All the rest of the humiliating encounter rushed back at her and she put her head down. There was no possible way she could tell Batty any more. When she managed to raise her head, Batty gave her a knowing look tinged with compassion.
“We shouldn’t tell Anne about any of that,” she said wisely, helping her out of the sopping dress.
“How is Anne?” she asked, glad to have something else to worry about besides her own disgrace.
“Better. Sleeping comfortably now. The coughing stopped at last.”
That was a relief. Fay relaxed while Batty swaddled her in a warm, wool dressing gown, letting her intricate braids down in no time flat. “Is there anything else you need?” she asked sweetly.
“My life back,” Fay answered dully, instantly regretting yet another outburst.
Batty nodded matter of factly. “Yes, of course. I’ll have a kitchen lad bring you some bread and cheese right away.” She smiled and patted Fay on the arm. “I’m certain Sir Tristan won’t mention you falling in the tub, so don’t worry overmuch about it.”
As soon as she was gone, Fay got out of bed and hurried to the desk to study the book some more. She was grateful Batty had heard her wrong, not wanting to alienate the sweet girl who only seemed to want to help her. But how her maid had heard bread and cheese instead of what she’d actually said was a small miracle she wouldn’t take for granted. She had to learn to keep her mouth shut from now on.
And off the guests, she thought with chagrin.
Chapter 6
What had he done? What had he done? Tristan paced the large chamber, denigrating himself, angry enough to break something, but not willing to act a further savage. What had he done? He’d almost stolen the virtue of his new liege lord’s youngest daughter, is what he’d almost done. With nothing to break, he smacked the side of his head, rattling the contents but not satisfying his guilt and shame.
The poor girl was probably not right in the head and he’d taken sickening advantage of her. It was worse that she’d seemed so smitten with him, even worse that he found her so attractive, suspecting as he did that she wasn’t well. Worst of all was that even now, as disgusted as he was with himself, he still couldn’t keep his twisted mind from returning to her soft caresses, her lusty sighs. Those hands of hers had driven him mad, to the point where he’d convinced himself she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But she wasn’t a tavern wench up for the taking.
He’d dragged her into the tub on top of him. Instead of giving him his due, which would have been an earsplitting scream and a smack in the mouth, she’d given him something quite different. He groaned and paced more vigorously, trying to wipe out the recollection of her hands and lips and body as she’d ground against him.
“Why did she do that?” he wondered aloud. He felt ashamed all over again to think she was, in some way, an accomplice to his depraved actions.
The poor thing couldn’t know what she was doing. She had probably been ordered to do whatever he asked and look at what he’d done! Had he been out in battle so long he’d lost all sense of chivalry? Common decency?
Brom burst into his chamber with an offhanded bow. Tristan had wanted to find Lady Fay and beg her forgiveness but now that Brom was here, he got some of his equilibrium back. Of course, that would be stupid and only make things worse. Nothing had really happened. Perhaps her gown was ruined, but her chastity remained unsullied. A few gropes and kisses? That was all it had been, really. He’d spent the last ten minutes overreacting. He didn’t owe anyone anything. In fact, he’d make a point to stay far away from her until this visit was over. He chuckled softly to himself, wondering if the daft darling would even remember what had happened. He felt instantly contrite at such a thought, his bad mood returning. He was a monster.
“Let’s get you stitched up,” Brom said, holding up the sewing case he carried with him at all times.
“It took you long enough to recall your lord was injured,” he snarled.
Brom raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Well, the lads here like their wine. You can learn a lot from people who’ve had too much to drink.”
“I hope you haven’t told too much,” he said. “It appears you’re quite drunk.”
“It appears that you aren’t drunk enough, my lord,” Brom replied. “It would have helped with the mending of your shoulder and, perhaps, sweeten your sour mood.”
“What of your injuries?” he asked, ignoring the impertinent tone.
It was true enough he was in a bad mood and had taken it out on Brom, who had probably learned every secret worth knowing in his time in the great hall. Brom rolled up his sleeve to show a neat line of stitches going across his forearm where he’d been sliced.
