Alex swallowed and turned to go toward the northern end of the city. If he left York now, he’d be able to travel several hours before night fell.
He had gone quite a distance when a brightly painted sign showing two crossed swords below the image of a man caught Alex’s attention. The savory aroma of cooked meat emanated from the building and he realized he was hungry. He stepped inside.
Saint George’s Inn was a hostelry with several rooms abovestairs, as well as a courtyard and stable. Alex sat down in the crowded main room and ordered a meal, and decided to take a room for a day or two, until he’d decided what to do about Skelton’s men.
’Twas possible, too, that he would run across Lucy one last time before he left for Eryngton.
Chapter Thirteen
“Come away from that spindle, girl,” Giles Falk croaked ominously. He sniffed and wiped the back of his arm across his nose.
Lucy would never have taken this position if there’d been any other choice. But she’d had no luck in finding employment anywhere else in York. Master Falk had not only promised to pay her in coin, but to provide her board, and a small chamber with a cot, besides.
But the weaver was a one-eyed man with a temper. A bad temper. And he kept his one good eye upon her in a manner that made her distinctly uncomfortable. She found herself dreading the moment she would be left alone with him when it became fully dark.
Suppressing yet another shudder, she looked up at him.
“Yes, Master Falk?” she asked respectfully. He was hovering over her now and if she stood up to move away, he would be unpleasantly close. Already, he’d managed to touch her shoulder, her bottom and the side of her breast inadvertently. She was going to have to move adroitly to avoid anything more, and that was a difficult task with her lame leg causing her to move awkwardly.
The man’s hair was long and hung untidily over his shoulders, and smelled of mutton grease. As a weaver, his clothes were stylish, she supposed, and of good quality wool. But the skin of his hands and neck was marred by ugly, dark red cankers—she had never seen anything like it before.
“You can make me my supper,” he said, barely moving away so that she could stand.
Lucy swallowed hard and scooted away from him. His good eye, so black she could see the reflection of the candles in it, followed her as she moved toward the fire at the back of the shop. Her skin crawled when she thought about spending another hour here in this man’s company.
But what else could she do?
Why had she been so stubborn about allowing Alex to help her? It had been foolish to send him away when he’d so clearly wanted to stay and see her suitably situated. Or mayhap he hadn’t exactly wanted to stay, but felt responsible for her.
By now, he was well away from York.
Glad to have a moment away from Giles Falk’s leering scrutiny, Lucy stoked the cookfire and found the man’s food stores. ’Twas a meager collection of moldy cheese, some beans and a heel of bread. The combination turned Lucy’s stomach, and she knew she would not be joining the weaver in his meal.
She poured water into a pot and added the beans, then began to sweep the floor with a broom she’d found standing in a corner. The place was a mess—mayhap worse than Holywake.
After one afternoon spinning wool, Lucy’s hands were raw. She wished she had some of Alex’s ointment to soothe them, but knew she would have to make due without it. Somehow, she would manage.
The beans started to boil, and she moved the pot out of the fire so they wouldn’t burn. As she did so, the weaver stepped up behind her, startling her so that she nearly dropped the pot.
“I’ll want butter for my bread,” he said, throwing Lucy into turmoil. She had not seen any butter when she’d looked through his stores. “Go down to the baker’s shop,” he said, tipping his head toward the door at the back. As was his way, he stood too close to her. “Find his wife. Berta. She’s most often in the back of the shop, and give her this,” he said, placing a red silk ribbon in her hand.
Lucy shuddered at the gleam in the weaver’s eye. He reminded her of a cat that had just caught a mouse and was playing with it before killing it. But she didn’t know if she were the mouse, or if ’twas the baker’s wife.
“Comely, was she not?”
Lucy set a plate of beans and cheese on the table before the weaver. “Who?”
“The baker’s wife!” By his tone ’twas apparent he thought her a dim-witted dolt. But Lucy had not taken note of the woman’s appearance. She’d been dumb-founded by the wife’s cloying, secretive manner when she spoke of the weaver. ’Twas as if…Elsbeth had told her about trysts between men and the wives of other men. Elsbeth herself had admitted to such illicit behavior, which was the reason she’d been banished to Craghaven in the first place.
“Aye, she is a beauty.” The master’s red spots seemed to pulse in the candlelight, and Lucy averted her gaze from the appalling sight.
Falk narrowed his good eye into a gaze that made her skin crawl. Lucy stepped away from the table. “Sit here and eat with me.”
“Nay, I am not hungry,” she said. She picked up the broom again for something to do, some way to mask her unease. “I’ll just clean up when you’re finished and retire to my chamber.”
“Your chamber?” He laughed. “You’ll have a pallet under my workbench and be thankful for it!”
“Aye,” Lucy replied in a whisper. “I will.” He’d promised her food and a room of her own.
Lucy rued her naiveté. Here she was with food—which was entirely unpalatable, and a room—space on the dusty, cold floor of the workroom. No doubt his promise of coin for work was exactly the same.
At first light, she would leave the shop and look for some other employment. She’d been too tired, too wet and uncomfortable to do an adequate job of it today.
