Chapter 41
She had made Giles a berry tisane,
adorned with leaves of mint. She had fed him fresh manchet loaves
and soft cheese and dates—delicacies that would have made her mouth
water had she been with Ranulf and done the same for him. Then
there had been a meal in the great hall, a late noonday meal, at
which Giles had set her in the great chair on the dais and plied
her with mead. Whenever she could, under cover of the oak trestle,
she tipped some of the heavy golden liquid out onto the rushes.
Between courses, she asked after the bath—she did not want Giles to
forget it, or to change his mind.
You would play the
wanton, sister, in a stew of your own making with such a man? What
will Ranulf think, if he finds you thus? Especially after you
delayed telling him the name of your former master, and that even
after he asked you straight! Will he not be reminded of your
tardiness now, and wonder at it?
“Be quiet, Gregory,” Edith muttered as
she hid her eyes behind her goblet for a moment, to save having to
look at Giles. “I have trouble enough without your
carping.”
To her disquiet, Giles was becoming
bolder in his attentions. At first he had seemed quite awed by her
unveiled and later veiled beauty, if beauty it was, and keen to
show her off, directing his steward to praise her “exquisite
Eastern figure” and admonishing his carver of meat to cut the roast
most skillfully, so as to preserve the “lush perfection” of her
veiled mouth. As the trenchers had been brought in and then
replaced, however, Giles had begun to offer her bites from his own
dishes: morsels of green salad, bits of meat, small cheese tarts.
Although she accepted whatever he gave her with thanks, taking all
with her fingers so she need not unveil, this feeding disquieted
her, as it suggested the beginnings of a more urgent courtship,
where other touchings would be involved.
She did not want Giles to fondle her.
She saw his long, elegant hands roving here and there across the
great table and in her mind they were no longer fingers but metal
tongs and branding irons.
She was not alone in being wary of him.
The tension in the great hall was like that before a thunderstorm.
Servants carried and served but did so with a desperate haste. They
all wore dark clothes, she noted, wondering if that was by Giles’s
order or if they had chosen their own costumes in a keen desire not
to draw attention to themselves.
But these people were too cowed to be
her allies. Unless commanded by Giles, none looked directly at her
and certainly none smiled. There were no drinking contests, no
games of dice on the lower tables, no romping dogs. All was custom
and precedence: she took a corner of a piece of bread and so did
Giles and then so did all the others. It was a sight that would
have made her laugh had she not felt so unhappy. She had eaten at
more cheerful funeral feasts.
Please, please, Ranulf,
come, and quickly!
What would she do if he did not
appear?
I will do what I can,
whatever I can, and escape by way of the moat, if need be. I will
lie to Giles, but never lie with him.
The vow steadied her and she could eat
a little more, easing crumbs down her dry, taut throat. Eating was
good: it was another delay.
Soon—too soon for her wish—the doleful
meal was over. Giles pushed back his chair and rose, and at once
that signal was followed by a mass departure from the lower tables,
each man giving a stiff bow as he left.
She started as she felt a hand on her
elbow. The touching she feared had already begun. Even through her
green silk, she felt revolted because Giles had handled
her.
“I think your water will now be ready,
good and hot.”
She was still veiled but she tried to
give him a wide smile, even as her face felt bleached and
overstretched. “That is excellent, my lord! Lead on, and I will
follow behind, for there are some herbs I would gather, by your
leave, for your bath.”
She raised her eyebrows as he stopped
by the edge of the dais, frowning at her. “In Cathay, my father the
emperor always bathes first,” she lied easily, as Giles continued
to frown. “My mother the queen anoints him with fragrant oils and
herbs.”
Giles interrupted her. “I will bathe
first.”
She bowed: a bow took her a step back
from him. “As my lord commands.”
Trailing behind Giles, she thought the
courtyard seemed very bright after the dim great hall. The
drawbridge was still down and the gate open, but the guard was new
and younger. He leaned on his spear and darted so many looks at the
garlanded bathtub that she was afraid Giles would spot his interest
and order the gate closed.
She clapped her hands before
remembering that meant Giles would see the fire marks. “’Tis
beautiful, my lord!”
Luckily, Giles’s attention was fixed on
the bath. It was set up most handsomely, Edith admitted, hoping at
the same time that she would not have to get into it. Servants had
placed awnings about the great tub and a set of steps, and
flowers.
“Yellow and blue are the colors of my
court,” she enthused, moving swiftly away from Giles across the
bare earth. She whirled about, aware that her wrap and skirts would
billow and cling. She loathed playing this crude coin with Giles,
but it was all she had for the moment. “You are so
gracious!”
She tried to say generous but could not; the lie was too huge and choked
in her throat. Instead, she swiftly buried her scarred hands in the
wreaths of lavender and rosemary twisted about and through the
awnings and cloth screens. Their scent made her feel less
sick.
“These are the colors of the French
court.” Giles was flicking bits of lavender and looking as smug as
a sun-basking cat. He tested the steaming water and nodded. Behind
them both, Edith heard a serving maid sigh with
relief.
Before he took the credit for his
people’s work, she widened her eyes. “You have been there? I would
love to hear of it.”
Please, Ranulf, please
come soon.