“Yer sainted mother will be a-turning in her tomb, Allie, to think of visitors receiving such treatment at Sherborne Castle.”
Alyce wrinkled her nose. “I’d not wonder at finding the shades of both her and my father walking the yard at St. Anne’s at the thought of their only daughter being forced to marry such a one as Philip of Dunstan.”
Lettie crossed herself and whispered a quick prayer. “At least they’ll know ye have a strong man to protect ye. ’Tis not an easy thing for a woman to make her own way through this harsh world.”
Alyce swung her feet to the floor and bent to place the trencher next to her bed. “Well, this woman would rather face the world by herself than from the bed of someone she doesn’t love.”
Lettie gave a snort. “This from the girl who has always said that love is for minstrels. Pay no attention to their silly ballads, ye always tell me. In the real world—”
She stopped at the sound of angry pounding on the door. For a moment both women looked startled, then Alyce gave a slow smile. “I suspect one of our visitors has come to ask the recipe for the elegant pottage we gave them.”
Lettie gasped, “What will ye do?”
“I’ll not have them breaking my door down. You’ll have to open it. But first…” She stood and snatched off Lettie’s plain brown wimple, leaving the servant clutching her bare head in bewilderment. Then she bent to shove the trencher with the remains of her supper underneath her pallet. Jumping into bed, she wrapped the wimple around her head and pulled the blankets up to obscure her face. “We must tell them that I’m sick as well, so they don’t believe ’twas done apurpose.”
“Do you suppose it’s Dunstan himself?” Lettie asked, her voice shaking.
The pounding intensified. Alyce burrowed into her covering. “It matters little. ’Tis a male, and they’re all alike. They think because they’re stronger and built for dominion in the act of love, they can rule our very existence.”
Lettie’s face turned scarlet at her charge’s words, but she had no time for remonstrance as the pounding began to shake the solid timbers of the chamber door.
“Open it, Lettie,” Alyce said, her voice muffled by her coverings.
The servant crossed the room quickly and threw open the door. The angry man on the other side was indeed strong, Alyce noted from her quickly designed nest. His tunic was short, revealing wool hose that encased well-muscled thighs. Alyce let her gaze move up to his face, which was as well favored as the rest of him. And young. This was not, then, her prospective groom. Dunstan had sent a lackey to fetch his bride. In spite of her bold words, she gave a little sigh of relief.
“Am I addressing the lady of this castle?” the man asked. He sounded angry, but his voice held a note of doubt as he glanced around the room to find her in bed.
Lettie answered for her. “Aye, ’tis the chamber of the lady Alyce, yer lordship, but milady’s took desperate sick.”
“She’s been poisoned then, like the rest of my men?”
Lettie nodded vigorously. “I fear so, milord.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” The visitor’s expression was concerned and all anger was gone from his tone.
Alyce gave a small smile of triumph underneath the blankets.
“She’s been fair doubled over with the cramps since supper, milord.” Alyce repressed a giggle to hear her honest old nurse embroidering her lies.
The knight frowned. “It could be serious, then. I came seeking out your lady to ask for some medicines to relieve my men, but if she’s stricken herself, perhaps we should find an herbalist. Is there one here at the castle?”
Lettie grew serious at his somber tone and her reply was less assured. “Nay, milord. There be old Maeve over to the village, but there’s some that think she’s more than half crazed. Most folks hereabouts cure their own.”
The big knight gave a sigh of exasperation. “So the chatelaine’s sick and the herbalist is crazy. Where would you recommend I seek help for my men, good mistress?”
Lettie glanced at the bundle of covers on the bed, hesitating.
Her voice muffled from the folds of the wimple, Alyce said in a crackly voice, “Old Maeve may be able to help you. ’Twould be the wisest course.”
The knight glanced sharply at the bed. “Do you feel yourself recovering, milady?”
Alyce shook her head. The knight took a step into the room and peered more closely, as if trying to get a glimpse of her face, but she kept the blanket pulled tightly around her.
“If the old woman has some powders that will help, I’ll obtain some for you as well, Lady Sherborne,” he said.
“Very kind,” Alyce rasped.
The man paused a moment, as if waiting for her to continue speaking, then said finally, “I’ll send someone immediately, or, if everyone else in the place is stricken, I’ll go find the crone myself.”
He gave a courtly bow that seemed to include Lettie as well as Alyce, then turned and left.
Both women were silent for a moment after he closed the door gently behind him. “Saints preserve us, Allie, did ye see the man?”
Alyce threw off the covers and sat up abruptly. “Of course I saw him.”
“Did ye not think him the handsomest knight in all of Christendom? And polite as well, didn’t ye think? It makes me feel wicked that we played such a cruel trick on him.”
Alyce pulled the wimple from her head and scowled. “I do not consider it polite to batter down the door of a sick, mayhap dying, woman.”
“But ye’re not sick.”
“Nay, but he didn’t know that.”
“I feel bad, just the same. And now we’ve sent him off to poor old Maeve. Who knows what he’ll find there.”
Alyce gave a sniff of indifference. She was not going to admit to Lettie that she was sharing her servant’s guilt. The knight had been polite, aye, and more than pleasant to look upon. And it was not the man’s fault that he had been chosen to execute the unscrupulous business of Philip Dunstan and Prince John. “If Maeve’s having a good day, she’ll help him,” she said.
“Aye, and if she’s having a bad day, he’ll probably begin to think us all mad.”
“He can add that to his report to Dunstan, then. With luck, he’ll become so disgusted that he’ll ride back to his master and report that the lady of Sherborne is a sickly hag, that her household is wretched and her people are all lunatics.”
“In truth, Kenton, I don’t know whether the powders will help or finish the job that their spoiled stew started.”
Thomas and his lieutenant sat with their backs up against the cold stone wall of the great room. It was nearly dawn. Thomas had slept little after his return from the village. As the servant had warned, he’d found Maeve to be a frail old woman who drifted in and out of reality. But she’d given him feverfew and some ground hops, and had promised that together the two powders would purge the fiercest of poisons.
“Most of the men are still sleeping, Thomas,” Kenton answered, gesturing to the bodies strewn around them. “They seem to have rid themselves of the problem naturally. Myself, I feel fine this morning.”
There was a groan from a dark corner of the room. “Harry?” Thomas asked.
“Aye. He was the worst struck. Mayhap the medicine would be of some benefit to him.”
Thomas pulled a pouch from inside his surcoat. “The witch told me to mix it with hot ale.”
Kenton