by Speer, Flora
“Not at all. Men know nothing of these matters, do they, Meredith?” Before Meredith could answer, Isabel went on in her imperious way. “There will be great feasts when Lord Guy’s friends arrive. It will not do for me to appear in bedraggled garments such as this. I wouldn’t want to disgrace him.” Isabel looked down at her flame red woolen gown, trimmed at neck and wrists with squirrel fur. Meredith knew her mistress was wearing the newly sewn gown for the first time.
When Isabel left the main hall for the women’s quarters, Reynaud cast his eyes toward heaven as if asking for help. Meredith repressed a giggle, and for just an instant when their glances met she saw in the architect’s expression a combination of irritation toward Isabel and sympathy for Meredith that was far different from his usual cold demeanor toward her.
He was an odd person, Meredith thought, with his ever-present rolls of parchment and his quill pens. He did so many different things. He was architect and engineer and he kept Sir Guy’s household accounts and wrote letters for him. She could tell Guy respected him. Reynaud treated Thomas kindly, and she knew Father Herbert disliked him, facts that recommended Reynaud to her.
On the day Father Herbert loosed one of his periodic tirades against the Welsh, and particularly the heathen witches he believed lived in the forest, Meredith had to bite her lip to keep quiet. She knew Reynaud had seen her anger, and her fear. When Guy stormed off to the stables, and Father Herbert, much injured by the baron’s hard words to him, went to calm himself in the chapel, Reynaud approached Meredith.
“The man is a fool, ignorant and superstitious,” Reynaud said. “Sir Guy knows that and pays no heed to him. Anyone with his wits about him knows that witches are no real threat to a good Christian. One need only hold up a crucifix or make the sign of the cross and speak a prayer, and the witch is rendered harmless.”
“He doesn’t know what he is saying. He doesn’t understand.” She almost added that the people Father Herbert feared so much were harmless herbal healers, but she restrained herself just in time. She did not want to give herself away.
“In a place such as Wales,” Reynaud said thoughtfully, “it is best not to inquire too closely into people’s beliefs but rather to accept the appearance of belief and let it go at that. The folk here will come to true belief in God’s own time, if we but set a good example for them and do not drive them away from the Church with harshness. We Normans are few in number here on the border, and we impose our dominion over the people by force of arms. There is always the chance of revolt if we press them too far. It happened before at Afoncaer, under Baron Lionel, and the Normans lost that battle. We are too far away to expect help from the king’s armies in case of trouble, and so Lord Guy is in effect an independent ruler. He can do as he pleases, and he is inclined to be most lenient toward the Welsh. Rest easy, Meredith, Father Herbert has no real influence on Lord Guy, and it is that he most resents.”
“He seems very angry,” Meredith said.
“Sir Guy can keep him in hand,” Reynaud said reassuringly. “You needn’t worry about your friends.”
Meredith’s startled glance met his, and then he went away to his work, leaving her wondering just what he knew about her and her life before she had come to the castle. She knew about Geoffrey’s attempts to discover information about her friends. She had protested to Guy.
“That was before I knew who you were,” Guy said. “For all I could tell, there was an army gathering in that forest, planning to attack Afoncaer once more.”
“And now?”
“Now Geoffrey is too busy with other duties to pry into local affairs.” Guy grinned. “I daresay he misses the supply of ale I once granted him. Have no fear, Meredith, Rhys and Branwen, and you, are safe enough while I am baron here.”
Meredith did not like Geoffrey at first because she resented what she saw as his spying. She treated him with cold disdain until the day Geoffrey, tilting at the quintain set up in the practice yard, misjudged his timing. The quintain spun around, knocking Geoffrey off his horse. For a squire, garbed in well-padded clothing for this exercise, such falls usually resulted in little more than bruises and hurt pride, but on that day Geoffrey somehow tangled with his own lance and broke his right leg.
