then bustled about, oblivious to Judy’s nakedness. “On
with this you go,” she announced, holding a ring of
gathered fabric above Judy’s head. When Judy raised
her arms, Bridget made sure her head and hands went
through the proper holes. The soft, woolen cloth fluttered
down to Judy’s bare feet.
“I knew Lady Camilla was the taller so her gown
might better cover you,” Bridget declared.
Glancing down at the hem, which dragged on the
floor, Judy would have guessed that Camilla was an
Amazon. “I’ll trip,” she predicted.
“Nay, you shan’t, milady. Not once we fasten the
girdle about your waist. But first, we must do your
sleeves.”
The tunic had no sleeves, but Bridget slid two
separate ones up Judy’s arms and laced them through
the eyelets in the fabric on her shoulders. The sleeves
were embroidered with white and gold thread, which
matched the belt she subsequently tied at the small of
Judy’s back.
“Let’s hope either Camilla or Beatrix has the same
size feet you do.” Bridget produced two pairs of slippers
and gestured for Judy to sit. Judy felt like Cinderella’s
sister when she tried on the first pair—they were too
small. But then, like Cinderella slipping on the glass
shoe, the second pair slid on easily.
Judy stood and walked around. She felt naked
without panties, not even a thong. And her breasts
seemed to swing! But she thought, When in Rome...
Holding her arms out, Judy studied her sleeves. Bell-
shaped, the back cuffs hung nearly as long as her skirt
hem. She almost complained, but the style made her
feel ridiculously feminine.
“Don’t fret,” Bridget urged. “You’ll not have to do
anything but eat and look pretty. If you had to do any
serious work, we’d knot those sleeves to keep them out
of your way.”
“I know,” Judy lied, hoping to sound as though she
weren’t completely ignorant of the customs of the day.
“Now, let me put your hair up, what there is of it,
before you don the matching hennin.”
“Hennin. Right.”
Judy sat down on a stool. Bridget set to work, combing
her hair and pinning it up off the back of her neck.
Then she set some sort of hat on Judy’s head.
Judy used her hands to explore it. A dunce cap! Tall
and pointed, an attached veil floated down to her
shoulders.
“I have to see this,” she told Bridget. It was all too
weird, but she felt excited in spite of herself. “I don’t
suppose there’s a mirror around?”
“Oh, aye. I’ll fetch you one.”
Bridget dashed off and returned almost immediately.
She carried an oval of polished metal the size of a dinner
plate.
Judy gazed into the so-called mirror. She’d seen her
reflection more clearly in top grade cookware.
“I have a better one,” she announced. “I was hoping
for something larger. I didn’t think...”
Digging through her tote as she tried to explain,
Judy found her mirror. About seven inches square, it
had a fake tortoise shell frame made of plastic and an
easy-grip handle.
“Sweet Mother Mary!” she heard Bridget gasp, and
when she spun around to look at the girl, she found the
servant crossing herself.
“It’s just a mirror, but a very good one. Come, see,”
Judy urged.
Her curiosity overriding her reluctance, Bridget drew
close. When Judy held the mirror before her face, Bridget
gasped. And blinked. Then she touched her cheeks and
nose as she studied her own reflection.
“How—how did you come by such a thing?”
“From home. These are our mirrors. You can find
them in any size, from tiny little ones no bigger than
coins to others that cover whole walls or ceilings. It’s a
lot clearer than yours, isn’t it?”
Grasping the mirror’s handle, Bridget flipped it over
to examine the back. She shrieked and let it fall from
her hand, though Judy managed to catch it before the
glass hit the floor. All she needed was seven years bad
luck on top of her current circumstances!
“It’s a magnifying mirror,” Judy explained, holding
that side toward the servant. “It’s nothing scary. It just
makes things appear bigger than they are. Look at your
eyes,” she suggested.
Bridget did, blinking and squinting and making
them wide. Then she peered over the edge at Judy and
grinned hugely. “You’re sure ’tisn’t magic?” she asked.
“No, not magic. Just a good quality mirror. Someday,
you’ll have mirrors just like this right here in England.”
“Not while I live,” Bridget accurately predicted.
“Hold it for me, now,” Judy urged. “I’ll stand back. I’d
like to see the dress. And the hat.”
By directing Bridget to move the mirror higher and
lower, to the right and the left, Judy managed to see a
disjointed reflection of herself, a series of puzzle pictures
she assembled with her mind’s eye. “Oh, my God!” she
said.
“What is it, milady? What’s the trouble?”
Her face was the trouble. Sans makeup, she looked
horrid, as plain as an old Amish woman.
“When is supper served?” Judy asked.
“Shortly. I’m not certain. Should I ask Cook?”
