way down the dim corridor.
“Milord, I was just coming to find you,” she said as
she reached the landing on the stairs. “Sir Philip’s
arrived. He’s asking for you.”
“And our visitor, Judith, is asking for some clean,
dry clothes of which she’s sorely in need. I thought I
sent you to get her something of yours.”
“I’m doing that, milord. I’ve been looking for shoes
that might fit the lady.”
“First give her a tunic to put on. Worry about shoes
later.”
Bridget nodded and scurried off.
Andrew took to the stairs. At the bottom, in the great
hall, he spied his close friend, Philip of North Cross.
Despite the ride from his sire’s estate to Laycock, Philip
looked, as always, impeccable. Not only did he wear the
most fashionable clothes—today he sported a “mi-party”
cotehardie and leggings, the opposite sides of each
garment contrasting yellow and green—it seemed he
repelled dust and grime. Only Philip could ride hard
miles and appear as though he had recently stepped
out of his bedchamber after a bath.
Glancing down at his own rumpled self, Andrew
strode forward to greet his friend. “I didn’t expect you,”
he confessed.
“But you’re glad I’ve come, nonetheless?”
“Aye, of course I am, Philip. I see you already have a
mug of beer to slake your thirst.”
“And one waiting for you.” Philip retrieved another
cup from a nearby table and handed it to him. “Where
has everyone gone? Bridget told me the whole clan is
away, except for you.”
“Always except for me,” Andrew groused, sitting in a
chair near the fire. When Philip joined him, he
explained, “Robin and Elfred rode off to join Father and
the other barons who’ve united against King John. If
Lackland fails to agree to their terms, we’ll soon be at
war against the king. Surely your sire has gone, too?”
“Oh, aye. And my uncles and eldest brothers.”
“But not you?”
“Nay, not I. If there is war, which I hope there shan’t
be, I’ll of course be obliged to fight. But even I saw no
need to loiter about while they negotiate terms.” Philip
sipped from his cup. “Where are your lovely mother and
sisters? Surely they didn’t accompany your father, Robin
and Elfred.”
“They left days ago to attend a wedding at Alnwick.
They invited me to accompany them, which I declined.
Of course, the idea that I join my brothers and my sire
never once entered anyone’s head, save my own.”
“We’re both youngest sons, Andrew. We cannot
change the order of our births. I, for one, am glad. There’s
far too much responsibility that comes with being heir
to a barony. I’ve no desire to rule North Cross.”
“Then what is there?”
“For us?” Philip looked at Andrew with upraised
eyebrows. “We could hire on as mercenaries. We’ve both
earned our spurs.”
Andrew chuckled, glad for the distraction his friend
presented. “Even you might get dirty if you had to don
armor and fight a battle or two.”
“Don’t even suggest such a thing.” Philip grinned,
his blue eyes twinkling as he feigned a shudder and
shook his fair head. “I’d prefer to wed a comely damsel
with a decent dower. I do not care to oversee an estate
so large it requires all my time. But I’d like one rich
enough to support me and my bride.”
“Then you’d best spend more time seeking such a
damsel, else your mother will be sending you to the
bishop to have you made a priest.”
Philip made a face. “Fie on you, Andrew! I came here
to have a bit of sport—perhaps a hunt, at least some
entertainment. And there you sit, describing all manner
of gruesome futures I might face. What of you? Do you
intend to hire out as a mercenary or join the Church?
Or is it also your intention to find a bride? Since the
lovely Lady Chandra threw you over for that rake from
Normandy—what was his name? Jean-Paul du Lac—no
damsel’s caught your eye.”
One damsel had, this morning in this hall. Andrew
hadn’t thought much of her earlier when, like a witless
mute, she’d stood directly in his path as he charged
down the hill on his stallion. God’s wounds! In truth he’d
believed her to be a lad, because of her clothes and her
height. Though he soon discerned she was female, after
Judith began ranting in her unfamiliar dialect, his
opinion of her had not very much improved.
Then she fainted, and Andrew had decided not to
leave her in the dirt but to take her to the keep. Once
he had her on his shoulder and had gotten a good feel of
her round bottom and long, shapely legs, his opinion of
the damsel began to change. His curiosity had been
piqued, and that hadn’t been the only thing that she’d
aroused. Damnation! By the time the wench had drunk
enough wine to be giddy, stumbling, and weak in the
knees; by the time he had taken advantage of her
condition to hold her close, to feel her curves and sense
her heat, he’d wanted to bed the green-eyed wench with
the soft cap of golden hair.
“Am I boring you already?” Philip inquired, rousing
Andrew from his private reverie.
“You never bore me, my friend.”