Her best plan had come to her when she was walking back from the baker’s shop. When she left the weaver, she would find a nearby church and ask the priest for help. Surely he would know what households and shops were respectable, for clearly, Master Falk’s was not. He seemed to be engaged in some sort of flirtation with the baker’s wife, though Lucy did not understand exactly what part she was to play in their game.
All of it made her feel sick inside, from the moment she’d walked away from Alex, until now, watching Master Falk wipe his nose once again, upon his sleeve.
She shuddered and continued to sweep.
“Take that broom up front and make use of it there, girl,” he commanded, and Lucy did as she was told. Every surface was dusty and there were small snips of thread on the floor beneath the two looms. Lucy did not think anyone had ever swept beneath the workbench—the place where she was expected to sleep.
She dislodged several spiders from their webs and cleaned out the space, wondering what she was to use as a pallet, for she had not seen anything vaguely resembling a mattress or bed. It did not matter. Lucy had long since realized she would not be able to sleep easily in Falk’s shop, no matter what the accommodations. ’Twas likely she would sit up all night, wrapped in her blanket, awaiting daybreak.
A soft sigh escaped Lucy’s lips. There had been a deep hole in her heart ever since she’d taken her leave of Alex. When a well of tears threatened to spill from her eyes, she brushed them away. She missed him desperately. But no matter how intensely she loved Alexander Breton, he was gone. She would never see him ag—
A shove from behind knocked the air out of her and she fell to her knees.
“Ha!”
A heavy weight fell upon her, and she hit her chin on the floor. She gasped for air and cried out.
“Master Falk!” He managed to pin her arms behind her so that the only way to struggle away from him was with her legs. ’Twas ridiculously ineffective against the man’s weight and strength.
Still, she tried with all her might to get away.
He grabbed her hair close, at the roots, then pressed his knee into her back. Tears came to her eyes with the added pain.
“Let me go,” Lucy demanded.
He laughed aloud and grabbed her skirt. Lucy heard the fabric tear and she became even more alarmed. “Not until I’ve gotten—”
With a massive effort, Lucy shifted position, knocking Falk to the side. One of her hands came free and she took hold of the table leg and began to kick more effectively now.
“For a cripple,” he snarled, “you put up a good fight. Wait until Berta sees how you— Ahh…” Using one hand to hold her two, he got his free hand under her dress and slid it up her bare legs.
Lucy yelped and twisted away from his groping, though her only hope was to get her hands free so that she could push herself to her feet. Once she was standing, she would have a fighting chance against him, but she was having little effect against him while he was lying on top of her.
With both her hands, she pulled his bare arm close to her face. While he was distracted with pulling at her gown, Lucy sank her teeth into his arm and bit down as hard as she could, taking as much flesh as would fit in her mouth.
The weaver roared in pain and released her long enough for her to scoot away and get on to her knees. As he yelled with pain, Lucy felt some primitive satisfaction at the blood running down his arm. She’d taken a goodly chunk from him.
He started to come after her again. The broom was beside her, and Lucy picked it up to use it as a crutch to help her up. The weaver reached her before she’d gained her feet, and started to grab for her again.
On her knees, she swung the broom, using all her strength to hit him in the knees.
“Ye bloodthirsty wench!” he yelled, lifting his arms to protect himself from her blows. “I won’t be making it easy fer ye now!”
Lucy felt an irrational bubble of laughter rise in her chest. Easy? She had not been able to get off her knees, and he was limping toward her. She swung again and he almost caught the broom in his hand. Quickly, she jabbed with the broom handle, and speared him in the belly.
This slowed him, and while he was doubled over, she managed to get up on her feet. She did not waste a second, but hobbled over to the corner where her belongings remained in their blanket bundle, and picked it up.
Falk grabbed her hair while she was turned, but Lucy spun around and thumped him hard against his head with the broom handle. He released her to grab his wound, and Lucy hastened for the door before he could do anything else to her.
’Twas dark outside and she did not know where to go, but there could be no doubt that anywhere else was better than remaining at the weaver’s. She hurried down the lane, glancing behind her frequently, to see if he followed.
She caught sight of a sudden movement and knew she would have to get off the street. But there was nowhere to go, no signs of life anywhere. Every shop was dark.
With no choice but to keep going, Lucy slipped into a narrow break between two buildings. She made her way down the passage as quickly as possible, aware that Falk would discover it and close in on her.
When she got to the end, she found a place to conceal herself. Crouching, she made herself as small as possible and covered her head with her dark bundle. She hoped that by dropping out of sight, he would be thwarted.
Finally, her breathing settled to a normal rate, but her shivering seemed uncontrollable. Why had she insisted on leaving Alex? The weaver could beat her, or even kill her, and no one would ever know. She sat in the silence of the night and prayed that Giles Falk would go on past her. If he did, then she would leave this spot and walk as far as possible from his miserable little shop.
Chapter Fourteen
Alex broke his fast in the same room where he’d had his supper, though the men present that morn were unconscious—incapacitated by their revels of the night before. He ate and went out, leaving Rusa in the stable while he walked in the direction of the weaver’s shop.
