“We water once or twice a week in winter. Morning is the best time. And we protect the herb pots from too much wind so they won’t dry out.”
She hugged Alys. “When did you get so smart? I’m so proud of my girl. You know more about herbs than some healers do.”
“I’m a good learner. Like you,” Alys said. “Sephare taught you and now you teach me.”
“You will be a great healer someday, Alys,” she predicted. “You will help the sick and all of your tenants. You will have the healthiest family and people will come far and wide to seek your skills.”
“Will I learn more about herbs when I go to the royal court?”
Sadness tugged at Merryn’s heart. Alys and Ancel would turn seven next August and leave Kinwick to foster elsewhere. Ancel would remain nearby with Hardie and Johamma at Winterbourne, so she and Geoffrey would be able to see him more often. Alys, though, was to go to the royal court and enter the queen’s household. King Edward had wanted both de Montfort children to be under his care but Geoffrey had promised the twins would foster at Winterbourne. The compromise the king arranged would send her daughter far away. It was good that Merryn had met Queen Philippa on several occasions and thought highly of her. She doubted she could have entrusted Alys with anyone else.
Merryn touched the soil of the sage container and picked up a bucket of water. She began watering the herb.
“It’s possible but in the queen’s household, you will learn of other things. Music and dancing. Sewing.”
“Will I get to read?” Alys asked, a hopeful look on her face.
Her daughter already knew her letters and could write and read short sentences.
“I will make certain the queen knows of your desire. You know ’tis a great honor to serve her.”
“I like the queen. She has been very kind to me when she’s visited Kinwick.” Alys paused, her gaze fastened on the ground as she kicked the dirt with her boot.
“Is something wrong?” Merryn asked gently.
“Nay. It’s just that . . . I have never been without Ancel. We will be far apart for the first time. It makes me sad to think about it.”
She set the bucket down and drew her daughter close. “I know. You two are not only siblings but great friends. It will be an adventure, though. You’ll each learn new and different things so that when you come home to Kinwick, you’ll have so much to share with one another.”
“Ancel will have more time to practice with his sword.” Alys’ bottom lip thrust out in a pout. “Are you sure I can’t take mine with me?”
Raynor Le Roux, Geoffrey’s cousin, had crafted a small wooden sword for Ancel when he’d turned six. Alys had put her foot down and demanded Raynor do the same for her. He started teaching the twins the basics of swordplay and Geoffrey had continued with their lessons.
“It’s not appropriate for a girl to swing a sword,” Merryn began.
“Why not? I’m just as good at it as Ancel is.” Alys’ mouth set in determination.
“The royal court is different from Kinwick. I think it’s a good idea for you to learn to handle a sword and protect yourself. The ladies at court, though, allow men to do all the protecting.”
“Hmph,” Alys said, disdain written across her delicate features. “I’m not sure if I’ll like these ladies at court.”
“You don’t have to like them. You do need to be polite to them, however, and learn as much as you can from them. When you come home to Kinwick on your breaks, you may practice swordplay until your arm threatens to fall off.”
Alys laughed, the sound carrying across the inner bailey. Merryn joined in and they finished checking the soil and watering the rest of the pots. They returned their buckets to the well and she intended for them to pick and grind some herbs when Tilda hurried across the yard toward them.
“It’s Riola, my lady. Her time has come. Ellison just came to find you.”
“I’ll get my case,” Merryn said.
“I’ve already taken it to the stables, my lady, and told them to saddle Destiny for you.”
“Can I come, Mother?” Alys pleaded.
Merryn said, “Not this time, love. Would you stay and pick the herbs we’d planned to harvest and take them to the herb room?”
“Having a baby can take a long time,” Alys pointed out. “Should I grind the herbs if you’re not back?”
“Aye, that would be most helpful. And—”
“I know,” her daughter said, her exasperation obvious. “I’m to rinse the mortar and pestle each time with boiling water to clean them well so the herbs don’t get mixed up together. You can trust me, Mother.”
In that moment, Alys didn’t look like a child. She seemed more like the woman she would become.
Merryn kissed her cheek. “Thank you for helping me. You know with the cold weather that it brings coughs and sore throats. It’s wise to keep a large supply of the herbs we need on hand.”
“I’ll stay and help you, my lady,” Tilda offered. The servant winked at Merryn. “You’ll have to show me what to do, though.”
Alys brightened, always enjoying when she was placed in charge of others. “I will, Tilda. Come on.” She took the older woman’s hand and gave Merryn a wave.
Merryn hurried to the stables and found Destiny ready, the case tied to the saddle. A groom boosted her up and Merryn trotted off, worried that a gallop would put too much strain on her body. She’d given up riding when she was only three months along with the twins because she’d grown so large so fast. That was her first clue that she carried more than one babe. This time was different, her belly only a moderate lump at four months along. The gates opened as she approached and she rode through them, turning to the west. She hoped this time poor Riola would birth a healthy child. The woman had lost three babes before. Another had almost come to full term but had been stillborn.
Merryn prayed that this Christmas Riola and Ellison would finally get their miracle.
A child of their own.