“Then answer my question. Has any wench at all,
let alone an eligible maiden of gentle birth, caught your
eye since Chandra became Lady du Lac?”
“We have a visitor,” Andrew announced.
Philip frowned and cocked his head to the side. “Does
that answer my question?”
“Nay. I choose not to answer your question. But you
said you wished to enjoy a diversion of some sort, and
Laycock’s ‘guest’ may amuse you.”
“Is this a female guest?” Philip asked, and Andrew
nodded. “Tell me who she is. Do I know her?”
“No one knows her. Even she seems confused about
her identity.”
“How so?”
Andrew provided Philip with a succinct report on his
morning encounter with the wench upstairs.
“How curious! Has she lost her memory, then? No
recollections of either her home or even her name?”
“She has a name. Judith Lamb. And a brief while
ago, she let it slip she hails from York. Yet when I
questioned her, she denied she’d even mentioned that
city.”
“Intriguing! Mayhap she ran away to avoid a
despicable marriage or something of that like. Now she’s
feigning memory loss so that no one will feel obliged to
return her to her home and a situation she wishes to
avoid. Silly of the wench to have provided her name,
though. Now you can send word to Sir Peter.”
Andrew started, splashing beer from his cup onto
his knee. “Who is Sir Peter?”
“Peter Lamb,” Phili
p explained. “You’ve ne’er heard
of him? He has a reputation, though ’tisn’t necessarily
flattering. He is an alchemist. I know of him because
he and my grandsire, the old lord of North Cross, were
fast friends. They earned their spurs together. Despite
the years and distance separating them, the two
remained comrades, so he sometimes visited my home.
Methinks ’twas a decade or more that they last stayed
with us, Sir Peter and his wife. Shortly afterward, my
grandsire died. I was about ten and two at that time.”
“He sounds aged,” Andrew commented.
“He is, certainly. But I mentioned his wife. I found
myself besotted with Lady Sophie when she also stayed
at North Cross.” Philip grinned. “She was much younger
than her husband, and as they had children together—
this was mentioned in conversation, I never saw any of
them—mayhap Lady Sophie is your visitor’s mother.”
Andrew digested this information. “Possibly. But
surely there be other branches of the family with the
same name.”
“All from York?”
“You did not say the alchemist resides in York.”
“Sorry. But he does. I put the name and the city
together in my mind the moment you mentioned them.
Tell me,” Philip urged, “what does Lady Judith look like?
Sir Peter’s wife was dark. Hair like sable, eyes like jet.”
“I did not say Judith is a lady. She claims to be, but
she does not sound or look like a woman gently born.
The wench has neither French nor Latin, but speaks
English like a peasant from some unknown shire. As
for her appearance...” Andrew paused, flashing for a
moment on her naked thighs and belly, which he’d
glimpsed when trying to have his way with her. “She is
fair-haired, like you, and her eyes are light. A sort of
grayish-green. Sea green, I suppose one might say.”
Andrew recalled those eyes and the fan of dark lashes
that framed them. He had never seen anyone with
blonde hair and black eyelashes—the effect was
striking. Judith was striking.
He felt glad he could say the girl looked nothing like
Sir Peter Lamb’s wife, Lady Sophie. Andrew didn’t want
Judith to be the daughter of nobles. He wanted her to be
a peasant. Then, despite any vows to the contrary she
had tricked him into making, he could take her at his
whim. After all, he ruled here as master, while she had
yet to prove herself more than a beggar.
“Ho, ho!” Philip chortled, tipping his cup to finish
the last of his beer. “The way you describe the color of
her eyes, it sounds to me as though you’re smitten.”
Heat flared under Andrew’s skin, and he hoped his
face had not gone red. “Nonsense.”
“Is it, now?” Philip smiled. “When do I get to see this
mystery wench?”
“Supper, I suppose.”
“How long until we dine?”
“Not ’til evening.” Andrew stood. “What should we do
meanwhile?”
“Dice? Backgammon? Draughts?”
“Nay. My ride this morning ended prematurely, and
I’ve been indoors since. I need some exercise. Is your
arse too sore for a good gallop?” Andrew asked.
“A knight never gets saddle sore,” Philip insisted,
coming to his feet. “Indeed, I’ll race you. What should
we wager?”
That Judith Lamb is no lady.
***
Judy had done some washing after Andrew left her.
First she shampooed her hair in the tub, then she
laundered her sweater and leggings, hanging them off
the edge of the table to drip dry. With no blow dryer, she
resorted to toweling her hair. Pulling a stool closer to
the fire, she sat beside the embers, running her fingers
through her damp locks in an effort to dry them
completely.
“Milady!” Bridget called from beyond the door.
Judy recognized her voice. “Come in.”