“An act of God,” Father Herbert intoned, as the white-faced, bleeding squire was carried into the great hall. “A sign from heaven. You reached too high above your station, Geoffrey, wanting to be a knight. That leg will surely heal crooked. You will never ride again. Resolve now to dedicate yourself to the Church. Resign yourself to this chastisement with courage and humility, offering your pain to God in expiation of your sins.”
Meredith wanted to shout at the priest to be silent. Could he not see the pain Geoffrey was in? Had he no kindness in his heart for a wounded young man who was not much more than a boy? Meredith hung back while Isabel examined the leg.
“Father Herbert is right, I’m afraid,” Isabel said as Geoffrey moaned under her rough touch. Meredith could not tell if it was distress of mind or body that caused the sound, but her heart went out to him.
“The leg must be removed before the wound festers and causes your death,” Isabel added. “I know of nothing else to do when there is an open wound as well as a broken bone. I’m sorry, Geoffrey. Joan, send for the barber-surgeon.”
Meredith saw tears in Geoffrey’s eyes before he turned his head away. She saw Guy looking down at his squire with pity. Then Guy looked at her, and there was a plea in his blue gaze. He would not reveal that she was a healer. He would keep her secret as he had promised, but she thought he was asking for her help. She stepped forward.
“My lady,” Meredith said. “I have a little skill in treating broken bones. Will you let me try to help Geoffrey?”
“You?” Isabel’s surprise was apparent. “What could you possibly do that I cannot?”
“Let her try, Isabel.” Guy was all innocence. “You have so many duties. Let Meredith take on this one. Let her tend Geoffrey.”
“Perhaps you are right. Let Meredith do it. One thing is certain, Geoffrey will lose his leg no matter who cares for him. I give him over to your offices, Meredith. Tend him well.” Lady Isabel gathered her blue silk skirts about her and swept out of the great hall into the women’s quarters.
“Meredith,” Joan said, “tell me what I can do to help you.”
“I’ll need wine, hot water, clean linen, and as much comfrey as you can find.”
“Comfrey. I’ve heard of that remedy.” Joan nodded her agreement. “I’ll get everything you need.”
She disappeared on her errand, and Meredith knelt beside Geoffrey, feeling the now-swelling limb with gentle hands. Geoffrey stiffened at first, but relaxed as he realized Meredith’s touch would not add to his pain. When she was finished Meredith sat back on her heels. She wished she had some of Rhys’s mixture of willow bark, hemlock, and thorn-apple sweetened with honey to feed to Geoffrey. It would put him to sleep while she did what must be done to align the broken bones correctly.
“Geoffrey,” she said, “I believe I can make your leg heal properly, but for a little while you must endure great pain and perhaps a high fever. Are you willing?”
“Can you make me fit to ride again?” Anguished brown eyes probed her face.
“I will try my best. The wound has bled a lot but it’s not as bad as it looks, and it is a separate thing from the break. The bone has not come through the skin. That’s a good sign.”
“Do whatever you have to,” Geoffrey told her. “If there’s a chance I can ride again, I can bear any pain.”
After Meredith cleaned the open wound carefully and rinsed it with wine, Guy sat on the floor and held Geoffrey’s head and shoulders. They put a piece of linen between his teeth for him to bite on, and with Joan and one of Guy’s soldiers to help, they pulled the leg until the bones were in place. Geoffrey groaned only once as they tugged on him. While the others held the leg steady, Meredith splinted it between two long pieces of wood, placing comfrey leaves betw
een the skin and the linen wrapping. Then they raised it, to help the swelling go away. Joan heated wine and Meredith added sage to it from the household stores, to soothe Geoffrey and drive away the fever he would soon develop, and chamomile to help him to a natural sleep. When he had taken the wine, Geoffrey lay quietly while Guy sat beside him, talking of pleasant things until his squire slept.
“Well done,” Reynaud said.
“Have you been watching all this time, sir?” Meredith finished rolling up a strip of leftover linen. It could be used as a smaller bandage for a cut finger or toe. She did not like to waste anything, and flax took a long time to prepare and weave into linen.
