AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Jenny turned to her in relieved surprise that the woman—whom she'd just learned had been seamstress to the former mistress of Claymore—had finally offered a voluntary word. Trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm for the idea, Jenny said, 'The cream satin? Truly? Do you think the duke would wear that?"
"For you," Agnes said in a choked voice, as if forced to speak by some inner fashion consciousness that cried out against the misuse of the sable, "not him."
"Oh," Jenny said, startled and pleased by the combination suggested. She gestured to the white fur. "And that?"
"The ermine to trim the sapphire brocade."
"And for the duke?" Jenny persisted, more pleased by the moment.
"The dark blue velvet, the black, and that dark brown."
"I've little knowledge of fashion," Jenny admitted, smiling with pleasure at the suggestions. "When I was young, 'twas of no interest to me at all, and later—these past years—I've lived in an abbey, and the only fashions I saw were the garments we all wore. But I comprehend already that you've a wonderful eye for how things will look, and I'll gladly take all your suggestions."
Turning, she surprised a startled look on Agnes's face, and something that might almost have been a smile, though Jenny rather suspected it was due more to her admission to having been in an abbey than her compliment to Agnes's taste. The other two seamstresses, both plain-faced young women, seemed to have thawed slightly as well. Perhaps they found her less "the enemy" if she'd been living in peace as a pious Catholic these past years.
Agnes stepped forward and began gathering up the fabrics, including the linen and cottons, which had already been singled out for specific uses. "Can you do the design for the cape and gown?" Jenny asked, bending to scoop up the cream brocade. "I haven't much idea how it should be cut, though I'll help with the cutting, of course. I'm more clever with shears than I am with a needle, I fear."
A muffled sound like a swallowed giggle escaped one of the younger women, and Jenny turned in surprise to find the seamstress called Gertrude suffused in an alarmed flush. "Did you laugh?" Jenny asked, hoping she had, regardless of the reason, for she longed desperately for some sort of female camaraderie.
Gertrude's flush deepened.
"You did laugh, didn't you? Was it because of what I said about being handy with shears?"
The woman's lips trembled and her eyes almost popped out as she strained to keep her nervous mirth contained. Without realizing that she was staring the poor woman down, Jenny tried to imagine what the maids could be finding funny about her skill with shears. A thought struck her, and her mouth dropped open. "You heard about that, did you? About what I did—to your master's things?"
If anything, the poor woman's eyes widened yet more, and she looked at her friend, swallowed a giggle, then looked back at Jennifer. " 'Tis true then, my lady?" she whispered.
Suddenly the desperate deed seemed rather funny to Jenny, too. She nodded gaily. " 'Twas a dreadful thing to do—worse than sewing the armholes closed on his shirts and—"
"You did that, too?" And before Jenny could answer, the two seamstresses let loose great, gusty shouts of laughter and began to nudge each other in the ribs, nodding with approval. Even Agnes's lips were trembling with mirth.
When the two younger women had left, Jenny went into Royce's room with Agnes to give her samples of his clothes so that she might use them to gauge his measurements for the new ones. There was something strangely intimate and oddly poignant about handling his doublets and cloaks and shirts.
He had amazingly broad shoulders, Jenny thought with a tingle of pride as she held a woolen tunic out to Agnes—and surprisingly few clothes, she noted, for a man of such wealth. What he had was of the finest quality, but it had seen much wear—a silent testimony to a man whose concerns had been with matters far weightier than clothing.
Many of his shirts were slightly frayed at the wrists, and buttons were missing from two of them. He was badly in need of a wife, Jenny thought with a whimsical little smile, to look after such details. No wonder he'd reacted with such pleasure, months ago in camp, when she'd volunteered to do mending. A sharp stab of guilt pierced her for the deliberate damage she'd done to what few articles of clothing he apparently had. Unlike the maids, she no longer found that funny, and the fact that they did puzzled and concerned her. It seemed rather odd, but then there was much about Claymore that struck her as being odd.
Now that the dam of reticence had been broken, Agnes seemed willing to talk at length about how to proceed with all the garments, and when she left, she actually smiled shyly at Jenny, but that, too, bothered Jenny as much as it pleased her.
When the maid left, Jenny stood where she was in Royce's bedchamber, her forehead knitted into a puzzled frown. Unable to come up with any answers, she flung a light mantle over her shoulders and went out to seek answers from the one person with whom she felt free to talk.
Sir Eustace, Sir Godfrey, and Sir Lionel were in the bailey, seated upon a low stone bench, their faces covered in a fine sheen of sweat, their swords dangling limply from their hands—obviously trying to recover their strength after a night of carousing and an afternoon devoted to practice with swords. "Have you seen Friar Gregory?" Jenny asked.
Sir Eustace thought he'd seen the friar talking to the wagoner, and Jenny started off in the direction he indicated, not certain exactly which of the stone buildings clustered around the vast inner perimeter of the castle wall was the one which housed the wagons. The kitchen, easily identified by its high, elaborate chimney structure, was next to the castle itself. Beside the kitchen was the store, the brewhouse, and a lovely chapel. Across the bailey from her was the smithy, where a horse
was being shod and where Gawin was busily polishing Royce's shield, ignoring the stacks of armor and weapons waiting to be mended by less exalted hands than his. The wagon shed was beside it, and beyond the wagon shed were the stables, a piggery, and a large dovecote, which appeared to be empty of birds.
"Are you looking for someone, your grace?" Jenny whirled around in surprise at the sound of the friar's voice. "Yes, for you," she replied, laughing at her own jumpiness. "I wanted to ask you about… about things," she said, casting a cautious glance at the hundred people about the bailey who were busy at various tasks. "But not here."
"A stroll outside the gates perhaps?" Friar Gregory suggested, immediately comprehending her desire to speak where they'd not be observed or overheard.
When they approached the guards at the gate, however, Jenny received a shock. "I'm sorry, my lady," the guard said with polite implacability, "but my orders are that you cannot leave the castle except in the company of my lord."
Jenny blinked at him in disbelief. "What?"
"You cannot leave—"
"I heard you," Jenny said, controlling a sharp spurt of anger, "Do you mean I'm—I'm a prisoner here?"
The guard, a seasoned soldier with vast experience in battle and none at all in dealing with noble ladies, shot an alarmed glance at the sergeant-of-the-guard, who stepped forward, bowed formally, and said," 'Tis a question of… er… your safety, my lady."
Thinking he meant that she might not be safe in the village after what happened yesterday, Jenny made an airy motion with her hand. "Oh, but I don't intend to go further than yon trees and—"
"I'm sorry. My lord's orders were specific."
"I see," Jenny said, but she didn't see at all, and she didn't like the feeling of being a prisoner one bit. She started to turn away, then she rounded on the hapless sergeant. "Tell me something," she said in a low, ominous voice. "Is this… restriction… against anyone leaving the castle, or only me."
