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them first, if you want—and I warrant you that come the morning, she’ll be thanking you for it.”
Alys’ face probably showed him he had taken the wrong way there because even as she started to open her mouth to answer him, ready to bludgeon such a quantity of stupidity out of his head—with words or otherwise—he rapidly shifted ground, leaned forward, and put his free hand on her knee, his voice dropping into warmth and urging. “Alys, let’s not quarrel over it. That won’t help anything. But what else is there to do? Because I’ve already sworn that she’s not coming out of here until she’s married to him.”
“Let him court her.”
“Court her?” Reynold echoed. He drew slightly back with surprise. “Court her?”
The way
you
do every woman that crosses your path, even so slight-brained a thing as Katerin, Alys thought but did not say it. “Court her,” she repeated firmly, enjoying his surprise.
Reynold made a short, disbelieving laugh. “Why? Why waste the time? Why not simply let him have her and be done with it?”
“Because I say so.”
They had neither of them ever lacked a temper and Alys could see Reynold’s rousing now, his face darkening with it as he said warningly, “Alys, I can have that girl out of here anytime I choose and there’s no way you can stop me, say what you want to.”
He could, and would care nothing for the consequences. Not her threats of God’s wrath, of fines, penance, episcopal displeasure, even excommunication if she forced him to turn the matter violent enough—and by St. Frideswide’s blessed veil she would before he had the girl that way. Alys had her temper, too, and was only holding it back because she was remembering one thing more than Reynold was. She laid her hand over his knee and squeezed it with what might have been affection but was hard enough to be a warning, too and said, “You could,” she agreed, “but you won’t.” And before he could ask why not, she answered, “Because Aunt Eleanor has taken her in charge, and whatever you might do against me or God, I doubt you’ll do anything against Aunt Eleanor.”
Reynold stopped, his mouth half-open, staring at her. They sat still long enough, in silence deep enough, for a log to pop and roll a little on the fire and Father Henry to grow nervous and clear his throat and Katerin to shuffle a little in the restless way she had when she did not understand what was happening.
Then a smile ticked at the corners of Reynold’s mouth. He tried to hold it in check, but it grew, forcing both his dimples into view, and he gave way to it, grinning openly. “You have me there, my lady. Of all things in the world, I don’t think I would care to go against Aunt Eleanor.” He pulled free his hand and sat back in the chair, still smiling but less widely, with a light frown of thinking between his eyes. More to himself than not, he said, “I wonder what she’s playing at?”
Before Alys could think of an answer, Reynold rose with abrupt grace, turning toward the table and the wine. “All right, then. Benet will come courting. Just don’t be blaming me if her folk and the Fenners come ranting to your gate and nothing has been accomplished. Now, about this mason of yours you’ve been complaining of. Is he still giving you trouble?”
Chapter 5
The morning Mass, like the offices and breakfast before it, was subdued under Domina Alys’ heavy eye, no one caring to chance her humor by unwary move or word. She had not come to Matins and Lauds at midnight but at dawn had carried through at a headlong pace that had warned Father Henry to be no less brisk about the Mass. In the few years since Domina Alys had become prioress, he had managed to efface himself from the priory almost entirely, spending most of his time in the village except for his necessary duties in St. Frideswide’s. This morning he managed the Mass at a pace just short of unseemly, and afterward, while he retreated to the
Alys’ face probably showed him he had taken the wrong way there because even as she started to open her mouth to answer him, ready to bludgeon such a quantity of stupidity out of his head—with words or otherwise—he rapidly shifted ground, leaned forward, and put his free hand on her knee, his voice dropping into warmth and urging. “Alys, let’s not quarrel over it. That won’t help anything. But what else is there to do? Because I’ve already sworn that she’s not coming out of here until she’s married to him.”
“Let him court her.”
“Court her?” Reynold echoed. He drew slightly back with surprise. “Court her?”
The way
you
do every woman that crosses your path, even so slight-brained a thing as Katerin, Alys thought but did not say it. “Court her,” she repeated firmly, enjoying his surprise.
Reynold made a short, disbelieving laugh. “Why? Why waste the time? Why not simply let him have her and be done with it?”
“Because I say so.”
They had neither of them ever lacked a temper and Alys could see Reynold’s rousing now, his face darkening with it as he said warningly, “Alys, I can have that girl out of here anytime I choose and there’s no way you can stop me, say what you want to.”
He could, and would care nothing for the consequences. Not her threats of God’s wrath, of fines, penance, episcopal displeasure, even excommunication if she forced him to turn the matter violent enough—and by St. Frideswide’s blessed veil she would before he had the girl that way. Alys had her temper, too, and was only holding it back because she was remembering one thing more than Reynold was. She laid her hand over his knee and squeezed it with what might have been affection but was hard enough to be a warning, too and said, “You could,” she agreed, “but you won’t.” And before he could ask why not, she answered, “Because Aunt Eleanor has taken her in charge, and whatever you might do against me or God, I doubt you’ll do anything against Aunt Eleanor.”
Reynold stopped, his mouth half-open, staring at her. They sat still long enough, in silence deep enough, for a log to pop and roll a little on the fire and Father Henry to grow nervous and clear his throat and Katerin to shuffle a little in the restless way she had when she did not understand what was happening.
Then a smile ticked at the corners of Reynold’s mouth. He tried to hold it in check, but it grew, forcing both his dimples into view, and he gave way to it, grinning openly. “You have me there, my lady. Of all things in the world, I don’t think I would care to go against Aunt Eleanor.” He pulled free his hand and sat back in the chair, still smiling but less widely, with a light frown of thinking between his eyes. More to himself than not, he said, “I wonder what she’s playing at?”
Before Alys could think of an answer, Reynold rose with abrupt grace, turning toward the table and the wine. “All right, then. Benet will come courting. Just don’t be blaming me if her folk and the Fenners come ranting to your gate and nothing has been accomplished. Now, about this mason of yours you’ve been complaining of. Is he still giving you trouble?”
Chapter 5
The morning Mass, like the offices and breakfast before it, was subdued under Domina Alys’ heavy eye, no one caring to chance her humor by unwary move or word. She had not come to Matins and Lauds at midnight but at dawn had carried through at a headlong pace that had warned Father Henry to be no less brisk about the Mass. In the few years since Domina Alys had become prioress, he had managed to efface himself from the priory almost entirely, spending most of his time in the village except for his necessary duties in St. Frideswide’s. This morning he managed the Mass at a pace just short of unseemly, and afterward, while he retreated to the
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