cold, dead fingers were reaching out, clutching at Golde’s insides, drawing her into some visceral pit from whence she would never return
.
Churning emotions buffeted her and sweat broke on her brow. Breathing, harsh and ragged, filled her ears
.
’Twas hers
.
She had to escape
.
Suddenly a white-hot light flashed from the midst of the sanguine fog. It lanced through her eyes and shot to the tips of her fingers and toes
.
Golde yelped.
Quickened by the stab of agony, her arms and legs at last responded to her command to flee. She shot from beneath the baron like a stone from a sling, then scrambled to her feet.
“Whore’s gleet, wench,” the lord snarled.
Panting, she looked to see him push himself to sit from where he lay on his belly.
“She tripped you, Papa!” the sword-wielding brat howled.
Ignoring the boy’s accusation, Golde’s gaze swept the hall. Servants stared silently at their lord, many with hands covering their hearts. Bright sunlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the room where before she’d seen naught but fog. The bug-child struggled to remove the pot from his head, but the bar-handle kept catching beneath his chin and he began to wail.
Golde wrapped her fists in the folds of her skirt as her body trembled. Saint Blaise! What had happened here? All appeared normal, yet she could not deny what she’d just seen.
“. . . not to blame, Ronces.” Delamaure was grousing to his sword-wielding son. “’Twas God who created those great bumbling feet of hers.”
Golde attempted to muster some anger at his remark, anything to restore her bearings, but ’twas no use. Instead, she lowered her head, anxious that none see her discomposure. Was she going mad?
“Allow me to assist you, mi’lord,” Sir Nigel offered.
She watched from beneath lowered lashes as the steward hurried toward Delamaure.
“I need no aid.” The lord’s tone could grind granite. Golde glanced surreptiously at him when he made no move to rise. In opposition to his forbidding countenance, she could yet feel the solid reassurance of his body pressed against her back. The comforting beat of his heart. The gentle hush of his indrawn breath, urging her body, her soul, to awareness. Whatever had made her feel thus?
She squared her shoulders and gathered the reins of her wild imaginings. ’Twas exhaustion, and lack of food, and, and . . . And the overgrown lackwit would have crushed her to death were she a smaller person.
Her anxious feelings subsided and her breathing slowed. Who would not be stricken with thick-comings?
She tripped you, Papa.
Her lip curled as she thought on the brat’s accusation. Now, she supposed, the baron would rebuke her for causing his fall. And she hoped he would, for she welcomed the opportunity to respond in kind. ’Twas his fault she’d been scared witless. Brushing bits of straw and dirt from her tunic, she anticipated his ire.
Instead, he addressed the brat, Ronces. “Collect your brother. I would have you and Alory escort me to my chambers.”
Ronces scampered to remove the pot from the bug, Alory’s, head—yet a younger, chubbier version of his lordship, Golde reflected. Then both boys raced to grab their father’s hands. They pulled him to his feet, a task not unlike two ants drawing a bear onto its hind legs.
“Where is the wench?” Sir Gavarnie demanded.
A pox on the man, Golde swore. Had he not just ordered his sons to assist him to his chambers? What need had he of her?
Ronces turned him in her direction, but before the lord could speak, the brat tugged urgently on his sleeve. Cupping his grubby little hands around his mouth, the child whispered in a voice loud enough to be heard the length of the hall, “Never oppose your opponent.”
The baron’s lips twitched as if he might laugh, then he pursed them and his features grew stern.
“Come along,” he commanded, motioning in her direction. “I now have protection from those oversized feet of
.
Churning emotions buffeted her and sweat broke on her brow. Breathing, harsh and ragged, filled her ears
.
’Twas hers
.
She had to escape
.
Suddenly a white-hot light flashed from the midst of the sanguine fog. It lanced through her eyes and shot to the tips of her fingers and toes
.
Golde yelped.
Quickened by the stab of agony, her arms and legs at last responded to her command to flee. She shot from beneath the baron like a stone from a sling, then scrambled to her feet.
“Whore’s gleet, wench,” the lord snarled.
Panting, she looked to see him push himself to sit from where he lay on his belly.
“She tripped you, Papa!” the sword-wielding brat howled.
Ignoring the boy’s accusation, Golde’s gaze swept the hall. Servants stared silently at their lord, many with hands covering their hearts. Bright sunlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the room where before she’d seen naught but fog. The bug-child struggled to remove the pot from his head, but the bar-handle kept catching beneath his chin and he began to wail.
Golde wrapped her fists in the folds of her skirt as her body trembled. Saint Blaise! What had happened here? All appeared normal, yet she could not deny what she’d just seen.
“. . . not to blame, Ronces.” Delamaure was grousing to his sword-wielding son. “’Twas God who created those great bumbling feet of hers.”
Golde attempted to muster some anger at his remark, anything to restore her bearings, but ’twas no use. Instead, she lowered her head, anxious that none see her discomposure. Was she going mad?
“Allow me to assist you, mi’lord,” Sir Nigel offered.
She watched from beneath lowered lashes as the steward hurried toward Delamaure.
“I need no aid.” The lord’s tone could grind granite. Golde glanced surreptiously at him when he made no move to rise. In opposition to his forbidding countenance, she could yet feel the solid reassurance of his body pressed against her back. The comforting beat of his heart. The gentle hush of his indrawn breath, urging her body, her soul, to awareness. Whatever had made her feel thus?
She squared her shoulders and gathered the reins of her wild imaginings. ’Twas exhaustion, and lack of food, and, and . . . And the overgrown lackwit would have crushed her to death were she a smaller person.
Her anxious feelings subsided and her breathing slowed. Who would not be stricken with thick-comings?
She tripped you, Papa.
Her lip curled as she thought on the brat’s accusation. Now, she supposed, the baron would rebuke her for causing his fall. And she hoped he would, for she welcomed the opportunity to respond in kind. ’Twas his fault she’d been scared witless. Brushing bits of straw and dirt from her tunic, she anticipated his ire.
Instead, he addressed the brat, Ronces. “Collect your brother. I would have you and Alory escort me to my chambers.”
Ronces scampered to remove the pot from the bug, Alory’s, head—yet a younger, chubbier version of his lordship, Golde reflected. Then both boys raced to grab their father’s hands. They pulled him to his feet, a task not unlike two ants drawing a bear onto its hind legs.
“Where is the wench?” Sir Gavarnie demanded.
A pox on the man, Golde swore. Had he not just ordered his sons to assist him to his chambers? What need had he of her?
Ronces turned him in her direction, but before the lord could speak, the brat tugged urgently on his sleeve. Cupping his grubby little hands around his mouth, the child whispered in a voice loud enough to be heard the length of the hall, “Never oppose your opponent.”
The baron’s lips twitched as if he might laugh, then he pursed them and his features grew stern.
“Come along,” he commanded, motioning in her direction. “I now have protection from those oversized feet of
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