ribbon of road marked by ruts and time curved from the manor, winding past Ravenshed’s estate toward the King’s Great Way, an ancient Roman road swooping near straight as an arrow to Nottingham. It was a rare day; sunlight warmed sodden meadows and treetops—and reflected from domed helmets in the distance. Normans approached at a swift pace.
Fiskin saw them first. He raced to the kitchens behind the manor house shouting alarm at the top of his lungs. “Milady! Lady, they come!”
Jane looked up as he jerked to a halt just inside the kitchen door. Breathless and flushed, tunic awry and leather shoes covered with mud, he put her in mind of a dabchick.
“Who comes, Fiskin?”
But she knew. It was not unexpected. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on the sprig of dried mint in one hand; fine pieces powdered the table.
“Normans—and th-the sh-sheriff!”
She looked down, smoothed the scattered crumbs into a bowl, then brushed her palms together.
“Calm yourself, Fiskin. You have muck on your shoes. Dena will scold if you spread it on the floor she just swept clean.”
She lifted another sprig of mint that was to be tucked into clothing and linen chests to deter moths and fleas; it was stiff, dried from the preceding summer, still fragrant.
“What shall we do, milady?” Staring at her, eyes wide in a pale face splotched with freckles, he waited for her answer.
“I shall greet them when they reach the manor, but I do not intend to fly down the road like a goose girl. Do you go and fetch Enid to the kitchen. She should come and be with her mother.”
Still outwardly calm, she left the kitchen and stepped out into the courtyard. Light spread pleasantly over stones and walkways; it pricked her eyes.
I should be garbed more properly, as befits a lady of the manor.
It would not matter. What did a condemned gentlewoman wear on the way to her execution? A clean kirtle and linen coif would be required, perhaps. A coif—she put a hand to her head, fingers grazing loose hair. Absence of appropriate headgear was becoming an evil habit; she tucked the mint she still held into her frayed plait, then smoothed her hands down the soiled front of her bliaut. No time to change into a clean cotte. She would meet her doom in garments stained with evidence of housewifely—an irony that her mother would surely have appreciated.…
She held tightly to her composure. Her safety—if there was any—lay in her rank. And deception. It would never do to betray any hint of guilt. There lay destruction.
Yet it was much easier to plan than to achieve. When Devaux dismounted in front of the fieldstone manor house, her trembling legs threatened to deposit her in a heap on her own threshold.
He cannot know … he cannot know.
Hands folded calmly in front of her, she waited in the open doorway of her hall as he approached. A barrier, polite but not welcoming.
Dark features betrayed nothing; bare of helm, in black tunicand chausses, he emanated power and purpose. He moved easily, long strides eating up the few yards until he stood before the shallow steps leading into the house.
“Greetings, my lord sheriff.” Coolly civil despite the flutter of fear that rattled her tongue: “To what do we owe this honor?”
He rested one foot casually on the bottom step and looked up at her. She had a brief impression of intense green beneath black brows.
“Your mantle.”
She stared at him blankly. He gestured; a tall, blond Norman stepped forward with a hooded cloak draped over one arm. In the courtyard behind them, a dozen men garbed in the sheriff’s black and gold livery began to dismount and walk their horses to the shallow trough of water beside the well. Hooves clattered loudly on cobbled stones. Fitful sunlight bounced off helmets, chainmail, and intimidating weapons, but failed to define eyes glinting behind helmet noseguards.
Her gaze shifted back to the length of dark blue wool that dangled from the blond Norman’s
Fiskin saw them first. He raced to the kitchens behind the manor house shouting alarm at the top of his lungs. “Milady! Lady, they come!”
Jane looked up as he jerked to a halt just inside the kitchen door. Breathless and flushed, tunic awry and leather shoes covered with mud, he put her in mind of a dabchick.
“Who comes, Fiskin?”
But she knew. It was not unexpected. Her fingers tightened involuntarily on the sprig of dried mint in one hand; fine pieces powdered the table.
“Normans—and th-the sh-sheriff!”
She looked down, smoothed the scattered crumbs into a bowl, then brushed her palms together.
“Calm yourself, Fiskin. You have muck on your shoes. Dena will scold if you spread it on the floor she just swept clean.”
She lifted another sprig of mint that was to be tucked into clothing and linen chests to deter moths and fleas; it was stiff, dried from the preceding summer, still fragrant.
“What shall we do, milady?” Staring at her, eyes wide in a pale face splotched with freckles, he waited for her answer.
“I shall greet them when they reach the manor, but I do not intend to fly down the road like a goose girl. Do you go and fetch Enid to the kitchen. She should come and be with her mother.”
Still outwardly calm, she left the kitchen and stepped out into the courtyard. Light spread pleasantly over stones and walkways; it pricked her eyes.
I should be garbed more properly, as befits a lady of the manor.
It would not matter. What did a condemned gentlewoman wear on the way to her execution? A clean kirtle and linen coif would be required, perhaps. A coif—she put a hand to her head, fingers grazing loose hair. Absence of appropriate headgear was becoming an evil habit; she tucked the mint she still held into her frayed plait, then smoothed her hands down the soiled front of her bliaut. No time to change into a clean cotte. She would meet her doom in garments stained with evidence of housewifely—an irony that her mother would surely have appreciated.…
She held tightly to her composure. Her safety—if there was any—lay in her rank. And deception. It would never do to betray any hint of guilt. There lay destruction.
Yet it was much easier to plan than to achieve. When Devaux dismounted in front of the fieldstone manor house, her trembling legs threatened to deposit her in a heap on her own threshold.
He cannot know … he cannot know.
Hands folded calmly in front of her, she waited in the open doorway of her hall as he approached. A barrier, polite but not welcoming.
Dark features betrayed nothing; bare of helm, in black tunicand chausses, he emanated power and purpose. He moved easily, long strides eating up the few yards until he stood before the shallow steps leading into the house.
“Greetings, my lord sheriff.” Coolly civil despite the flutter of fear that rattled her tongue: “To what do we owe this honor?”
He rested one foot casually on the bottom step and looked up at her. She had a brief impression of intense green beneath black brows.
“Your mantle.”
She stared at him blankly. He gestured; a tall, blond Norman stepped forward with a hooded cloak draped over one arm. In the courtyard behind them, a dozen men garbed in the sheriff’s black and gold livery began to dismount and walk their horses to the shallow trough of water beside the well. Hooves clattered loudly on cobbled stones. Fitful sunlight bounced off helmets, chainmail, and intimidating weapons, but failed to define eyes glinting behind helmet noseguards.
Her gaze shifted back to the length of dark blue wool that dangled from the blond Norman’s
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