“I think that’s a splendid idea.”
“How will you ever learn to trust me if you don’t spend time with me?”
“It is a problem, but it is not mine to solve.”
Someone was nearby, and they both turned their heads toward the noise of rustling leaves and cracking twigs. The stranger, Gabe, emerged into view.
“Pardon me,” he apologized. “Were you two conversing?”
“What are you doing?” Lorencz asked irritably.
“Taking a walk.”
Lorencz looked him up and down. “You say you are a pilgrim, but you don’t have the look of a pilgrim.” The huntsman’s voice was impatient. “Your boots are too fine, your hands too soft looking. You’d be wise to get yourself back to wherever you came from. Go back to your easy life.”
“Whatever my life was before I came here is not your concern.” Gabe’s voice was quiet but thick with warning. “And I don’t take orders from huntsmen.”
“Who do you take orders from, then? What is your business here?” Lorencz narrowed his eyes dangerously. Without giving Gabe a chance to answer, he went on. “See that you stay out of my way. This huntsman doesn’t play games with pilgrims.” He brushed past the stranger, knocking him sideways with his shoulder.
Gabe watched him go, wishing he could punch that oaf for kissing Sophie.
Gabe turned to Sophie. “You know that man is trying to seduce you, don’t you?”
“I don’t answer to you. I have work—”
“I thought you were going to help me plan what to say to Duchess Ermengard.”
“I was.” Sophie moved past him on her way into the courtyard, and Gabe followed several feet behind.
She hesitated as Lorencz came out of the kitchen, waiting until he walked away before dashing through the door he’d just exited. She came back minutes later without the blanket and glared at Gabe, as if he were to blame for all her life’s ills. He waited for her to speak, hoping he could convince her he was nothing like the huntsman and thus worthy of her trust.
She crossed her arms and seemed to be looking him over and thinking. “You need to have a plan. If the duchess becomes aware of your presence, she’ll want to know what you’re doing here and why.” She frowned. “You must decide now what you will say.”
“I’ll ask her if I can stay for a few days and play my lute for her.”
“Why?”
“I’ll say I want to earn some money before going on with my pilgrimage.”
“Oh no. That will not do.” Sophie clasped her hands together and stared at the ground. She whispered, “You have to make it sound like you’re doing something nice for her, that you admire her so deeply you can’t help but play music for her. And you certainly don’t expect payment.”
“Very well. I can do that.” He tried not to smile at the extreme concern she was displaying.
“Let her know you don’t expect her to provide your meal tonight or your bed. She doesn’t like it when unexpected visitors arrive and ask to bed down anywhere on the castle knoll, even in the stable or with the servants. Tell her you have a place to sleep in the village.”
He nodded, although he was a little skeptical, after his cold reception, that he could find a place in the village to bed down. But perhaps, if he tried again, he could find people willing to speak about Sophie — or Duke Baldewin and his daughter.
She went on, still whispering as she stoked up the fire under the large kettle in the center of the courtyard and added more wood. “Pay her several compliments. She expects it. But be tactful. And remember, you don’t expect any reward.” She paused a moment to stare vacantly into the trees.
“And you probably shouldn’t say you’re a pilgrim.” She grabbed a long wooden spoon and began to stir the hot wax. “No, you’re a troubadour on your way to the fair. You heard of her beauty and wished to come and admire her and write songs about her. That should do it, as long as Lorencz and Walther don’t say anything to contradict you.” Her satisfied look changed into a frown. “But do take that ring off your finger. You’re trying to look poor, not like a rich man playing at being a vagabond.”
Gabe wrenched the ring off, feeling foolish for having forgotten such an obvious thing, and thrust it into his pocket.
She pointed at his feet. “And your shoes. They’re much too fine for a troubadour.”
He bent down and smeared mud on his boots so that it was difficult to see what material they were made of, then he looked down at himself — he didn’t see anything else that would betray his true status. He thrust his hands, mud and all, into his hair and mussed it, rubbing the dirt into the strands until they were surely sticking out everywhere.
“Yes, I think you might just live to tell the tale, if you keep a glib tongue in your head.” She glanced up at him and flashed a smile.