Read Online A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
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proud.
Malkin had lost no one before, though, and she wept freely on Isabel’s shoulder. The girl felt so frail and soft to the older
woman, it surprised her that she had been able to conceive her child. There was no strength to her, not like the women of
Isabel’s age who were so used to death and trying to survive in the worst of conditions.
‘I must seem pathetic!’ Malkin murmured. ‘I am so sorry, Mother. But I miss him so – and I don’t know how I can live without
him …’
‘Child, you know nothing of the world, do you? You are young. Yes, it is right to grieve for your man, but when you are as
old as me you will realise that there are always fresh losses. All you can do is weather each storm that comes, and try to
protect those who still matter.’
She looked down at Malkin’s head approvingly. The chit was soft, but she had adored Isabel’s son, and that was enough to endear
her to Isabel.
Malkin nodded and sat up, her head averted as thoughshe was ashamed of her outburst. She stood and returned to her stool, picking up her wool and taking a deep, shuddering breath
before counting each stitch on her knitting needle.
She was beautiful – there could be no doubt of that. Her blue-black hair was iridescent as a raven’s wing, and her face was
delightfully shaped: a broad, white brow that curved down to a pointed little chin. With green eyes slanted down at the sides,
and full lips, even now in the depths of her misery she was a delight to the eye. It was no surprise that she’d stolen Ailward’s
heart. More surprising was that she’d been prepared to accept his advances.
Isabel was no fool; nor was she prepared to attribute characteristics even to her own son that were better than he possessed.
Ailward was a bullying, covetous fool, who could, maybe, have made a good sergeant given time, but had died first. Not that
his foolishness affected Malkin’s opinion of him, apparently. She seemed to have genuinely adored him. There had never been
any tears about the place while he lived, and she had always been doting. Perhaps it was true, the old idea that love blinded
a young wench to her man’s true character. If blindness were ever needed, it was in the lover of Isabel’s son.
She sighed. Already an old woman at four and fifty, she was lonely, and unlike the widow in front of her had little chance
of ever winning another man.
‘Sad, Mother?’ Malkin asked softly.
It would have been easy to snap at her. What did she have to be sad about? No father, no husband, no son … not many even
in the last decade had been forced to contend with so much despair. Isabel felt her eyes sting, but she blinked the tears
away before they could form. ‘No, child. I was just remembering. There’s no need for sadness, not when thegood Lord is protecting us at all times. My son is gone to a better place.’
‘Of course.’
The arrival of the steward prevented further discussion. Isabel held out her mazer for a refill of wine, and she watched as
Pagan filled it to the brim.
He was a good old servant, Pagan. It was one of the old Devonshire names. Nowadays all the young men of quality seemed to
have the same ones, even in the same family. Isabel knew one in which the oldest boy was called Guy, the following four sons
were all called John, and the last two were both William. She knew why it happened – any parent wanted a godparent to be as
committed to his offspring as possible, and so named the children after favoured friends. But if a favoured friend became
godparent to more than one of the children, it could lead to embarrassing and confusing multiple naming in the family. Isabel
was glad that she had only ever had to worry about the one boy. Much easier that way!
Pagan filled Malkin’s cup and then set the jug between the two women before leaving the room. He stood at the door, as usual,
eyeing both of them, his eyes going about the room: checking the fire
Malkin had lost no one before, though, and she wept freely on Isabel’s shoulder. The girl felt so frail and soft to the older
woman, it surprised her that she had been able to conceive her child. There was no strength to her, not like the women of
Isabel’s age who were so used to death and trying to survive in the worst of conditions.
‘I must seem pathetic!’ Malkin murmured. ‘I am so sorry, Mother. But I miss him so – and I don’t know how I can live without
him …’
‘Child, you know nothing of the world, do you? You are young. Yes, it is right to grieve for your man, but when you are as
old as me you will realise that there are always fresh losses. All you can do is weather each storm that comes, and try to
protect those who still matter.’
She looked down at Malkin’s head approvingly. The chit was soft, but she had adored Isabel’s son, and that was enough to endear
her to Isabel.
Malkin nodded and sat up, her head averted as thoughshe was ashamed of her outburst. She stood and returned to her stool, picking up her wool and taking a deep, shuddering breath
before counting each stitch on her knitting needle.
She was beautiful – there could be no doubt of that. Her blue-black hair was iridescent as a raven’s wing, and her face was
delightfully shaped: a broad, white brow that curved down to a pointed little chin. With green eyes slanted down at the sides,
and full lips, even now in the depths of her misery she was a delight to the eye. It was no surprise that she’d stolen Ailward’s
heart. More surprising was that she’d been prepared to accept his advances.
Isabel was no fool; nor was she prepared to attribute characteristics even to her own son that were better than he possessed.
Ailward was a bullying, covetous fool, who could, maybe, have made a good sergeant given time, but had died first. Not that
his foolishness affected Malkin’s opinion of him, apparently. She seemed to have genuinely adored him. There had never been
any tears about the place while he lived, and she had always been doting. Perhaps it was true, the old idea that love blinded
a young wench to her man’s true character. If blindness were ever needed, it was in the lover of Isabel’s son.
She sighed. Already an old woman at four and fifty, she was lonely, and unlike the widow in front of her had little chance
of ever winning another man.
‘Sad, Mother?’ Malkin asked softly.
It would have been easy to snap at her. What did she have to be sad about? No father, no husband, no son … not many even
in the last decade had been forced to contend with so much despair. Isabel felt her eyes sting, but she blinked the tears
away before they could form. ‘No, child. I was just remembering. There’s no need for sadness, not when thegood Lord is protecting us at all times. My son is gone to a better place.’
‘Of course.’
The arrival of the steward prevented further discussion. Isabel held out her mazer for a refill of wine, and she watched as
Pagan filled it to the brim.
He was a good old servant, Pagan. It was one of the old Devonshire names. Nowadays all the young men of quality seemed to
have the same ones, even in the same family. Isabel knew one in which the oldest boy was called Guy, the following four sons
were all called John, and the last two were both William. She knew why it happened – any parent wanted a godparent to be as
committed to his offspring as possible, and so named the children after favoured friends. But if a favoured friend became
godparent to more than one of the children, it could lead to embarrassing and confusing multiple naming in the family. Isabel
was glad that she had only ever had to worry about the one boy. Much easier that way!
Pagan filled Malkin’s cup and then set the jug between the two women before leaving the room. He stood at the door, as usual,
eyeing both of them, his eyes going about the room: checking the fire
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