Wings of the Storm (19 page)

"Of course. Lady Jehane." He waved her on with a wooden spoon. "Gather the women, inform the cook, do whatever you must. And when you are all done, I will be waiting in the chapel to say mass and hear

your confessions."

"Yes, Father," she said, pausing before hurrying away to bend her head with as much obedience and humility as she could muster.

18

The steps to the top floorwere still wet from Michael's latest accident, Jane noticed as she started up. It had been an incident with a water bucket this time. She pulled off her shoes; the rough, wet stone felt good beneath the soles of her feet as she made the ascent to the bower. Sibelle, with Marguerite and Alais, loaded down with toweling and fresh under-shifts, followed quickly in her wake. The men were finished with their bath; now it was the women's turn.

Michael, she thought, splashing into a small pud-dle on the top step, was proving to be a menace: a very dear menace, but a menace. He was the despair of Bertram and Raoul DeCorte. The older men agreed the boy was amiable, biddable, and hardwork-ing. They were also frightened that every task they set him would turn into a disaster of biblical propor-tions. Jane, they said, spoiled him. She did. She didn't care.

The boy could play the lute; he had magic in his fingers, fire in his soul. He'd told her he'd been study-ing with a master troubadour in Guillaume's service since he was six. He was both sad and proud when his father had sent him with Stephan to learn to be a knight. He was eager to please his father, hoping someday to make him proud. But longing to please his father didn't stop him from missing his mother and his teacher. She thought that even at his tender age his heart was torn between love and duty.

So she let him practice his music far more than the older men approved of. She pointed out that when he was practicing the lute he wasn't breaking, stamped-ing, accidentally setting fire to, or tearing anything beyond repair. The men had to concede her point. Melisande was devoted to the boy. Sir Stephan was wisely staying out of his squire's education until he was "settled in" to learning the duties of a page. After a few years, supposedly under the civilizing influence of the ladies of the house, the lad would be turned over to him for further instruction.

It had been six days' settling in since Stephan's party arrived home. Even Jane sometimes agreed the old stones of Passfair might not be able to take much more settling. But Michael tried so hard—even while spilling buckets of water he was supposed to be car-rying up the stairs. Jane was grateful Michael hadn't been involved in wrestling the big tub up from the wash house.

If they'd lost the big wash vat, Passfair's laundry might never get done again, she thought as she reached the door. She waited for the others to join her. When they entered, Sibelle led the way. Inside waited

three of the serving women and the tub full of fragrantly steaming water. Jane sighed happily at the sight, quite pleased to be taking part in the traditional wedding bath. It was customary for the bride and groom to share the bath with their friends, hence the need for a container large enough for communal bathing.

Sibelle had balked simply at using the wash house, insisting she needed the privacy of the bower.

Stephan had agreed his lady was far too del-icate to bare her lovely form in such crude sur-roundings.

He'd decreed she should bathe where she always bathed, in the bower. It had taken Jane and the household staff an entire day to organize the proceedings, but now she decided the effort had been worth it. Communal or not, she always looked forward to a real bath. She hoped her orders to have the water changed after Stephan, Jonathan, and Raoul were finished had been thoroughly car-ried out. There had been grumblings among the staff over all this fuss with hot water.

The loom had been carefully pushed against the wall to make room for the tub. The room itself was full of containers of wildflowers placed on every pos-sible surface. Switha and the other village women had brought in the flowers from woods and fields as a colorful, fragrant wedding gift for their lord and lady.

Jane breathed deeply and drank in color and the wonderful blending of scents as her serving woman helped her undress.

When Sibelle saw her head bared, the girl's eyes widened. Jane's hand flew to the top of her head as Sibelle exclaimed, "Jehane, your hair's so short!"

She came forward to touch Jane's shoulder-length brown curls while Jane fluffed out the veil-flattened mass with her fingers. "I've seen curly hair and I've seen straight hair." She giggled. "But never hair that was curly and straight at the same time."

The other women gathered around to finger her curls and laugh at Sibelle's joke. She laughed along with them but shook their hands away. "I was sick with a lingering fever during my journey from the Holy Land," she explained. "Much of my hair broke off. And now it is growing in straight. It must be because of the fever." The salon where she'd had the now growing-out perm done had actually been called Fevre, come to think of it. Very trendy. Very expen-sive. A very long time from now.