“One of the lady’s maids did it, and a good job, too. Wasn’t a bit squeamish. Really very pretty as well.” He squinted, then smiled triumphantly. “Batilda was her name. Really very pretty.”
“Then best you call Batilda in here to take care of my shoulder,” Tristan said. “You’re drunker than I first thought.”
Brom sighed. “I am sorry it’s taken me so long to see to you,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But when that sweet lass was showing me so much concern, how could I not stay and show my gratitude?” He gathered up the candles for more light and took Tristan’s shoulder. “Ask me anything you like about this place. You’ll see my time was not wasted.”
Tristan winced as the needle slid through his ragged skin, hating the pull of the thread. He honestly didn’t mind getting sliced and stabbed as much as he minded the fixing of those wounds. He’d learned to shut up about such things at a very young age, as it earned him nothing but teasing. To take his mind off it, he began to question Brom.
“What did you learn of the daughters?” he asked. “The second one, is she …” he trailed off, waiting for Brom to fill him in. It rankled him that he was so curious, but it was better than hearing the squeak of the stitches as Brom yanked and knotted.
“The younger one. That would be Lady Fay, right?” Brom asked, squinting down at Tristan’s shoulder and shaking his head. “This is a nasty one, this time.”
“Yes, Fay,” Tristan said, trying not to show his impatience for answers.
“She’s twenty-three if you can believe it. Looks a might bit younger if you ask me. The poor elder one is twenty-five and, with that cough of hers, it’s most likely she’ll stay a spinster.”
Tristan didn’t give a damn about their ages. When he saw a man his age and older marrying a twelve year old, he wondered what they found to talk about. He couldn’t bring himself to wonder what they did when they weren’t talking. Now he was thinking about Fay’s kneading touches, how it had made some muscles limp, another not so much.
“But what is she like?” he demanded. “Sorry, bit tender there.”
Brom nodded. “I tell you this is about to go septic. You’ll need to see the physician here tomorrow.” He swore quietly. “We shouldn’t have waited so long to mend it.”
“Quit acting like an old woman and answer my questions.”
“What Lady Fay is like? Ah, well, she knows how to read. Has a passion for it. Her maid Batilda said she always has her head in the clouds due to some story or other.”
Tristan found it impressive that she knew how to read, but didn’t understand how she could enjoy such a thing. He himself knew a few bible verses to keep out of trouble with any priests he came across, and he could recognize and sign his name. Sir Andrew had hired him the best tutors, but none of their teaching had stuck. He’d eventually grown tired of the beatings and scared them all away when he was big enough.
“That might explain it,” he muttered, shaking his head at Brom’s questioning look. “There’s no word of her being simple, dull-witted, then?”
“Quite the opposite, it seems. But I’ve heard that too much reading, any kind of learning really, can be bad for a lady’s health. Blocks up their humors or some such, and can lead to madness. Why? Did you notice something amiss about her when she was
bathing you?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, feeling strangely uncomfortable speaking about her to Brom like this.
And even more strangely, he found himself worrying for her health. If the thing she enjoyed doing so much was wreaking havoc with her humors, shouldn’t her father put a stop to it? While Sir Walter seemed to take care of his lands with a firm hand, he did seem awfully lax when it came to his daughters. It was one thing to indulge a loved one, but at the risk of their health and sanity? That such a beautiful young lady might be wasting away due to negligence tore at him worse than Brom’s needle. As much as it now ate at him, he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. He certainly couldn’t tell Sir Walter how to raise his children. But if one of those children was Tristan’s wife, then he could intervene. He’d burn what few books were at Dernier Keep if it meant—
A particularly harsh stab of the needle brought him out of his harried thoughts. Had he actually been so worried about Lady Fay that he considered marrying her to save her health?
“I must have a fever,” he said. “Am I feverish, Brom?”
Brom looked at him askance. “You might be, a bit. Should I call for the physician tonight?”