Chapter Three
Geoffrey de Montfort stood next to his captain of the guard on the raised platform and observed the training exercises in the yard. He inhaled the crisp, cold air as he watched various pairs of men engaged in combat with different weapons of war. His gaze landed on a pair fighting with longswords.
“Do you see what I see, Gilbert?” he asked. “With Herman and Odo.”
“Aye, my lord. Shall I intervene?”
“Nay. Allow me.”
Geoffrey jumped to the ground and wove through the different soldiers wielding arming swords, maces, and clubs. He drew close to the pair and motioned for them to step away from the group. They lowered the weapons and followed him.
“You’ve both done well with arming swords,” he told them. “They are light and versatile and allow you to cut and thrust easily. These longswords are a different matter.”
“They’re very heavy, Lord Geoffrey,” Herman said.
“The next time England goes to war, more soldiers will carry a longsword. ’Tis why I want you well versed in them. May I?”
Geoffrey took Odo’s sword, grasping it with both hands. “Be sure when you use both hands that one rests close to or on the pommel. It gives you better control.”
He handed it back to Odo and both men adjusted their grips. Herman swung the sword several times and nodded with satisfaction.
“The balance is better this way,” he said.
“Let me see one again,” Geoffrey said and took Herman’s this time. “Half-swording still allows you to use both hands except, this time, rest one hand on the hilt and one on the blade.” He demonstrated for the two.
He handed the sword back and Herman frowned. “Why, Lord Geoffrey?”
“That position will give you better control as you thrust and jab.”
Both men tried again and Odo beamed. “I like it.”
“Keep practicing both ways. The half-swording will also aid you as you use spears and polearms.” He started to step away and then added
, “You can also utilize the pommel and cross in battle. The cross, in particular, can be used as a hook to trip or knock your opponent off balance. Try that.”
Geoffrey demonstrated the move and noticed several pairs of fighters nearby had stopped to view the lesson. He watched for several minutes and Herman and Odo mimicked what they’d learned.
“Good work,” he told both men and then circulated among those who’d viewed the demonstration, working with individuals to ensure they’d grasped what he taught.
Satisfied, he joined Gilbert on the platform again.
His captain smiled broadly. “It’s so very good to have you back at Kinwick, my lord.”
“It’s good to be home and back to good health and full strength,” he replied.
Geoffrey helped another pair working with maces after that and then signaled Gilbert to call a brief halt so the men could rest a few minutes. Some plopped down from where they’d stood while others went and sat in groups. A motion on the far side of the yard caught his attention. He noticed it was Ancel and one of Kinwick’s pages dueling with wooden swords.
Heading in their direction, Geoffrey saw his son bear down on Timothy, forcing him back. The page tripped and fell to the ground, shouting, “You’re not even a page. You’re only allowed in the training yard because you’re Lord Geoffrey’s son.”
“Timothy, come here,” Geoffrey said sternly.
The boy glanced over his shoulder, fear in his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet and reluctantly ventured closer, his body quaking as he came to stand before his liege lord.
“Timothy, you are training to be a knight, are you not?”
Confused, the boy answered, “I am, my lord.”
“That training involves years of hard work. Not only physical activities, such as learning how to use various weapons and building your body’s strength, but also understanding the tenets a knight holds dear to his heart.” He paused. “A knight is kind to others and protects those weaker than he is. You were not very kind to Ancel now.”
“I’m not a knight yet,” Timothy said stubbornly.
“Nay, but as I said, every day is one of training. You’ll grow in knowledge. Build your character and work hard at learning to read and write. You won’t wake up on the day of your Order of the Knighthood Ceremony and simply become a knight that day. You will have been a knight in your mind, body, and heart for years before that. The ceremony is merely affirmation that you have attained your goals and met with success.”
He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Work hard every day at each lesson, Timothy. Think of the man you want to be and then be that man each day. Treat others with respect. Be willing to push yourself farther and test your limits.”
Timothy’s head dropped in shame. “I was unkind to Ancel.” He raised his head. “He’s already better with a sword than I am. I’m . . . I’m jealous of him.”
“Ancel is tall for his age. Lord Raynor spent hours with him, tutoring him on swordplay. I have done the same. Ancel is eager to become a soldier. That enthusiasm spurs him on. I want the same for you. Learn from each other and those around you, Timothy.”
Determination filled the young boy’s face. “I promise I will work harder, my lord. I will become the knight I’m meant to be.” He hesitated. “May I speak to Ancel?”
“Go ahead.”
Timothy went to Ancel and offered his hand. As the boys shook, Timothy said, “You are very good with your sword, Ancel. I want to work as hard as you have and learn from you. Will you teach me?”
His son grinned. “Of course, Timothy. You’re my friend.”
Pride burst within Geoffrey. Merryn had done well raising the twins during his absence. He was glad he was now home and could see Ancel and Alys reach maturity, helping to guide them along in their journeys. It made him wonder about the babe he and his wife had made. What would it be like? Ancel closely resembled him, while Alys was the image of Merryn at that same age. Would the new child favor either of them? Geoffrey knew this babe had been made in love. He and his wife had reached deep within themselves and despite all the trials and tribulations they’d been through, come together, bound by the strength of the love that had always remained between them. The child she carried was the result of the depth of their affections and held the promise of their future, as did Ancel and Alys.