The women murmured sympathetically as they adjourned to the bath. Jane sank into the water, immediately ducking her head to give her hair a good soaking. She came up and looked critically at Sibelle, who was letting one of the maids give her back a thor-ough scrubbing. Alais and Marguerite had been com-plaining that their dear lamb had barely touched a morsel since Sir Stephan's return. Jane suspected the girl was just practicing a little crash dieting. She was looking a bit thinner. Good.

Besides, weren't brides supposed to diet so they could fit into their wedding gowns? Even with the one-size-fits-all draping fashions of the moment, Sibelle obviously wanted to look as slender and deli-cate as possible on the big day. She had the whole neighborhood, as well as Stephan, to impress at the ceremony.

Jane gave thanks they'd started to work before Stephan ever came home on the sky-blue silk dress Sibelle would wear for the wedding tomorrow. Oth-erwise, they would never have managed the finishing touches in six days, not even with every woman in the

place doing nothing but stitch on the eight-inch-deep bands of embroidery edging. She was also glad there had been enough silk left over to make up a tunic of the same shade for Stephan. The embroidery wasn't as fancy, but she had worked a few lapis beads into the pattern around the neck opening.

She leaned her head back against the edge of the tub and smiled smugly. The hot water was working its magic, relaxing all the days' exertions out other muscles. Tomorrow there would be the wedding and a feast. All the local notables would be at Passfair for the celebration. She'd arranged it all. She was tired, she was frazzled, and she was very pleased with her-self. Tonight was a time to congratulate herself and share in Sibelle's joy and anticipation.

She welcomed the hard work of the hasty prepara-tions, really. During the day she was too caught up in details to think. In the hours after day and before bed, she concentrated fiercely on the music Michael drew forth on his lute. They taught each other songs. She was endlessly fascinated by how much she had to learn. She listened in amazement to the tunes he picked out to go with the words and avoided conver-sation with anyone but her young pupil.

She refused to brood. She'd been falling into her bed too tired to dream.

Six days. Was it seven or eight since the attack? She'd managed to pry Stephan away from his lady fair long enough to discuss Berthild. He'd frowned thunderously at learning one of his household was a victim of the outlaws and taken Jonathan out hunt-ing in the woods, but no sign of Sikes's men was found near Passfair. Well, at least Stephan had tried. She sighed. There was nothing more she could do. She almost wished she could forget.

Around her the women were talking. Sibelle was giggly, and Marguerite, of all people, was making rib-ald jokes. The hot water was strewn with dried herbs and rose petals, jane took deep breaths of the heady steam.

She opened her eyes and murmured placidly, "This is living."

"Oh, aye," Alais agreed. "The young men looked so handsome and refreshed coming out of their bath."

Her eyes twinkled with merriment as she gazed at the blushing Sibelle. "I was mending the tear in your bed curtains, my lady," she explained. "Though how it got torn I couldn't say. Still, wanting the bedchamber to be perfect for Father Jonathan's blessing tomorrow, I kept working after the men came in. The door was ajar a little, but they took no notice of me."

"You spied on them!" Sibelle exclaimed, her eyes round as saucers. Far from overwhelmed with shock, she leaned forward and demanded eagerly, "What's Father Jonathan like? Is he as handsome and well made as my lord? Not that anyone could be!"

"Of course not, my lady," Alais hastened to assure her. "There's no fat on any of them. Good, firm flesh, with clean, honorable scars from many a battle. Father Jonathan's all shoulder and muscular thighs with a fine, strong back. But he doesn't compare to Sir Stephan, of course."

Then why was she licking her lips at the thought of him? Jane wondered.

Alais went on. "Raoul's a spindly-legged old warhorse with a great scar across his chest."

"It's what's between his legs you should be consid-

ering," Marguerite said tartly. "If it's marriage to the old
routier
you're thinking of."

Jane looked at the plump and prim Alais with a new light. Her and Raoul? She considered this cou-pling with a sardonic smile. It would seem Alais was adjusting well to life outside the walls of Davington Priory.

"I looked," Alais confirmed, her chin wobbling with an emphatic nod. "He'll do for as much as I'll need."

She threw a sly glance Jane's way. "It's a pity Sir Daffyd sent word he couldn't be here for the wed-ding.