“No. Just leave me for a bit, Bridget. Thank you for
everything. But I have something to do on my own now.”
“Very well, milady. I’ll come for you when the victuals
are ready.”
As soon as the servant had gone, Judy sat on the
bed and ripped open her brocade makeup bag. She knew
she had to go easy. Imitating a Cosmo cover girl would
have the locals tying her to a stake and burning her as
the witch she’d claimed to be. But Judy Lambini didn’t
intend to go anywhere, not even to dinner with Andrew,
without at least a little powder, a little blush, some subtly
smudged liner around her eyes and, most important, a
couple of coats of black mascara.
Six
The plank tables had been set up in the hall. The
knights and men-at-arms of Laycock Keep were seated,
drinking their cups of beer and ale while waiting to be
served. At the high table, on the dais, Andrew and Philip
sat alone, Andrew in his sire’s chair.
Philip chided him. “Why do you sit in Lord Thomas’
chair when e’er he and your brothers are gone, Andrew?
As though you governed here as landed-lord and baron?
You cannot desire Laycock anymore than I desire North
Cross. Methinks you’d be in a quandary, and more than
a little dismayed, should the keep, the demesne, and
the town of Wixcomb fall to you to rule.”
“Mayhap you do not know me as well as you think,”
Andrew shot back, glancing at the stairs and wondering
what kept Judith.
“Nay, I think I
know you better than you know
yourself.”
“Then what is it you think I desire, if it’s not to reign
as Lord of Laycock or master of another fief, be it large
or small?” Andrew turned to peer at his friend.
“I couldn’t say,” Philip admitted. “But I know what I
desire.”
His gaze had wandered from Andrew to the corner of
the hall. Andrew looked in the same direction and saw
Judith Lamb standing at the bottom of stairs.
The damsel nearly took Andrew’s breath away. She
wore a gown and hennin the color of a twilight sky that
suited her complexion as no other hue possibly could.
Her hair lay hidden beneath the hat, exposing the
striking contours of her neck and face. Such a face!
Andrew narrowed his gaze to better contemplate her
features. He’d never beheld the like on any woman, not
even Judith herself earlier in the day. The arches of
her eyebrows were defined, as were her eyes
themselves—her lashes appeared even thicker and
darker than they had been. Clearly, they were the
longest, most ebony he had ever seen. And her lips, pouty
and pink as rose petals, glistened moistly, as though
she’d licked them in anticipation of a kiss. Her cheeks
sustained a blush as well, as if she were flushed from
lovemaking.
“And you said to me you believed her no lady?” Philip
whispered out of the side of his mouth. “A peasant wench
couldn’t aspire to such beauty. This damsel is noble, if
not royal, by blood.”
Before Andrew could respond—before he could even
get to his feet—Philip stood and strode between the
tables and benches set up on the main floor. Knowing
his friend would reach Judith before he possibly could,
Andrew decided to remain on the dais. He stood, waiting
for them to approach. Let Judith come to him.
Philip did not hurry. Reaching Judith, he spoke to
her for some moments, annoying Andrew because he
couldn’t hope to overhear, not with all the knights’
chatter as the servants brought out trays of food and set
them on the tables. Finally, though, Philip took her hand
and led her forward, escorting her to the dais.
“Here we are,” Philip announced cheerily, pulling
out the chair he had recently vacated so that Judith
could sit. To her, he said, “I expect Andrew planned for
you to sit at his other side. But then I would be forced to
lean across him to converse with you. Better, methinks,
that you sit between us.”
Wordlessly, she glanced directly at Andrew. If she
sought his permission, he could not give it. He felt he’d
been struck dumb. Up close this eve, her countenance
seemed as flawless as a statue’s.
He managed a nod. When Judith sat, he sat.
“More wine, milord?” the steward inquired as he
paused before the high table with his jug.
“Aye,” Andrew managed gruffly, holding out his goblet.
By the time the man had finished replenishing
Andrew’s cup, Philip was holding out Judith’s empty one.
Andrew realized he had been unmannerly and a
contemptibly thoughtless host not to see the lady served
before himself. But it was too late. Besides, he reminded
himself stubbornly, he remained unconvinced she was
truly a lady. More likely she belonged in the scullery
eating with the servants, not at a baron’s high table.
“Lady Judith, you are so quiet,” Philip observed,
smiling at her kindly. “Are you ill at ease to find yourself
the only woman dining among so many men?”
She glanced at the whole of the room, at the many
knights and men-at-arms eating gustily. Then she
turned back to Philip and said, “No. More than once I’ve
had the dubious distinction of being the only female in
an old boys’... I mean to say, it doesn’t bother me. The
problem is—”
“What?” Her hand rested on the edge of the table,
and Philip covered Judith’s with his own.