Tristan normally didn’t worry overmuch about his health. He’d had countless injuries and none had killed him yet. But he couldn’t think of another reason why he’d be so worked up about Lady Fay unless he was growing weak with fever.
“Perhaps you should, Brom,” he said, unable to shake his unease. “Perhaps you should at that.”
Chapter 7
Fay managed to keep from seeing Sir Tristan for a whole week, or rather, she’d kept him from seeing her. She’d found out Anne’s window overlooked the courtyard where the knights and squires did their workouts, so she’d actually been keeping a close eye on him. Right now, he was showing one of Sir Walter’s pages how to use a sword and she was having a hard time not thinking it was adorable.
She’d grown a little more used to the everyday violence of castle life and stopped thinking the practicing at killing one another was barbaric. According to Batty, they were in almost constant danger of being raided by someone. While Sir Walter was retired, she found out he still lorded over an entire army, which included Sir Tristan and his men. It would have been nice to go down and see the ceremony where he actually plighted his troth, or gave his oath of fealty or whatever it was that sealed the deal, but she hadn’t quite gotten over her extreme embarrassment yet.
Now Anne was completely well again and wouldn’t hear of missing another supper, so she was out of excuses. She would have to face him again tonight. She’d come to think of the thudding, clanging, and grunting as a soothing sort of background music as she whiled away the days hiding in Anne’s room. She knew it wasn’t getting her any closer to her goal of falling in love. But whenever she thought she was ready to face him, every little detail of that horrible/amazing episode came rushing back at her.
She still couldn’t figure out what exactly hurt the most. His dismissing her as a trollop or his just plain dismissing her. Even while she simmered with rage at his treatment, she couldn’t help think about how his firm, warm skin had felt under her fingertips. The way his lips had felt against hers for those few glorious/terrible moments. And she couldn’t even talk to Anne about it.
“Fay, dear, I asked what color you thought I should use here.”
She dragged her eyes away from the window and blinked owlishly at Anne, who was bent over her weaving. At first, she was going to point to whichever color was closest, but then she really took a good look at the work in progress.
“Wow, that’s really beautiful,” she said. It was a pastoral scene, as so many of them were, with people milling about in front of some hills. The sun, however, was coming up over the hill, and the colors Anne had used would have put any real sunrise to shame. “How do you get such colors?” she asked. “And why can’t we get them for our gowns?”
She’d been joking about the last part, but Anne nodded seriously. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? To have a dress this color?” She pointed to a flashy red-orange. “But the dyes are so very expensive as it is, I feel grateful to have them even in such small quantities for my weaving.” She paused and looked hard at Fay. “I’ll be glad to finally get out of this room,” she said. “Haven’t you missed seeing all the festivities? You shouldn’t have stayed away because of me.”
Fay heard a little rebuke. She knew she should have represented as acting lady of the house, but she’d been a coward, plain and simple.
“I was too worried about you,” she said, which was also true. The coughing fits had stayed away for a full two days now, but Anne was thinner than before. A plague victim would have been concerned about her. “You’re all I’ve got.”
Her voice cracked on the last bit. She adored Batty. Her maid was fun and perfect for getting quick answers to things, but she didn’t know what she’d do if she was stuck here without Anne’s gentle guidance.
“Nonsense,” Anne said. “You needn’t worry a bit. If you cared at all about me, you wouldn’t make me suffer by thinking I’ve kept you from what you want to do. I haven’t seen you crack open the pages of a book since I first fell ill.”
Fay scowled. Apparently the original sister, or whoever she’d replaced due to the curse, had loved reading. And it wasn’t as if Fay didn’t enjoy a good romance or mystery novel, it was just that the books at the castle were all written in impossible to read old English, or French, or Latin. The only thing she had that she could read was the odd instruction book that was in front of her when she first arrived.