Geoffrey turned and saw that his men prepared to commence training again. He returned to Gilbert’s side to observe, satisfied in the life he led and the family that was his once more.
Daralys wiggled her numb fingers. She held the reins tightly because she hadn’t ridden much. Fortunately, the mount provided to her was an older one and had a gentleness about it. Still, she’d been nervous ever since she’d left Vauville Castle. For one, the child seemed to have no room inside her and constantly kicked and stretched. Riding for hours had made her even more uncomfortable. Her back and thighs screamed in agony. She’d also eaten the last of the bread and cheese she’d brought with her and had no coin to buy more. The cold wrapped about her, swallowing her whole, and darkness would soon fall. She needed the warmth of a fire and something in her belly if she were to be able to push on toward Kinwick.
Pausing in the road, she caught the smell of burning wood and decided to follow it. It led her off the path and to a cottage, where smoke curled and spiraled from a chimney. Daralys slid off the horse and gripped the horse’s mane as her tired legs almost gave way. She stomped her feet, trying to bring feeling back into them and her legs, and was rewarded with a burning sensation that traveled from the ground up, stinging her as the blood began circulating again.
She took the reins and guided the horse to the cottage. Seeing nowhere to tie the animal, she kept the reins in hand as she knocked on the door.
An old woman answered it, her hair stark white. Deep wrinkles creased her face. She smiled through slitted eyes.
“Who are you, little one?”
“I’m Daralys Marillac, a traveler in need of a warm fire. Might I share yours for a few minutes?”
The woman looked about. “You’re alone?”
“Aye,” she confirmed.
“Can’t be too careful these days. Come in.”
“My horse—what should I do with him?”
“You can bring him around back. Here, I’ll show you.”
The woman led her behind the cottage and Daralys saw a shed partially covered. She led the horse inside and tied him to a post. A bale of hay stood nearby and the horse began munching greedily.
“Wait here,” the woman instructed.
She stroked the animal while he ate. She didn’t have the strength to remove the saddle and if she did, she would never be able to get it back on the creature. There was so much she hadn’t thought of when she’d ventured from Vauville yet something inside her urged her on. She’d always heeded that inner voice in the past and only hoped it wouldn’t let her down this time.
The woman returned with a bucket of water and the horse paused to lap at it.
“Your animal will be fine. Come inside, Daralys. You look chilled to the bone.”
She followed the stranger and stepped into the tiny cottage. Warmth enveloped her. A chicken flew by, squawking, and landed across the room. Another chicken pecked at the floor. A goat wandered about and came to stand next to her, butting its head against her thigh.
“You . . . keep them inside?”
The woman cackled. “They’d freeze if I didn’t.” She studied Daralys a moment. “You’re of the nobility, else you’d know the poor live with their animals in winter. You’ll tell me why you’re here and where you’re going. I’ll feed you in return. If I like how you respond, you can stay the night.”
“Might I ask your name?” Daralys asked timidly.
“Griselda. Sit.”
She indicated a stool by the fire and Daralys eased onto it. Holding her hands out, she soaked up the heat coming from the blaze. Gradually, she warmed enough to untie her cloak and slip it from her shoulders. In
the meantime, Griselda removed a bubbling stew from the hearth and dished up a serving for each of them in two bowls. The old woman handed Daralys one and then gave her a wooden spoon.
“Thank you.” She took a bite. “Oh, this is delicious.” She dug in with enthusiasm.
Griselda seated herself on the remaining stool and took slow, careful bites. Daralys noted this and reined herself in until she matched her hostess bite for bite. The woman placed her bowl on the floor next to her and stood.
“I forgot the bread,” she said, and retrieved half a loaf. Tearing off a good chunk, she kept it for herself and passed the rest to Daralys. She did as Griselda and pulled off a portion, returning the rest to the woman.
She dipped the bread into the bowl and sopped up the last bits. The stew’s gravy tasted good on the bread. When she finished, she placed the bowl at her feet.
“You’ve had a chance to thaw and your belly’s full. Now, tell me your tale. Why is one of the nobility here with me in the middle of nowhere on a cold winter’s night? No companion. No escort.” The woman paused. “And with child. Do you have a husband?”
“Nay,” Daralys said softly. “I was once betrothed but he passed away.”
“Is he the father of your babe?” Griselda quizzed.
Daralys shook her head. “This babe has no father.”
The peasant’s eyes bore into her. “Every babe has a father. Someone dipped his wick into you and left you with child.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She had tried to forget that night and what had happened months ago. She’d told no one, not even Lady Anne, for she knew nothing would come of it.
Kindness filled Griselda’s eyes. “Mayhap if you share with me, it won’t seem so bad.”
Daralys mopped her eyes with her sleeve. “I have spent half a score fostering with Lord Harold and Lady Anne. She has been as a mother to me. My own mother died so long ago that I have no memory of her.” She stopped, her throat swelling with emotion.
“What happened to you, child?”
A Night of Angels Page 35
