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Authors: Cynthia Sally Haggard
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“Go now,” I said, giving her a gentle push.
“Come on, Eleanor,” called Joan, holding out her hand to her friend. “We can go to the kitchens and eat as much as we like. Mama said.”
Eleanor glanced at her mother, who nodded. She made her curtsey and waited for Joan.
Joan blew me a kiss and ran off with Eleanor.
Annette followed, chastising, “You should always remember to make your curtsey to your lady mother. You should always wear your headdress. Your lord father would be gravely displeased to see his eldest daughter behaving like a kitchen wench—” Her voice faded away as she continued to instruct three-year-old Joan on the proper way to behave.
Margaret and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. A sudden cloudburst prevented us from saying any more as we made for the castle swiftly.
An hour passed, the sun came out, and I was smoothing a tuck with my right ring finger on a dress I was making for Joan when I glanced up. My heart pulsed in my throat. Bess was with the young man in the gardens below. Their heads were close together as they strolled along.
“Look at that,” declared Lisette. “She’s got him all to herself. She never thinks about the rest of us.”
“Lisette!” exclaimed Margaret, turning towards her youngest sister.
I pricked my finger. A spot of blood landed in the middle of the flower I’d been embroidering.
Margaret rose, took a basin of water, added salt, and with a linen cloth set about getting the bloodstain out of Joan’s new dress.
The door opened and Bess danced in.
“Such a charming young man,” she declared.
“No need to ask whom you’ve been with,” remarked Isabel, snapping her ivory needlecase shut.
Bess turned to me. “The young man’s name is Monsieur Pierre Blaybourne, and he’s just joined the garrison here at Rouen as an archer.”
“Now why would he do that?” asked Isabel.
Margaret looked at me closely as she continued to rub salt and cold water onto the bloodstain.
“He says he’s doing it to protect Cecylee,” replied Bess, laughing.
The room went very quiet as three pairs of eyes fell on me. Margaret’s grey eyes grew thoughtful, Lisette’s currant brown eyes flashed angrily, and Isabel’s pale ones bore right through me.
I felt a shiver of a whiplash pass up my spine. I rose from my seat.
“I know nothing of this. I have not seen this...Blaybourne since the day we met a week ago.”
Bess laughed and pulled at my sleeve. “There’s no need to be so serious. He’s invited all of us to the archery butts to see him practice with the other men. They are having a contest now and want us to judge who is the best archer.”
Immediately, the solar hummed like a hive. Lisette jumped up and called for her maid to bring her new red dress. Margaret, Isabel, and I put our sewing away and summoned our women for rosewater and lavender water and for pastes made of angelica flowers and ground almonds to cleanse the skin.
Jenet helped take off my everyday blue linen and I slipped into a dusky rose silk worn over a pale green chemise. I studied my jewel case, deciding on pearls to go with the pink silk while Jenet tidied my hair and rearranged my headdress. By the time Jenet had finished dressing me, the other ladies were ready. Lisette was vivid in red, Bess’s dress of the deepest green set off her green eyes and chestnut hair, Margaret wore heavy purple damask, and Isabel wore sky-blue silk.
The shower had cooled off the thundery weather. Outside, a light breeze lifted our veils, and we walked a well-trodden path amongst oak and hornbeam, beech, hazel and hawthorn, followed by servants bearing refreshments.
Just outside the city walls were the archery butts, small mounds of earth and stone used as platforms for practice targets. The targets themselves were limited only by the imagination. Sometimes the archers used scarecrows, sometimes a rough plank with crudely painted symbols. Today, they set up a well-dressed French
“Come on, Eleanor,” called Joan, holding out her hand to her friend. “We can go to the kitchens and eat as much as we like. Mama said.”
Eleanor glanced at her mother, who nodded. She made her curtsey and waited for Joan.
Joan blew me a kiss and ran off with Eleanor.
Annette followed, chastising, “You should always remember to make your curtsey to your lady mother. You should always wear your headdress. Your lord father would be gravely displeased to see his eldest daughter behaving like a kitchen wench—” Her voice faded away as she continued to instruct three-year-old Joan on the proper way to behave.
Margaret and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. A sudden cloudburst prevented us from saying any more as we made for the castle swiftly.
An hour passed, the sun came out, and I was smoothing a tuck with my right ring finger on a dress I was making for Joan when I glanced up. My heart pulsed in my throat. Bess was with the young man in the gardens below. Their heads were close together as they strolled along.
“Look at that,” declared Lisette. “She’s got him all to herself. She never thinks about the rest of us.”
“Lisette!” exclaimed Margaret, turning towards her youngest sister.
I pricked my finger. A spot of blood landed in the middle of the flower I’d been embroidering.
Margaret rose, took a basin of water, added salt, and with a linen cloth set about getting the bloodstain out of Joan’s new dress.
The door opened and Bess danced in.
“Such a charming young man,” she declared.
“No need to ask whom you’ve been with,” remarked Isabel, snapping her ivory needlecase shut.
Bess turned to me. “The young man’s name is Monsieur Pierre Blaybourne, and he’s just joined the garrison here at Rouen as an archer.”
“Now why would he do that?” asked Isabel.
Margaret looked at me closely as she continued to rub salt and cold water onto the bloodstain.
“He says he’s doing it to protect Cecylee,” replied Bess, laughing.
The room went very quiet as three pairs of eyes fell on me. Margaret’s grey eyes grew thoughtful, Lisette’s currant brown eyes flashed angrily, and Isabel’s pale ones bore right through me.
I felt a shiver of a whiplash pass up my spine. I rose from my seat.
“I know nothing of this. I have not seen this...Blaybourne since the day we met a week ago.”
Bess laughed and pulled at my sleeve. “There’s no need to be so serious. He’s invited all of us to the archery butts to see him practice with the other men. They are having a contest now and want us to judge who is the best archer.”
Immediately, the solar hummed like a hive. Lisette jumped up and called for her maid to bring her new red dress. Margaret, Isabel, and I put our sewing away and summoned our women for rosewater and lavender water and for pastes made of angelica flowers and ground almonds to cleanse the skin.
Jenet helped take off my everyday blue linen and I slipped into a dusky rose silk worn over a pale green chemise. I studied my jewel case, deciding on pearls to go with the pink silk while Jenet tidied my hair and rearranged my headdress. By the time Jenet had finished dressing me, the other ladies were ready. Lisette was vivid in red, Bess’s dress of the deepest green set off her green eyes and chestnut hair, Margaret wore heavy purple damask, and Isabel wore sky-blue silk.
The shower had cooled off the thundery weather. Outside, a light breeze lifted our veils, and we walked a well-trodden path amongst oak and hornbeam, beech, hazel and hawthorn, followed by servants bearing refreshments.
Just outside the city walls were the archery butts, small mounds of earth and stone used as platforms for practice targets. The targets themselves were limited only by the imagination. Sometimes the archers used scarecrows, sometimes a rough plank with crudely painted symbols. Today, they set up a well-dressed French
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