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The girl’s fingers stilled. “Yes, my lady.”
“He insulted me downstairs. As handsome as he is, although roughly finished, I find it hard to believe any noble woman would express an interest in him. He is uncouth.” She straightened her back, allowing Sara to draw the laces tighter. “I assume he doesn’t lack for admirers.”
“We servants, you mean, my lady? Why, he treats us with respect and courtesy, but as far as I know, he has never laid a hand upon any of us. What other way can we admire him?” Sara stepped back and picked up the heart-shaped headdress Tilda had been wearing downstairs.
Tilda caught the girl’s smile out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, you know what I mean. Since he’s without a wife, I assume he does not care for the fairer sex.”
“Possibly,” the girl mused. “He keeps his distance. I hear he has travelled to many exotic places and therefore...” Sara sucked her crimson cheeks in.
“Yes?”
“He will not find a Norman maiden to his liking.”
Whatever did the girl mean by that? A woman was a woman, and surely a Norman one was the best to be found, better than a Flemish one, or Greek, or wherever he’d journeyed. “I don’t care. He won’t come near me, not as long as my father has his eye on Geoffrey.”
“Sir Geoffrey has a new wolfhound, I he
ar.” Sara fixed the headdress, pinning it in place, and ensuring the veil hung neatly down her back.
“See, this is what makes him appealing. A good huntsman always has the best hounds.” Tilda adjusted her girdle and pinched her cheeks until they warmed to her touch. “Now I’m ready to return downstairs. Let us see who notices me first: Sir Geoffrey or that rogue, Lord Baliol.”
It came as a surprise to her that upon entering the great hall, she failed to locate either man. However, three other potential suitors charged to her side, offering her a dance, or wine, or a plucked rose. She smiled and glanced over to the dais where her father sat with the highest-ranking nobles; she hoped to impress him with her gaggle of suitors. Except he was missing, too. Her shoulders sagged. Her father preferred sleep to the company of young men and women and was unlikely to stir until morning.
The older drunken men fell asleep and the dogs joined them. Eventually, the ladies retreated to their chambers and only the earl was left with his favourites. They would talk into the night about affairs of state and other such important matters. Tilda, tired of gossip and knock-kneed boys, decided to retire. But first, she needed a breath of fresh air. The hall stank of smoke, stale beer, and dirty rushes.
Outside, in the small courtyard, the only one favoured by a few trees and a boxed herb garden for the kitchens, she discovered she wasn’t alone. A young boy, perhaps no more than six or seven was huddled in the corner weeping. She crossed over to him. It was the earl’s youngest son, Edgar.
She almost turned on her heel with the intention of fetching the boy’s nursemaid, but the pitiful crying gripped her. She knelt by the boy’s side. “Edgar, what’s wrong?”
He sniffled. “I had a bad dream. Father says that if I cry, I’m a weakling.” He wiped his snotty nose on his shirt. The boy was shivering; how long had he been hiding out here?
“We all have nightmares, Edgar. I suspect your father is trying to help you learn to ignore them. What was in your dream that scared you?”
“A dragon.”
“Then, you must pretend you are Saint George. I’ll take you back to your bed. I suggest you imagine you are George with the finest armour on and about to slay the dragon. Then you can rescue the damsel; this will make your father very happy.” She took the boy’s hand and raised him to his feet.
“Please don’t tell him!”
She patted his arm. “It will be our secret. I shall not say a word. In the morning, you can tell him what a brave knight you are and how you slew a fiery dragon in your sleep.”
The boy beamed at her.
“Edgar! There you are.” A woman hurried across the courtyard and snatched the boy out of Tilda’s hand. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Tilda glared at the elderly nursemaid. “He’s quite safe. I’ve been keeping him company.”
“He should be in bed, my lady, not out here catching his death.” She tugged on Edgar’s arm. As the pair hastened indoors, Edgar turned to look over his shoulder at Tilda. He smiled again and she answered it with one of hers. The boy in years to come would be a handsome devil.
She sighed. At least her father had never scolded her for having bad dreams, and neither had he ever called her a weakling.
From out of the shadows emerged a hooded man, clapping his hands together. “Bravo, my lady, I applaud your kindness and good matronly approach to handling the boy.”
Gervais Baliol threw back his hood and the moonlight lit up his sculptured face. The lines around his lips and nose were not harsh, but defining, and she could not help admiring how they suited his light eyes and thin mouth.
“I’m quite capable of being kind. Why wouldn’t I be?” She gathered up her skirts, keen to hasten a retreat.
Gervais held up his hand. “Forgive me. That was cruel of me. Of course you are kind to children. I just wish you’d show such behaviour to those who serve you. I find it hard to believe your father would be harsh to his servants.”