Sir Stephan would have liked him to stand by him." She gave a deeply wicked chortle. "And I'd have liked to see what that golden cockerel keeps under his armor."

"Muscles," Jane said, the word escaping without thinking. She blushed from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. She was certain the heat she was

generating raised the water temperature by several degrees.

Muscles covered in a mat of gold fur, she couldn't help but recall as images of Daffyd and another bath teased her memory. She swallowed hard, trying to banish recollection. She didn't know why the sight of him had been so—memorable. It wasn't as if she'd never seen a naked man before. Of course, compared to Daffyd ap Bleddyn . ..

And why was Alais looking at her like that? Berthild must have found out and gossiped about the little incident with Sir Daffyd and her bathwater. Not that it was all that. . . little. She made a small, disquieted sound. She didn't like thinking of it as a whimper.

"But why?" Sibelle asked in astonishment. "Sir Daffyd must be nearly as old as Raoul DeCorte! And he never smiles!"

"Does he have to?" Marguerite questioned merrily. "He has a sultry way of looking that tells a woman he knows what to do with her. He's not old," she went on. "He's experienced. Experience has value, doesn't it, Lady Jehane?" Jane blinked stupidly, at a loss for any reply.

"My lord has all the experience I need," Sibelle said loyally. "I've heard how Sir Daffyd rides all over the countryside seeking out women."

He undoubtedly did, Jane thought sourly. How many gold-haired, green-eyed bastards did the man have running around Kent? Some women just couldn't resist a man in a uniform. Especially one with a knowing smirk and a chocolate-rich voice that purred in their ears like a big, sensual cat.

She thought perhaps the water temperature was rising again. Hers certainly was. She would not think about it—him, she declared firmly. It didn't help when Alais went on.

"Women with experience of their own," the woman elaborated, looking eagerly to see Jane's reaction.

"He's the despair of all the pretty young maidens who long for him to turn his attention their way. It's not tumbling with just any skirt he seems to be after. Perhaps he's looking for someone special. Do you think so. Lady Jehane? He seems to enjoy talking to you."

Jane didn't know why the older women seemed to think she should be interested in contributing to their gossip. Or why they were interested in her conversa-tions with Sir Daffyd. Her few encounters with
the\

man had always been full of barbs and antagonism.

And a physical tension she couldn't deny.

She didn't want him, she told herself fiercely. She was grateful for what he did, certainly, but there was

nothing else there. Just because he had saved her life, she didn't have to faint with longing tenderness over some big dude in armor who rode up and saved her hide. He hadn't even been riding a white horse.

She wasn't going to talk about it. About him. She didn't trust herself to express any opinion on the mat-ter of Sir Daffyd.

Sibelle was looking at her a little oddly, too. "You're embarrassed, Jehane."

"No, I'm not," she protested quickly.

Sibelle was looking at her breasts. "Or cold, per-haps?" she questioned.

Jane glanced down, noticing for the first time that the tips of her breasts were tight and hard. She crossed her arms over them. "Yes. Just cold."

"Of course." The girl gave her a smile that was far too knowing. What had she and that boy been up to in here?

Sibelle rested her chin on her upraised knees and changed the subject. "Should I really wear my hair unbound tomorrow? I'm no longer a maiden."

Her statement set off another fit of giggles. There ensued a long and only occasionally serious discus-sion of propriety mixed with gossip and tales illus-trating numerous acts of impropriety.

After a few confused and aloof minutes, Jane joined in happily, making up outrageous lies about court life in the beleaguered kingdom of Jerusalem. Eventually the water turned tepid, then cool, as did the spring breeze coming in the window, but the girl talk went on. Even as they donned undershifts and helped braid each other's damp hair, they continued to joke and tease each other. The subject of Daffyd ap Bleddyn did not come up again, though the memory of surprising him at his own bath replayed relentlessly through Jane's thoughts. She remembered how she'd longed to trace her fingers along the sharply outlined muscles of his arms and chest. She'd itched to play with the gold matted chest fur, to run her hands downward, stroking and rousing his blatantly dis-played manhood. She hadn't actually realized at the time that was what she'd wanted to do. In retrospect she knew it was what her body had longed for even as she'd been lashing out at him in outraged anger.