She scowled some more. She’d given up on that book, hiding it in her closet. After the initial few descriptions, it turned out to be full of negativity and complaining. She knew curiosity would eventually drive her back to it but, for now, she wanted to believe she wasn’t destined to join the ranks of those bitter failures. Especially since the consequences for failure were so steep. And even more especially since she didn’t have a love prospect in sight.
Things were bleak enough without reading the words of the ones who’d come before her, knowing the only reason she was here was because they’d given up. Died. If she thought about it too long, she got so angry she wanted to punch the stone walls. Then there were other times like now that she felt almost content, as if she weren’t under a curse at all.
Love. How hard could it be to find someone? A loud clanging rang up from the courtyard below and she turned away from Anne, pushed aside her dark thoughts, and ran to look out the window.
“Ooh, little Sam has finally taken down young Adam,” she said.
She tilted her head to the side, watching the looming figure of Sir Tristan, huge even from that distance, come and help the fallen lad back to his feet. Adorable. He clapped the young champion on the shoulder, nearly sending the kid to his knees. Even more adorable.
She felt her face about to burst from the smile he’d brought to it. If she wasn’t going to end up like those bitter Betties who’d brought her here, she needed to toughen up, get back on the proverbial horse and try again.
“What should we wear tonight, Sister?” she asked Anne. “I’m in the mood to look especially fine.”
*
Fay twirled in her dark wine-colored dress, the pale blue sleeves almost touching the floor. Her hair was a masterpiece of plaits, her neck weighted down with a big, fat pearl.
“Locked and loaded,” she muttered to herself as she peered into the somewhat cloudy and distorted mirror in Anne’s chamber. Sir Tristan didn’t stand a chance. In fact, she was going to keep her options open. The castle was full of men, ripe for falling in love with.
“Lady Fay, which slippers?” Batty asked, running from Fay’s chamber with her arms laden with shoes.
She was getting ready in Anne’s room, slumber party style, partly because she still wasn’t sure what looked nice, partly because Anne had the mirror. And they were having fun. She only wished once that she had her phone so t
hey could play music, but with Batty’s near constant chatter, she hardly missed it.
“Which shoes do you think, Anne?” she asked.
Anne took the selection very seriously, as she took everything, choosing a gold-embroidered pair. “Don’t we all look like summer birds?” she asked, pinching her cheeks for the tenth time. Even with her rouge, she still looked pale, still had slight dark circles under her eyes, but her spirits seemed high.
“We look amazing,” Fay agreed. “You, too, Batty,” she said, feeling bad for leaving Marjorie out. Anne’s maid hadn’t done anything special to her appearance, despite their beauty party, but Batty had gone all out with her best gown and twisted silk ribbons in her hair. Marjorie acted like she didn’t hear or care, same as usual, and kept combing Anne’s hair.
“Brom’s going to be singing tonight,” Batty said shyly. “I’m eager to hear it.”
“Who’s Brom?” Fay asked. The name was familiar to her.
Batty blushed. “Sir Tristan’s squire. His most trusted squire. I stitched up his arm when he first arrived and he’s been very kind to me since.”
Fay clapped her hands together, remembering how she knew the name. It was in the book, right at the front. She saw it clearly in her mind’s eye. Brom—likes Batty. Not much of a description, but the important information was there.
“He likes you,” she said.
Batty blushed harder and Anne shook her head disapprovingly. Fay wanted to stick out her tongue. Was there a no fraternizing rule amongst servants or something? Who else were they supposed to get with? She had a sudden, interesting thought. According to the curse she had to prove true love existed, but did it have to be her who fell in love? What if she could prove it with someone else, like sweet Batty and the singing squire Brom?
That would probably be way too easy, but she decided to keep an eye on things with those two. She needed any ray of sunshine she could get in this new, stressful existence. She almost laughed. She’d been waited on hand and foot since she got here, got to watch live action knight fights during the day, and had all this fun girl time with her new friends (and one sister). Sometimes, she forgot why she would suddenly be overcome with nausea inducing anxiety.
Endearing (Knight Everlasting Book 1) Page 6
