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Authors: Melanie Dickerson
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people, an occurrence she had rarely ever experienced before, she had never felt so alone. She tried not to think about how hurt she felt by her mother’s and brothers’ treatment of her. She pushed the thoughts away, but they stubbornly returned, untilthe tears streamed from her eyes and she was hard-pressed to keep silent.
The next morning the clouds hung low, threatening rain, as Annabel carried a bucket of water into the kitchen, setting it down beside the stone hearth. Mistress Eustacia gave her a sharp look.
“Are you well? Your eyes are puffed up as though bees have stung you.”
“I am well, Mistress.” Annabel shook her head and turned her face away, not wishing to confess the true cause of her puffy eyes.
After last night, she was startled to see Lord le Wyse at the head of the table, his usual place. He seemed in a wretched temper throughout the morning meal, however, grunting or snapping at anyone who spoke to him. His hair was brushed back off his forehead and he looked haggard, his pallor heightened by the dark circles under his eyes.
Terrified of drawing his wrath, she filled his cup, her hand trembling lest she should spill anything upon him. Mercifully, he ignored her, and she accomplished the task and moved on. Throughout the meal, however, she found herself glancing in his direction, but he showed no sign that he had seen her the night before.
After the maidservants, carpenters, and stone masons had broken their fast, they all dispersed to their various tasks. Annabel headed toward her mistress.
The older woman sighed heavily and wiped her face with her apron. “I’m off to the kitchen to prepare the midday victuals. Annabel, I need you to set to rights the upper hall. Sweep and strew new rushes and straw — that’s a good lass.”
The upper hall was now completely deserted. Annabel went to work ridding the room of the old rushes that had lost their freshness, as well as the dirt tracked in by all the workers coming in for their meals. She cleaned the entire room except for the screened-off section where Lord le Wyse slept.
She hesitated. Should she find Mistress Eustacia and ask if she was allowed to clean behind his screen, in her lord’s sleeping quarters? She would waste time going out to the kitchen to speak with her, and it seemed too trivial for that. Besides, she wanted to show Eustacia she was competent and eager to do a thorough job. Lord le Wyse was outside supervising the building work; he could be gone for hours, or he could come back at any time. What would he say if he caught her in his private area? Annabel glanced at the door and shook her head. Surely she would hear the door open and could scurry away before he saw her.
Resolute, Annabel rounded the corner of the screen. She swept around the bed and tried not to look at anything. She intended to simply finish her sweeping and move on, but her gaze was arrested by three painted pictures that were propped against the wall. They were similar enough that she guessed they were all created by the same artist. She continued with her sweeping and tried to stare down at the floor, but her eyes kept flitting to the paintings. Finally she stopped her work and bent to examine them.
The first illumination depicted a dead woman lying on a wooden bier. Around her stood many people, but they were all looking away from her, at a baby lying on a similar, smaller bier. The child was swaddled and its eyes were closed, its tiny fists resting against its chest.
The next one portrayed a group of skeletons smiling maniacally, holding up tankards as if in a toast. Behind the skeletons stood several people bent over and weeping into their hands.
Annabel ached for the person who had painted such a scene. The artist’s hurt and sorrow showed in each character, each color choice, each line. The pain-filled paintings brought to mind what she had seen last night in the forest — Lord le Wyse bent over, moaning in anguish. Perhaps these paintings
The next morning the clouds hung low, threatening rain, as Annabel carried a bucket of water into the kitchen, setting it down beside the stone hearth. Mistress Eustacia gave her a sharp look.
“Are you well? Your eyes are puffed up as though bees have stung you.”
“I am well, Mistress.” Annabel shook her head and turned her face away, not wishing to confess the true cause of her puffy eyes.
After last night, she was startled to see Lord le Wyse at the head of the table, his usual place. He seemed in a wretched temper throughout the morning meal, however, grunting or snapping at anyone who spoke to him. His hair was brushed back off his forehead and he looked haggard, his pallor heightened by the dark circles under his eyes.
Terrified of drawing his wrath, she filled his cup, her hand trembling lest she should spill anything upon him. Mercifully, he ignored her, and she accomplished the task and moved on. Throughout the meal, however, she found herself glancing in his direction, but he showed no sign that he had seen her the night before.
After the maidservants, carpenters, and stone masons had broken their fast, they all dispersed to their various tasks. Annabel headed toward her mistress.
The older woman sighed heavily and wiped her face with her apron. “I’m off to the kitchen to prepare the midday victuals. Annabel, I need you to set to rights the upper hall. Sweep and strew new rushes and straw — that’s a good lass.”
The upper hall was now completely deserted. Annabel went to work ridding the room of the old rushes that had lost their freshness, as well as the dirt tracked in by all the workers coming in for their meals. She cleaned the entire room except for the screened-off section where Lord le Wyse slept.
She hesitated. Should she find Mistress Eustacia and ask if she was allowed to clean behind his screen, in her lord’s sleeping quarters? She would waste time going out to the kitchen to speak with her, and it seemed too trivial for that. Besides, she wanted to show Eustacia she was competent and eager to do a thorough job. Lord le Wyse was outside supervising the building work; he could be gone for hours, or he could come back at any time. What would he say if he caught her in his private area? Annabel glanced at the door and shook her head. Surely she would hear the door open and could scurry away before he saw her.
Resolute, Annabel rounded the corner of the screen. She swept around the bed and tried not to look at anything. She intended to simply finish her sweeping and move on, but her gaze was arrested by three painted pictures that were propped against the wall. They were similar enough that she guessed they were all created by the same artist. She continued with her sweeping and tried to stare down at the floor, but her eyes kept flitting to the paintings. Finally she stopped her work and bent to examine them.
The first illumination depicted a dead woman lying on a wooden bier. Around her stood many people, but they were all looking away from her, at a baby lying on a similar, smaller bier. The child was swaddled and its eyes were closed, its tiny fists resting against its chest.
The next one portrayed a group of skeletons smiling maniacally, holding up tankards as if in a toast. Behind the skeletons stood several people bent over and weeping into their hands.
Annabel ached for the person who had painted such a scene. The artist’s hurt and sorrow showed in each character, each color choice, each line. The pain-filled paintings brought to mind what she had seen last night in the forest — Lord le Wyse bent over, moaning in anguish. Perhaps these paintings
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