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ChapterFive
He’d have hell to pay for missing this morning’s lessons, but Roland would do it again for having spent it with Amalia. When they’d passed by the kitchen and Amalia spied a woman leaving with tears in her eyes, she excused herself, spoke to the scullery maid and handed her a handkerchief. When Amalia returned to him, she said only, “Hers is not my story to tell,” when Roland asked about the cause of her tears.
“The seneschal would care to know if she was being mistreated,” he said. “Such a thing would not be tolerated.”
“Nay,” she said as they walked toward the garden. “It was a personal matter.”
“A man.”
Amalia gave him a sideways gaze, telling Roland his guess was accurate.
“Matters of love produce more tears than any other,” he said.
“But also smiles. And laughter. And good feelings too.”
They stood at the entrance of the garden, where Amalia said she would like to remain. Apparently, she had a fondness for herbs and healing and wished to know what Castle Blackwood’s garden grew.
“Rarely,” he said of her statement about love, aware his truth would not endear him to this woman, but Roland spoke the truth.
“Surely not,” she said, all but crossing her arms.
“Are your parents in love?”
She paused. Thought for a moment. “Aye, they are, I believe.”
“That you are not certain tells me all I need to know.”
“Are yours?”
“As companions? Friends? Aye. But theirs was not a love match and none who know them well would claim otherwise.” He pressed her. “Name me a couple in love.”
Her chin raised defiantly. “My lady and Sir Gareth.”
“An exception. And the couple is, at present, excommunicated from their homes because of it. Can you think of another?”
Amalia thought for a moment. “Aye. There is a farmer and his wife, the healer in our village who taught me the use of herbs. They are very much in love and have eight children to show for it.”
“Love is not required to bear children, as my own siblings and I can attest.”
“You are a cynic, my lord.”
“You are a romantic, my lady.”
“I am no lady,” she said, without a hint of acridness for the fact.
“You do not wish to be so? Many in your position aspire to such a title.”
For the first time since they’d met, Amalia frowned. He’d upset her with his words, but Roland would not take them back. He spoke only the truth.
“I cannot account for the type of woman with whom you typically associate. For myself, I wish only to serve my lady and—” She glanced toward the garden but said no more.
“And?” he prompted.
“It matters not. I am certain you’ve lessons or duties to attend to, my lord.”
Roland crossed his arms. “So I am ‘my lord’ and no longer Roland?”
He added stubbornness to the list of Amalia’s traits, something they had in common.