When he reached the shop where he’d last seen Lucy, he stood on the opposite side of the lane, hoping to see her through the front window pane. When he saw no one and no sign of life, he began to pace back and forth.
Finally, he crossed the road and tried the door.
’Twas locked.
He pounded on the door and waited impatiently for someone to answer. When no one did, he pounded again, then stood with his feet braced apart, his hands upon his hips.
If she was not here, then where…
Too anxious to wait any longer, he put his shoulder to the wood and shoved hard. The lock easily gave way, and Alex was suddenly standing inside the weaver’s shop, looking at the startled face of the one-eyed man.
“What do ye want?” he croaked.
He appeared ill. The red welts on the man’s neck were more angry-looking than when Alex had first come to the shop, and the man had a dark, purple bruise upon his forehead.
“The woman who came here yesterday, looking for employment,” Alex said, perusing every corner of the weaver’s workroom. “Where is she?”
The man moaned. “Gone.”
“Explain yourself.” Alex’s worry turned to anger, and he put one hand on the hilt of his sword. “She stayed here with you, did she not?”
“Attacked me in my bed, she did,” the weaver moaned, putting one hand to the side of his head. “Vicious—”
“You lie!” Alex took the man by the throat and shoved him up against a workbench. “The woman is a nun and incapable of hurting—”
“Bashed me…on the head…” he rasped. “Ran off…in the night.”
With ease, Alex tossed the man to the floor. It took all his restraint to keep from drawing his sword and running the man through when he considered what must have transpired to make Lucy run away.
If this malt-worm had violated her…
’Twas only by the grace of God that he managed to keep his sword in its sheath and turn away. Alex stepped outside, wondering how far Lucy would have gone last night, and where she might be now. With absolutely no clues to go on, he started walking.
Lucy had been put right to work, doing laundry. The inn where she was now employed had fourteen beds, and seven of them needed their linens washed. When she was through with that task, she’d been given other menial chores, but Lucy did not mind them. This was all work she knew, though she was not particularly fond of it.
The man who owned Saint George’s Inn was gruff and unfriendly, and his wife was even worse. They’d had no help at the inn since both their daughters had drowned during the summer, and they were bitter and short-tempered with her. It seemed to Lucy that they were angry with her for being alive when their own girls were gone.
And Lucy knew she could easily have met the same fate as the two girls, if not for Alex. Since meeting him, he’d saved her from one disaster after another, and she knew she needed to take care now. He was nowhere near York and she could not rely upon him to rescue her again.
Still, no matter how unkind she found the innkeeper and his wife, they did not attempt to rip her clothes off her, or abuse her in any other way. At Saint George’s, she had food and a place to stay, and all they expected was a good day’s work from her. Lucy was weary from lack of sleep the past two days, and she missed Alex unbearably. But she would manage to get through the evening. Her last task was to help Maude serve the patrons in the tavern until Alf closed up for the night.
She hoped it would be early.
Saint George’s Inn was very different from the small country inns where Lucy had stayed with Elsbeth and the nuns on their journey from Craghaven. Elsbeth had complained of them, but Lucy had found most to be comfortable. None of those inns had had taverns—there had been only a common room where travelers could get a simple meal. At Saint George’s, the visitors came and went, and so many stayed until finally there were no seats to be had.
They drank copious amounts of ale and sang bawdy songs while musicians played. It all seemed very jovial until the room became overwarm and crowded with men. Lucy could hardly move past them with her tray of drinks without stumbling into one or another.
&
nbsp; And they encouraged it, laughing uproariously when she lost her balance and stumbled, sometimes falling into one of them.
She quickly discovered that the jostling was intentional. But she gritted her teeth and learned to dodge past their groping hands, grateful that at least these were impersonal hands, and generally harmless.
Maude came out from the kitchen with a large platter laden with food. She caught Lucy’s attention and shouted above the din in the room. “Take this to the burly light-haired fellow by the window. And give a care, cripple—do not spill it.” The woman passed the heavy platter to Lucy over the heads of the men at the nearest table. “Be quick about it!”
Lucy took it in one hand and balanced her pitcher of ale in the other. She looked at the tables before her, the unruly men jesting and singing…’twas so different from the neat aisles of the refectory at Craghaven and the clean faces of the nuns she’d known most of her life. Lucy began to doubt she was made for this kind of work.
The noise and confusion in the tavern made her dizzy and she wondered again how she could have erred so badly in the first two days she’d spent on her own. Mayhap she should have remained at Holywake and awaited the abbess. Surely that would have been a safer course, for she knew what was expected of her there, and none of the nuns had ever willingly harmed her.
A hand shot out as she made her way through the crowd and pinched her breast. Lucy yelped and dropped the clay pitcher, which shattered. Ale splashed everywhere as men jumped out of their seats. The platter flew out of Lucy’s hand and the burly man who had ordered the meal grabbed her wrist and yanked her off her feet.
“Ye damned froward giglet!” he thundered. “’Twas my mutton ye spilled!”
Worried and discouraged, Alex shoved open the door of Saint George’s tavern and nearly turned around to leave again. The place was as boisterous and as full of fools as it had been the night before. Nay, ’twas even more so.
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