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ChapterSix

Amalia had spent the morning speaking with the gardener. He had little experience with herbs, and much more so with flowers. Because of it, he’d thankfully welcomed her suggestions, especially when Amalia had said she would be pleased to plant them herself. Preparing a space for chamomile and sage was easy enough. Securing them, along with some of the others, would be more difficult.

“There you are,” Sir Eamon said as Amalia was just dusting off her apron. There was no help for it; the dirt would need to be washed out.

“Greetings,” she said, having spoken to him at last eve’s meal but not since. Eamon told her the meeting with Lord Ashcroft had not gone well at all, which prompted her to find something to occupy her time. It seemed her lady and Sir Gareth would not be returning anytime soon unless they wished to have the baron challenge their marriage.

“I was told I could find you here. As I’ve mentioned, Amalia, you are a guest here. Not a servant.”

“Or gardener?” She smiled. “I enjoy this very much,” she said. “I cannot claim to be Rowena,” she said, referring to the village midwife and healer who also served Ashcroft Manor, “but dabble in healing with herbs when I am able.”

His eyes widened. “You are a healer?”

“A cursory one, at best. An herbalist, more like.”

That seemed to interest Eamon very much. “Somehow, I did not know this of you.”

“I was taught by a woman in my own village as a girl, but since Ashcroft has no healer of its own, and Rowena’s talents are in demand, I’ve had less opportunity to practice my skills.”

“Did you not have an herbal garden at Ashcroft?”

Amalia sighed. “I did. But the baron did not believe his daughter’s maid should be ‘dabbling in such things.’”

“I am not surprised Ashcroft disavows what he does not understand. Here, you are more than welcome to do so. If there is anything at all you need . . . ”

Her eyes lit up. “In fact, there are some herbs that often prove useful that I find lacking here. If there is an occasion for me to go to the market?”

“I will take you.”

Both she and Eamon spun at the sound of Roland’s voice. She’d not spoken to him since the end of their tour. Striding up to them, he looked between her and Sir Eamon.

“That is, if I am able to miss my sword lesson with you, sir.”

Since arriving, she’d learned a bit more of Roland, mostly from asking the other servants. It seemed he was in little need of Eamon’s lessons, having beaten the master swordsman prior to her arrival.

Sir Eamon Thorne’s skill with the sword was legendary. The thought of any man besting him . . . Amalia looked away from Roland’s arms, at which she’d been staring. It was obvious that he spent many long hours honing such a skill.

She swallowed. “I’m certain you do not wish to miss your lesson,” Amalia said. “Perhaps I can ask—”

“Nonsense. ’Tis the perfect solution. You’ve no other lessons afterward?” Eamon asked Roland.

“None, sir.”

“I would prefer you to travel to the market with one of my men,” he said to Amalia. “Unless you’ve any qualms about doing so?”

What could she tell him? That since the moment they met, she had thought of nothing but him? But that he was the sort of man she’d long been warned against? A nobleman. One accustomed to giving orders and having them followed. Just as important, a man who would take from her but offer nothing, as he would marry another noble, like himself. Yet knowing all of this, she was still disappointed he’d not attended the evening meal.

“I do not,” she lied, and Sir Eamon didn’t seem to realize anything was amiss.

“Good. I will leave you to it then. Good day, Mistress Amalia.” And then to Roland, “My thanks, Roland. Do see her back to the castle before sundown. There have been rumors of the king’s men as close as Dungard. Perhaps you should wear your family colors?”

Amalia had seen the Guardians once before, en masse, riding away from Castle Blackwood through the village. It had been a sight she’d not forget. Though they wore surcoats of black with no coats of arms, the lack of such insignia was almost more striking. Some in the village who supplied the recruits surely wondered why so many fostered and trained here, but very few knew of the recruits’ true purpose at Castle Blackwood.

“I will do so,” Roland assured him as Eamon nodded and left them.

“It seems we both must change clothing then,” Amalia said, filling the brief silence.

Walking back to the keep, Roland asked which herbs she wished to procure. They parted ways, Amalia breathing more easily than when she was in Roland’s presence, agreeing to meet once again at the entrance to the hall. Though Amalia should have simply removed her apron and rejoined him, she instead changed gowns, donning a deep blue riding dress that Evelina loved most on her. She also pinched her cheeks and ran a brush through her hair before returning belowstairs.