Andrew wanted to fling it off.
But Judith seemed not to mind. She allowed Philip’s
fingers to encompass hers as though she enjoyed his
touch. “We speak the same language,” she said, “but
differently. I have trouble understanding all the words
you—everyone—speaks to me. And I think you have
trouble understanding when I reply.”
“I comprehend you perfectly,” Philip insisted. “We’ll
speak slowly, though, shall we? I would wager there’ll
be no problem communicating if we don’t go too fast.”
Andrew watched Judith nod. She appeared so
damnably grateful to Philip. As if he were responsible
for her enjoying this fine repast. The hospitality of
Laycock Keep. That beautiful gown she wore.
By all the saints! Where had she got it? Not her
satchel. There had been no clothes in that bag of hers.
And he’d told Bridget to get Judith one of her spare tunics.
Andrew knew full well the serving maid could own no
fine garments such as this one. It belonged to his
mother, surely. Or one of his sisters. How dare Bridget
defy his orders? The wench would know the feel of his
fist before the eve was done. It mattered not that he’d
never hit any woman, with open hand or closed. There
could always be a first time, and Bridget had certainly
provoked him to it.
“Andrew?” Philip addressed him, leaning forward to
peer in his direction.
Andrew blinked but otherwise failed to acknowledge
his friend. He watched, though, as Philip rolled his eyes
at him before speaking to Judith.
“My lady, allow me to help you select the fare you
wish to sample. Laycock’s cook is indeed a good one.
You would never know it, for she’s skinny as a reed.
Most cooks are fat, are they not?”
Philip chuckled, as though he’d told a fine joke.
Andrew snorted in contempt and began filling his own
trencher.
“Here we have partridge,” Philip explained, as if
Judith would never have seen a partridge before and
could not recognize it. “And carrots—they are in a sweet
glaze, very tasty. Would you like some of the fish? The
white sauce is excellent. I’ve had it many times here.
You must also try this honey bread.”
Andrew sneaked a surreptitious look at Judith. Philip
was now selecting food for his own trencher, but she
had not begun to eat. Did she expect the handsome,
virile lord of North Cross to feed her as well, as though
she were a babe?
“What’s amiss?” he asked her curtly.
“I—” Startled, she raised her eyes to his. Judith
appeared truly helpless, so much so that Andrew felt a
keen need to fix whatever she found wrong.
“Aye?”
She glanced at his hand, the one clutching his eating
knife. “I have nothing to, ah, spear my food.”
“’Tis no crime to use your fingers.”
“Nonsense!
” Philip, from her other side, declared.
“You’ve no eating knife of your own, milady? Then use
mine. I shall eat with my fingers.”
He should have done that himself, Andrew realized,
scowling at the knife in his hand.
“Why haven’t you one of your own?” he inquired,
deciding it was Judith’s own fault that she did not. “In
that sack of yours, you carry more possessions than an
entire village of people might have. Yet there’s no eating
knife?”
“Actually, there isn’t. Where I come from, utensils—
spoon, knife and something we call a fork—are set out
on the table for each meal.”
“Inconvenient, that,” Philip observed after swallowing
a mouthful of food. “What if you must eat elsewhere,
perhaps while traveling on the road? Or what if you
simply wish to peel and eat an apple from an orchard?”
“I probably wouldn’t peel it. I’d just take bites right
through the skin until I reached the core.”
“I like that!” Philip smiled at Judith. “Simplicity is
always best. Still, I insist you keep that eating knife.
Here is the sheath.” He handed it to her. “Tie it to your
belt, and you’ll always have it handy.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Of course you could,” he insisted. “I can easily
replace the blade.”
“Well...thank you.” Judith nodded and turned her
attention to her trencher.
Andrew kept picking at his meal, but he had no
appetite, not even after the hard riding he and Philip
had done that afternoon. Usually, the smell of Cook’s
fine fare made his mouth water. But not this eve.
Suddenly, he knew why. He couldn’t smell the food! Not
the fish, the fowl, the fruit. What he could smell was
Judith, and she smelled sweetly intoxicating. Like
flowers—specifically, roses.
Closing his eyes, Andrew found himself able to filter
out even a hint of other scents. Hers alone enveloped
him. He imagined himself turning toward her, lowering
his face to that swan-like neck of hers. With his lips on
her flesh, he suspected he would grow absolutely drunk
on her fragrance.
Opening his eyes, he decided to get absolutely drunk
on wine instead. Finishing the dregs in his cup, he
called for his steward and demanded the jug be left on
the table.
“What’s wrong, Andrew? Not hungry, this eve?” Philip
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