bed of sage, betony, and wormwood. Birdsong filled the air, and as she dropped to her knees and put her hands on the damp soil, the burdensome pressure on her shoulders eased.
The soothing familiarity of weeding washed over her, the fragrant air soft against her cheeks. When she glanced up, it took her a moment to realize a face was staring back at her. Giselle shrieked and fell back on her bottom.
She heard giggling before a young girl hopped into view. The child stared at her with big brown eyes, a small sprite with a mop of brown curls.
“Hello,” she said, stopping to give Guinevere a pat.
Giselle stood and tried to dust off her skirts. “Hello to you.”
“I am Olive,” the girl said. “You must be the one who is going to marry Piers.”
“Do you mean Lord Veuxfort?” Giselle was shocked at the girl’s familiarity.
Olive made a face. “He does not have a title. He is just Father’s younger brother.”
“I see.” Giselle crinkled her brow. “Your father—”
“The earl. Well,” Olive said with a shrug, “he is not my father by birth, but he rescued me when my mother was killed.” She beamed Giselle a smile. “I like to call him Lancelot.”
Giselle’s lips quirked. “Ah, yes, you are the one who named Guinevere.”
Olive nodded. “When are you going to marry Piers? I love weddings.” She rubbed her belly. “ ‘Tis always the best food.”
“I am not sure that is going to happen, Olive. I have devoted myself to God.”
The child’s eyes grew wide. “Why would you do such a thing if you do not have to? You do not get to wear pretty clothes and you have to pray all the time. Father told me you cannot even eat meat!” she finished in a horrified voice.
Giselle crushed a bunch of weeds in her fist. “You are just a child. You do not understand. There is great peace in leading a simple life devoted to the Lord.”
“Sounds dull as dirt.”
“I … well, ‘tis true, the life of a nun is not exciting, but there are other, richer rewards.”
Olive wrinkled her nose. “I do not understand. Asides, all the women want Uncle Piers.”
“I am not like other women.” Giselle stepped around her and headed for a planting of chamomile. The girl followed, trailed by Guinevere.
“What did you do at the convent?”
Giselle realized with an inward sigh that the solitude she’d so briefly enjoyed had ended. “Prayed, of course. I also embroidered tapestries and helped the sisters with other tasks.”
“How old were you when you went there? Did you always want to be a nun?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Aye, Uncle Gifford says the same.” Apparently undeterred by Giselle’s comment, Olive said, “Well?”
Giselle sighed. “I was seven years of age. It is the only life I have ever really known.”
Olive appeared to consider that for a moment. “Did you get to play with the other girls?”
Giselle stared at her, realizing the very idea was foreign to her. “There �
�� there were no other girls my age. And I was too busy to play.”
“Uncle Piers knows how to play,” Olive assured her.
“I am sure he does.”
Olive hopped close, her eyes gleaming. “I am not supposed to know about this, but I overheard Clarise in the kitchen. She says Uncle Piers is built like a stallion, and knows very well how to use the gifts God has given him.”
Giselle felt a flush start at her toes and creep up her body to burn her face. Good Lord, how was she to respond to that? She was appalled by the child’s casual words. Wasn’t she?
Surely, God would not force her to marry such a man. A stallion? Her mind filled with imaginings. Though she’d never seen a man’s member, the Abbess had talked enough about how fortunate Giselle was to escape having her body used by a man. Like her mother, she thought with an inward cringe of shame.
“As I told you, I have committed myself to the Lord. I am not going to marry anyone but Him.”
Olive sniffed. “Are you hungry?”
Momentarily perplexed by the change of subject, Giselle finally said, “Aye.”
“Let us go to the kitchen. Adela always has something for me.” Olive reached out and took Giselle’s hand, tugging her toward the gate. “Come, Guinevere. Food.”
The dog bounded ahead with energy Giselle had never seen her exhibit.
“I shall have to think of a way to change your mind, Lady Giselle,” Olive murmured as they walked. “You are far too beautiful to waste away in a nunnery.”
Giselle opened her mouth to correct the girl, but never got the chance. Her vision blurred, then faded completely. Another scene slowly spilled into her mind.
She was running through the forest. The crunch of another’s footsteps on dry leaves grew closer and she raced ahead, terror lodged in her throat. Shadows and mist shrouded the trees, making it impossible to discern her direction.
“Giselle!” a man’s voice yelled.
Her foot caught on a root, and she stumbled, coming up hard against the rough bark of a tree. Her lungs burned, and she panted for breath, desperate to escape from the man chasing her.
“Giselle, stop!” he called again.
She paused and tried to catch her breath. The voice sounded like Piers. But, no, that couldn’t be right. Why would he be chasing her through the forest? She turned and tried to peer through the dense growth.