“I have watched with admiration,” Reynaud told her. “You have great skill in your hands, Meredith. Remarkable, in fact. How did one so young as yourself learn so much?”
Meredith shrugged her shoulders and tried to look unconcerned. She was saved from making an answer by Guy, who joined her and Reynaud.
“He’s asleep,” Guy said. “Geoffrey is dear to me, Meredith. He is not just my squire but the most loyal of friends. So, it seems, are you. I thank you for helping Geoffrey.” He raised her hand to his lips and held it there.
Reynaud moved discreetly away, leaving them alone in the midst of the busy hall. The tables were being set up for the evening meal; the men of Afoncaer’s garrison who were off duty wandered in and out. Father Herbert, after muttering a while about interference with God’s holy will, but unable to find anything to complain about in Meredith’s treatment of Geoffrey, finally took himself off to the chapel. Edith and Margaret began to carry in platters of bread and cheese. There would be no meat tonight, for it was Friday. And still Guy held her fingers against his lips.
“My lord, people are looking at us,” Meredith whispered.
“I would not have them gossip about you.” He dropped her hand. “But they will know you have my gratitude,” he added.
He took his place at the high seat, and Meredith went to help Lady Isabel tidy herself for the meal. She had his friendship and his gratitude. He had said so. She dared not ask for more.
Being young and in superb physical condition, Geoffrey recovered quickly once his fever subsided. In a few days he was hobbling about on a crutch one of the carpenters made for him. Within two weeks it was obvious that, given enough time, his leg would heal true and he would ride again.
“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me,” he said to Meredith as she rewrapped his bandage after inspecting his leg and packing it with fresh comfrey leaves. “I want so much to continue as Guy’s squire.”
“He’ll be glad to have you back, as soon as you are able. Even on crutches, he’d be happy to have you,” she teased. “I’ve heard he’s none too pleased with that clumsy fellow from the guards he has taken on as temporary replacement for you.”
“A man in his position should have more than one squire,” Geoffrey said, “though he will probably have me for all of my life. I doubt I’ll ever be able to afford armor and two horses so I can be knighted. But if it is God’s will that I remain a squire, then I’ll do the best I can to serve Guy.”
“Perhaps you’ll be knighted on the battlefield,” Meredith began, then stopped abruptly, realizing what that would mean. If Geoffrey were involved in battle, so would Guy. Battle would mean danger and perhaps harm to Guy. She would not wish for that.
“At least I have the best of masters,” Geoffrey said.
“You are fortunate,” Meredith replied, wishing she could say the same about her mistress.
Isabel was plainly jealous of the attention Meredith had received for healing Geoffrey, and of the new respect with which the servants and Guy’s men treated her. Isabel became spiteful and very clever at finding unpleasant tasks for Meredith to do. Her demands kept Meredith so busy that she had little time for herself. Only occasionally toward day’s end, when Isabel was conferring with Joan about her wardrobe, could Meredith slip away for a while.
One evening, when the masons had finished their work for the day, she climbed the partially completed spiral staircase of the new tower keep to the wooden platform at its top. As she went up she saw first a few dressed stones laying on the platform, ready for the next morning’s work. There was a wooden tool box, closed now against nighttime moisture so the tools would not rust, some rags, a trowel left carelessly to one side. Three steps higher and she could see over the top of the incomplete wall of the keep to trees and a glimpse of river. Meredith ran up the last few steps and stood on the platform, taking in all the view.
There before her spread the castle and its grounds. She looked across the inner bailey, with its temporary wooden buildings, to the inner wall and gate, just being closed and barred for the night, over the outer enclosure where the town was growing, to the high, wide outer wall, where the gate was already securely fastened, and to the fields and the thick forest beyond. Deep in that forest, Rhys and Branwen were sitting by the ever-burning fire, eating their evening meal and perhaps talking of her. She felt a pang in her heart, a longing to be with them, and lonely tears rose.
