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“Ingrid?” he roared heading back into the passage after the other two were seated. Then he recalled the name of Aimee’s servant. “Golda?” Golda appeared, wiping her hands on her skirts and looking startled. “The fire needs lighting in the main chamber. Also bring some ale.”

She nodded and disappeared, and Konrad returned to the dining chamber. “It’s getting late,” he muttered and was only appeased when the boy scurried into the room carrying an armful of logs. Golda followed on his heel with a pitcher of ale and cups which she set down before them. “You have heard no word from your mistress?”

“No, my lord.” Golda shook her head and knelt down by the fireplace, taking over for the boy.

“It will have been a long day for them and no mistake,” Ankatel commented. “Needlework, did you say?” He turned to Freda. “In an outdoor setting? It goes off very cold in the evenings, very cold indeed. I hope Aimee thought to take her mantle.”

Konrad doubted it somehow, remembering the blazing sun from earlier. A small tug on his tunic had him looking down. The boy pointed toward the window, and he glanced in that direction. “They’re back,” he said and strode out into the hall.

19

Aimee sat down to supper feeling somewhat baffled. For some reason, her father had accepted her husband’s offer to remain and sup with them, though he had spurned her own invitation the previous day. Throughout the first course, the men had exchanged low murmured conversation, and Aimee had craned her ears in vain to catch what on earth they could be speaking about.

Sadly, she was able to catch barely any of it as Magnatrude seemed determined to talk Freda’s ear off about every last detail of their visit to the palace. Her sister-in-law’s eyes gleamed as she told her cousin of the many embroidered scenes the ladies had been working so diligently on.

“Indeed?” Freda said politely, and Aimee harbored the sudden suspicion that Freda was no more gifted with a needle than she was. It was a comforting thought, for Aimee had been riddled with a crippling sense of inadequacy all day. Some of the queen’s ladies had been so very talented. Aimee vowed she must practice as Lady Wycliffe had adjured her and not neglect the art so shamefully as she had been doing.

“The scenes are religious in nature?” Freda hazarded as she lowered her spoon. “Or perhaps depict King Wymer’s sporting victories?”

“Not at all,” Magnatrude corrected her with a superior air. “The scenes depicted are ones that the queen believes should be commemorated. They have absolutely nothing to do with the masculine pursuits or her husband.”

Freda looked taken aback. “What sort of things?” she asked, looking genuinely interested for the first time in the subject at hand.

“Courtly happenings within the feminine sphere,” Magnatrude said loftily.

“Such as marriages and births? That sort of thing?” Freda guessed uncertainly.

“Nothing of the sort,” Magnatrude responded, tutting with scorn and returning to her food.

Freda turned her enquiring gaze on Aimee who cleared her throat.

“I confess,” Aimee admitted with reluctance. “That my ignorance of courtly affairs meant that I could make scarcely head or tail of most of them. The ladies in the group nearest to us were working on a scene of a lady having her long hair cut short with a pair of shears. She was depicted wearing …” She cleared her throat. “Men’s clothes. I think they said it was something to do with the Martindales, although I scarcely liked to ask for a clearer explanation.”

Freda’s eyes widened. “What else?” she asked with interest.

“Another had a man stood before a pair of scales, and on the one side was a woman with red hair and on the other a pile of gold. He was pointing to the woman.”

“An allegorical tale no doubt,” Magnatrude interrupted in a know-it-all voice, though Aimee suspected her sister-in-law was as ignorant on the intrigues of the southern court as herself. “Of a good woman being worth more than gold.”

“Actually,” Aimee corrected her. “The queen told me it represented the history of the Duke and Duchess of Cadwalader.”

Freda made a startled noise in her throat. “Perhaps it is the custom here in the south for noble grooms to demand a dowry equal to their wives’ weight in gold?” she suggested.

An awkward silence fell over them, and Magnatrude turned rather red. “Freda!” she said freezingly. “Try and have a little tact, for heaven’s sake! The way you let yourself rattle on really is most unfortunate!”

“Oh, but I … !” Freda turned crimson. “I-I did not mean –” Her eyes filled with tears, and her spoon clattered into her bowl. “Oh!” she sobbed, pressing fingers to her mouth and turning to Aimee. “Aimee …”

“I’m sure no offense was taken by me,” Aimee assured her. She frowned at Magnatrude. For her part, she thought her sister-in-law was the tactless one, to make so much of something said without malice. “If that was the custom, then I am sure the feminine ideal at court would not be for slender, elegant women!” She did not think her jest a poor one under the circumstances, but neither of the two women met it with so much as the flicker of a smile.

“If what was the custom?” rumbled a voice from the other end of the table. An awkward silence greeted her husband’s question. Oh bother!

“We were just discussing the queen’s unusual taste in needlework,” Aimee answered brightly. “She means to capture scenes with subjects outside of the usual fare. Subjects pertaining to women at court.”

“Usual fare?” her father repeated looking puzzled.

“Hunting scenes,” she elaborated. “Battle scenes, on land and by sea. That sort of thing.”

“Ah!” He nodded his gray head and returned to his meal, but to Aimee’s discomfiture, she found her husband still regarding her narrowly. She dropped her gaze back to her plate of stew and tried to ignore the rising tide of panic she felt on remembering the queen’s vow that she would have a panel made up to represent the Kentigerns too.