burning feathers filled her nostrils and she retched, bringing up bile and watery spittle into the floor rushes.
‘Lady Cecily, I am sorry your daughter is unwell,’ she heard a woman say in a concerned voice and as Aline’s focus returned, she saw that Lord Walter’s wife, Lady Sybire, was standing at the side of the bench.
‘It is nothing.’ Her mother made an embarrassed gesture of negation. ‘She will be all right by and by.’
Beneath Lady Sybire’s quiet scrutiny, shame flooded through Aline. The sight of blood made her sick and no one understood. They all thought her weak and foolish. She had tried to control her aversion but to no avail.
The sheriff’s wife lightly touched her shoulder. ‘I will have someone bring you wine,’ she said, then looked round as a commotion heralded the arrival of the injured man, being gently borne by two companions. ‘You will excuse me.’ Inclining her head, she whisked away to deal with the matter.
‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ Aline whispered. Swallowing on tears, she made a determined effort not to look in the wounded man’s direction.
‘Hush, child,’ her mother said, her voice gentle, but edged with irritation. ‘You must find it in you to deal with these things. What will your warden think of you? You have to prepare yourself for the future.’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Aline felt cold and shivery. Her father had never had much time for her, but providing she stayed out of his way in her chamber or at her prayers, he had not expected more. The notion of what might be required now terrified her.
A servant came from the lady Sybire with a flagon of hot wine and the offer of a quieter, private chamber for Aline to recuperate, which Cecily accepted with alacrity.
‘You can learn much from watching Lady Sybire,’ she told Aline as they sat down upon another more ornate cushioned bench arranged before a glowing central hearth. ‘She is a great lady.’
The heat from the logs made Aline’s chilblains tingle and her cheeks burn. The wine warmed her vitals and took the edge off her panic. ‘I do not think she likes me, Mama,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Tush, child,’ Cecily replied with impatience. ‘She knows neither of us beyond a few words in church and her husband’s dealings with your father, God rest his soul. I suppose though she’ll want to know more about you now you’re the ward of the King’s marshal. He is a neighbour after all, even if an absent one.’
Her mother’s mention of John made Aline fumble for her new prayer beads, but to her horror, they were no longer at her belt. Uttering a distressed cry, she leaped to her feet and frantically searched the bench and the floor, but there was no flourish of colour, no gleam of honey among the rushes.
‘I had them in the other hall!’ She searched again, frantic, unable to believe they were gone. ‘I know I did, I know it!’
‘You must have dropped them.’ Her mother laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. ‘Calm yourself, daughter, we’ll find them.’ A note of censure entered her voice. ‘They won’t turn up for tears and weeping. You should not become so distraught over trifles.’
Aline wiped a panicky hand across her eyes and, striving for composure, started to retrace her steps.
The soft lustre of the amber beads caught little Sybilla’s eye as she passed a bench in the main hall. The sheriff’s youngest daughter swooped on them with a child’s magpie delight, and immediately realised they were the ones belonging to the young woman who had swooned when the man fell over and broke his arm.
The beads glowed like golden water and felt warm and tactile. There was a lovely tassel of gold silk in the middle and a hanger to fasten them to a belt. Sybilla was entranced. She had a feminine adoration of jewellery and trimmings. On a wet afternoon, she loved nothing more than to sit on her mother’s bed and riffle through the rings and brooches, belts and buckles in her enamelled jewel
‘Lady Cecily, I am sorry your daughter is unwell,’ she heard a woman say in a concerned voice and as Aline’s focus returned, she saw that Lord Walter’s wife, Lady Sybire, was standing at the side of the bench.
‘It is nothing.’ Her mother made an embarrassed gesture of negation. ‘She will be all right by and by.’
Beneath Lady Sybire’s quiet scrutiny, shame flooded through Aline. The sight of blood made her sick and no one understood. They all thought her weak and foolish. She had tried to control her aversion but to no avail.
The sheriff’s wife lightly touched her shoulder. ‘I will have someone bring you wine,’ she said, then looked round as a commotion heralded the arrival of the injured man, being gently borne by two companions. ‘You will excuse me.’ Inclining her head, she whisked away to deal with the matter.
‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ Aline whispered. Swallowing on tears, she made a determined effort not to look in the wounded man’s direction.
‘Hush, child,’ her mother said, her voice gentle, but edged with irritation. ‘You must find it in you to deal with these things. What will your warden think of you? You have to prepare yourself for the future.’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Aline felt cold and shivery. Her father had never had much time for her, but providing she stayed out of his way in her chamber or at her prayers, he had not expected more. The notion of what might be required now terrified her.
A servant came from the lady Sybire with a flagon of hot wine and the offer of a quieter, private chamber for Aline to recuperate, which Cecily accepted with alacrity.
‘You can learn much from watching Lady Sybire,’ she told Aline as they sat down upon another more ornate cushioned bench arranged before a glowing central hearth. ‘She is a great lady.’
The heat from the logs made Aline’s chilblains tingle and her cheeks burn. The wine warmed her vitals and took the edge off her panic. ‘I do not think she likes me, Mama,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Tush, child,’ Cecily replied with impatience. ‘She knows neither of us beyond a few words in church and her husband’s dealings with your father, God rest his soul. I suppose though she’ll want to know more about you now you’re the ward of the King’s marshal. He is a neighbour after all, even if an absent one.’
Her mother’s mention of John made Aline fumble for her new prayer beads, but to her horror, they were no longer at her belt. Uttering a distressed cry, she leaped to her feet and frantically searched the bench and the floor, but there was no flourish of colour, no gleam of honey among the rushes.
‘I had them in the other hall!’ She searched again, frantic, unable to believe they were gone. ‘I know I did, I know it!’
‘You must have dropped them.’ Her mother laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. ‘Calm yourself, daughter, we’ll find them.’ A note of censure entered her voice. ‘They won’t turn up for tears and weeping. You should not become so distraught over trifles.’
Aline wiped a panicky hand across her eyes and, striving for composure, started to retrace her steps.
The soft lustre of the amber beads caught little Sybilla’s eye as she passed a bench in the main hall. The sheriff’s youngest daughter swooped on them with a child’s magpie delight, and immediately realised they were the ones belonging to the young woman who had swooned when the man fell over and broke his arm.
The beads glowed like golden water and felt warm and tactile. There was a lovely tassel of gold silk in the middle and a hanger to fasten them to a belt. Sybilla was entranced. She had a feminine adoration of jewellery and trimmings. On a wet afternoon, she loved nothing more than to sit on her mother’s bed and riffle through the rings and brooches, belts and buckles in her enamelled jewel
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