The servant entered, her arms full of clothing.
Depositing the bundle on the bed, she exclaimed, “It’s
growing dark. No one came to light your candles?”
“No. And I didn’t think to do it myself. I guess I started
daydreaming, sitting here.”
Bridget tsked and grabbed a short, squat candle off
the table. Lighting it from the fire coals in the pit, she
quickly lit several more that sat in dishes and holders
scattered about the room. Then she stirred the fire so
that flames leapt and danced.
“You must be freezing in that light robe,” the servant
observed. “’Tis always cool in the keep, even in the
warm months of summer. Though it be spring, the chill
of winter lingers, especially in the evenings.” Bridget
smiled and gestured to the bed. “Please, milady. Let me
help you select something to wear downstairs to supper.”
Judy stood and considered the clothing the servant
unfolded and laid out upon the bed for better viewing.
The gowns looked far more elaborate than anything
Bridget should have owned.
“I thought Lord Andrew asked you to lend me
something of yours,” Judy said.
Bridget scrunched up her face. “That he did, milady.
But surely he was angry and ordered me to do so out of
spite. He’d regret it, though, if I obeyed him.”
“Whose clothes are these?”
“His sisters’. Beatrix and Camilla are not as tall as
you, but I think their clothes will do. Besides, I only
took items they have surely forgotten they own.”
“I don’t know if I should.” Judy shook her head.
“Camilla and Beatrix aren’t here to offer them, and
Andrew—Lord Andrew—didn’t suggest I help myself to
his sisters’ clothes.”
“They won’t mind, truly,” Bridget insisted. Lowering
her voice, she added confidentially, “They’re spoilt, they
are, with more gowns to their names than either could
ever wear. And I did not choose from among their
favorites.”
“This isn’t someone’s favorite?” she asked
doubtfully, fingering a tunic of fine, soft wool that had
been dyed a stunning shade of turquoise.
“Nay, it’s not. The color doesn’t flatter either of the
girls the way it would you.” Bridget smiled.
“You’re sure Andrew—Lord Andrew—won’t be upset?”
“He’d be upset if he saw you dressed as a servant,
and though he would be responsible, I would get the
blame. My lord could not have meant it when he told me
to garb you in clothing such as mine.” Bridget looked
down at her dress, a dun-colored garment, serviceable
but drab. “’Twould be an insult to a noblewoman.”
“He doesn’t believe I’m a noblewoman,” Judy confided.
“Oh, he does. Of course, he does! He’s just behaving
badly. Lord Andrew often sulks and becomes
quarrelsome, all because he resents being Lord Thomas’
youngest son. As such, he’s left out of important
matters
—or at least matters he feels must be important,
because Lord Robin, and sometimes Elfred, are involved.”
Judy considered Bridget with a new sense of
appreciation. “You know the family well. And you’re not
afraid of Andrew, who is your lord and master—
especially, as he pointed out to me, when his father
and brothers are away?”
The younger girl giggled. “Nay. We grew up in this
keep, he and I. Before I was old enough to work and
Lord Andrew old enough to foster, we played together in
the dirt in the bailey.”
“The what?”
“The yard. Outside. Within the walls. The bailey.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“I remember when he used to wet his braies.”
Bridget chuckled, and Judy frowned, unable to
comprehend the meaning of still another word. “His
under garments,” the servant explained. “So nay, I do
not fear him, even though he’s a man now and a knight.
Lord Andrew knows I keep some secrets from our
childhood. Besides, he’s not a harsh master. None of
the baron’s family is.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
“Which gown do you prefer, Lady Judith?” Bridget
inquired, returning to the matter at hand. “’Twould
seem the turquoise is the better choice.”
“The color’s stunning, and the fabric is so soft.”
“Aye. That’s scarlet wool. Usually, it’s dyed crimson
more than any other shade.”
“Scarlet is crimson.”
“Indeed, milady. But that bright hue takes its name
from the wool which is often dyed that color.” Bridget
narrowed her eyes and peered at Judy curiously. “May I
ask where you make your home, Lady Judith? You seem
unfamiliar with our ways. And your accent is, if you’ll
forgive my saying so, peculiar.”
“I don’t mind, Bridget. And I agree, my accent is quite
different from yours. You have words I don’t, and I have
words you don’t. But I’m from a place very far away. You’ll
never have heard of it. We do things differently there.”
“Hmmm. Well? Should we get you dressed? I’m
certain even in your homeland, ladies dress for supper.”
That got a smile from Judy, who nodded her head in
agreement. “Yes. Eating hot food in the buff could be
risky.”
Bridget did not seem to get the joke. She busied
herself sliding Andrew’s robe off Judy’s shoulders and
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