Read Online Wings of the Storm by Susan Sizemore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Sizemore
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frumpy-looking. All three turned disapproving faces on Stephan and Jane as they approached.
As they neared the fire Jane saw the one in the middle was young, her heavily padded form swathed in layers of saffron wool, deeply bordered in red-and-gold embroidery. The color went horri-bly with her pink complexion; the decoration was overdone. The wide purple belt around what passed for a waist cut her too round form in half. Her head and several chins were blanketed in gray-and-black barbette and veils. The inappropriate combination of finery and heavy veiling gave the impression the girl was half nun and half— What? Heiress to a barony?
Jane didn't need any introduction to know she was being stared at with pure loathing by the Lady Sibelle LeGauche. Quickly she took a decorous step away from Stephan. She wondered disloyally if the lad had planned their cozy entrance to inform his betrothed he wasn't completely hers.
Well, he's not mine,Jane wanted to shout. Actual-ly she wanted to kick the young strategist on his tiny behind.
Stephan grabbed her hand and led her to the girl. "Lady Sibelle," he announced. "Lady Jehane FitzRose, my chatelaine." He put a lot of emphasis on the last two words. It seemed he wanted to make it perfectly clear who was in charge here.
The girl refused to look at her. She merely gave a cold, wobbly nod in Jane's direction. Her women, on the other hand, glared in open hatred. Jane responded with an edged smile and a rattling of the official keys dangling from her belt. It made her feel like the war-den, but imperious behavior seemed to be expected from her. The women sniffed disdainfully in unison but judiciously went back to warming their hands around the fire. While everyone stood in uncomfort-able silence for a few minutes, Bertram led in the ser-vants, who efficiently went about setting up the hall for the evening meal.
Sibelle had eyes only for Stephan as he grudging-ly offered his arm to lead her to the high table. The girl wiped her hand furtively on her skirt before placing two fingers on the edge of Stephan's black sleeve.
Keeping as far away from him as she could without letting go, she tripped her way up the dais step.
Jane winced as she watched Sibelle lurch to her chair. It really would help if she watched where she was going, she thought. And what fashion guerrilla had put together that outfit? She shook her head and caught sight of Bertram watching the young couple from the pantry door. She and the old man exchanged one pained, understanding look. His assessment was easily read. Things were not going to be easy around here for a while. Jane agreed. Bertram waved the scullery servants forward to serve the first course. Jane squared her shoulders and went to take a place at the main table.
She ended up seated on Sibelle's left. The girl turned out to be left-handed, fane's bruised face hurt when she chewed, and she still hadn't worked up much appetite for the local cuisine. She made a meal by dipping coarse bread in greasy goose broth fla-vored with old onions and played a mental game of considering the origins of Sibelle's name to keep her mind off the taste of her dinner.
Perhaps they were a left-handed family; therefore they were of the left— Ie gauche. Or the first baron was born on the wrong side of the blanket and was
rather proud of the fact. It could be, she considered as she watched Sibelle first spill soup on her bosom, then knock the salt cellar across the table, that she was called LeGauche because she came from a long line of klutzes. The poor kid was quiv-ering from terror. Too bad there was so much of her to shake.
As the meal proceeded in ever more strained silence, fane began to be annoyed with Stephan. He was drinking sour wine and petting Melisande. The girl beside him might as well not exist. Sibelle did nothing but chew and throw furtive, adoring glances his way. Jane oversaw the servants with her good eye and tapped a foot under the table in annoyance
As they neared the fire Jane saw the one in the middle was young, her heavily padded form swathed in layers of saffron wool, deeply bordered in red-and-gold embroidery. The color went horri-bly with her pink complexion; the decoration was overdone. The wide purple belt around what passed for a waist cut her too round form in half. Her head and several chins were blanketed in gray-and-black barbette and veils. The inappropriate combination of finery and heavy veiling gave the impression the girl was half nun and half— What? Heiress to a barony?
Jane didn't need any introduction to know she was being stared at with pure loathing by the Lady Sibelle LeGauche. Quickly she took a decorous step away from Stephan. She wondered disloyally if the lad had planned their cozy entrance to inform his betrothed he wasn't completely hers.
Well, he's not mine,Jane wanted to shout. Actual-ly she wanted to kick the young strategist on his tiny behind.
Stephan grabbed her hand and led her to the girl. "Lady Sibelle," he announced. "Lady Jehane FitzRose, my chatelaine." He put a lot of emphasis on the last two words. It seemed he wanted to make it perfectly clear who was in charge here.
The girl refused to look at her. She merely gave a cold, wobbly nod in Jane's direction. Her women, on the other hand, glared in open hatred. Jane responded with an edged smile and a rattling of the official keys dangling from her belt. It made her feel like the war-den, but imperious behavior seemed to be expected from her. The women sniffed disdainfully in unison but judiciously went back to warming their hands around the fire. While everyone stood in uncomfort-able silence for a few minutes, Bertram led in the ser-vants, who efficiently went about setting up the hall for the evening meal.
Sibelle had eyes only for Stephan as he grudging-ly offered his arm to lead her to the high table. The girl wiped her hand furtively on her skirt before placing two fingers on the edge of Stephan's black sleeve.
Keeping as far away from him as she could without letting go, she tripped her way up the dais step.
Jane winced as she watched Sibelle lurch to her chair. It really would help if she watched where she was going, she thought. And what fashion guerrilla had put together that outfit? She shook her head and caught sight of Bertram watching the young couple from the pantry door. She and the old man exchanged one pained, understanding look. His assessment was easily read. Things were not going to be easy around here for a while. Jane agreed. Bertram waved the scullery servants forward to serve the first course. Jane squared her shoulders and went to take a place at the main table.
She ended up seated on Sibelle's left. The girl turned out to be left-handed, fane's bruised face hurt when she chewed, and she still hadn't worked up much appetite for the local cuisine. She made a meal by dipping coarse bread in greasy goose broth fla-vored with old onions and played a mental game of considering the origins of Sibelle's name to keep her mind off the taste of her dinner.
Perhaps they were a left-handed family; therefore they were of the left— Ie gauche. Or the first baron was born on the wrong side of the blanket and was
rather proud of the fact. It could be, she considered as she watched Sibelle first spill soup on her bosom, then knock the salt cellar across the table, that she was called LeGauche because she came from a long line of klutzes. The poor kid was quiv-ering from terror. Too bad there was so much of her to shake.
As the meal proceeded in ever more strained silence, fane began to be annoyed with Stephan. He was drinking sour wine and petting Melisande. The girl beside him might as well not exist. Sibelle did nothing but chew and throw furtive, adoring glances his way. Jane oversaw the servants with her good eye and tapped a foot under the table in annoyance
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