“No, I won’t cry,” she muttered. She whirled around so her back was to the forest, and in this direction she could see below her the shallow spot in the river where the ford was, and then downriver until the trees closed in and the river turned out of sight among them. Above her the evening sky arched, pink and gold in the west, blending to a deep blue overhead, a blue that grew even darker as she watched, until a single brilliant star appeared in the western sky.
She knew the platform on which she stood would become the wooden floor of Lord Guy’s personal chamber, the highest, most private room in all the castle. She could see the workmen had begun construction of the alcoves in the stone walls where the windows would one day be, a recess at each side of the room. The lord of Afoncaer would have the view she had just seen, the view she could no longer see because suddenly it was night. She had lingered too long and now she must get down the narrow stairs in the dark.
She gathered her skirt into her right hand and with her left hand felt for the newel stone, while her feet searched out the first step.
She went down slowly, feeling her way. It would be hard for attacking soldiers to fight their way up these stairs, she realized, and that was the purpose of their plan, but just now she was unsteady and a bit fearful that she would fall. She heard a noise coming from the basement, the ground floor just below her.
“Who’s there?” she cried out. She took two more steps down, around the spiral and into flickering torchlight.
The floor of the basement was the solid rock upon which the castle was built. A man knelt on the floor, checking the masonry. He held a torch in one hand, moving it along the wall as he ran his other hand over the smooth stones. The light was so bad she did not recognize Guy until his inspection brought him around to face her. He nodded, apparently not at all surprised to see her.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, wondering in her ignorance of such matters if the masons’ work had been faulty and the entire keep would collapse.
“Not at all. One of the first rules of survival in battle is always to supervise closely the preparations others have made for you, even if you trust them completely. The final details were finished in here today. Can’t you smell the fresh mortar?” He stuck the torch into a sconce and looked at her. “Do you like the lord’s chamber? I saw you looking over the wall.”
“It will be worthy of a Norman baron. High, and separate from the common folk.”
“There are times when privacy is pleasant. And times when it is essential.”
Meredith could feel herself blushing under his steady gaze, but she did not move when he stepped nearer. “Are you happy here, Meredith? Isabel is not unkind to you?”
“The Lady Isabel is different from anyone I have ever met before.”
“I’m certain she is.”
The torch flickered, then flared brightly as a draft blew through the room. In the changing light Guy’s hands
ome face was thrown into sharp relief. Meredith fought the urge that nearly overcame her each time she saw him, the need to touch him, to run her fingers over those chiseled features, to assure herself he was real and not a dream. He must have felt the same urge, for the back of his hand lightly brushed her cheek.
“You grown more beautiful with every day,” he said. He pushed gently at the kerchief covering her hair and it came off. He let it fall to the stone floor.
“Don’t, please.” Her hands fluttered up to cover the offending redness of her hair. He caught her wrists, and with a motion that was rough and at the same time oddly gentle, drew her arms slowly around her waist, pulling her forward until she was embracing him. She felt his hands move across her back, holding her. She felt his lips on her forehead, at her temple, sliding down to pause at her ear and then settle where neck met shoulder.
She should make him stop. She should not let him go on, and yet how indescribably sweet was his embrace, how tender the slow caress of his lips across her throat. She clung to him, unable to break away, as his mouth finally reached hers and he gathered her even more closely against his chest. He was strong and warm, and the rich masculine scent of him filled her senses. When his tongue brushed across her lips she instinctively opened her mouth, accepting him in innocent sensuality. She did not think coherently for a long, long time, not until she felt him pulling loose her tightly wrapped braids.
“No!” This time she caught his hands and managed to push him away.
“Meredith, I only want to see your lovely hair. Why do you hide it so completely?”
“Because some people think red hair is the sign of a witch. Aunt Branwen has always made me keep it covered lest people connect our healing work with witchcraft. And now Lady Isabel tells me the only correct color for a woman’s hair is blonde, like hers, or perhaps black, but nothing else.” As she spoke, Meredith was smoothing down her hair, tucking the disarranged braids back into place.
