As the rest of the workers went back to their tasks, Eustacia frowned but didn’t seem surprised by the lord’s rude behavior. “Pay no heed to the master. He’s grumpy this morning.” Her focused gaze started at Annabel’s feet and slowly took her in, all the way to the top of her head. “You don’t want to go to the fields in that dress, that’s certain. It’ll be mussed from here to Lincoln. Put on your worst clothing and tie up your hair. Come.”
Eustacia took Annabel’s bag and walked to the far corner of the large, open chamber to a much smaller partition than the one around which Lord le Wyse had appeared. “You can change behind here.” Eustacia smiled, revealing a broken front tooth.
Annabel ducked behind the screen with her bag while the mistress spoke to her on the other side.
“Not much privacy here now, which makes the master a bit quarrelsome, but once he gets his new castle built, that will change.”
Annabel took off her dress. When she pulled her oldest and worst-looking kirtle over her head, she remembered to retrieve her knife from her other dress and slip it into her pocket. It reminded her that she might see Bailiff Tom again at any moment.
She imagined his mocking smile when he saw her working in the fields or found her in the kitchen cooking and cleaning for Lord le Wyse.
Holding her hand over the knife, she clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Bailiff Tom will never touch me again. Never.
Chapter
3
The house servants, all except Eustacia, quit their various tasks that morning to join the villagers, including children, in the demesne fields. The barley was ripe and needed to be gathered quickly, and no one, except the very old or very sick, was exempt from working the harvest fields.
A foreman, a stranger like Eustacia who had accompanied Lord le Wyse from Lincolnshire to Glynval, handed Annabel and three other women scythes so they could start mowing the stalks of barley. A thin-shouldered man with a weather-worn face, his hose rolled down below his knobby knees, was assigned to follow behind them to gather the stalks and bind them into sheaves.
The three women, one old enough to have grandchildren and the other two a bit younger, bent forward at the waist and began to slice the barley stalks close to the ground. Annabel drew back the unwieldy instrument, her arms feeling weak. Why hadn’t she eaten breakfast? That might have helped.
She tried to imitate the women’s motions, but the blade of the scythe bent the lithe stalks instead of cutting them. Hoping no one had noticed her blunder, she hurried to pull the scythe back and try again. This time she managed to cut through a few stalks but left others standing. The other three continued slicing ahead, making a flat swath through the sea of grain.
Annabel gritted her teeth and focused. She watched, trying to mimic the other women’s body posture and grip on the wooden handles of their scythes. She drew back and swung, flattening the stalks, but they sprang up again to bob their heads at her, taunting her for her futile efforts.
She exhaled in frustration. Soon she would attract everyone’s attention. Already the binder had passed her as he gathered the barley the other women cut and tied it into bundles. He glared back at her over his shoulder, shaking his head and muttering.
“Well, Annabel Chapman. Having some trouble?”
Her blood went cold as she turned. Bailiff Tom atte Water stood by her side.
“Let me show you how to do that.” His hands reached toward her. Annabel shrank away from him and clamped one hand over the knife in her pocket.
Bailiff Tom grabbed the scythe and she let go.
His small black eyes narrowed and his lip curled. “You’ve never done this before, so I will teach you. You hold the handle like this.”
He reached out and clasped her hand, but she snatched it away from him and took a step back.
“I’m trying to help you. Are you too good to accept my help? Too high and lofty?” He stepped toward her, and as he leaned forward, Annabel could see the blackness in his eyes. “You’re no better than the rest of us, as it turns out. Now take this scythe and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Taking the tool from his hands would only allow him to touch her, to get close enough for him to whisper in her ear. She couldn’t let him get that close. God, help me.
“Bailiff Tom.”
At the sound of the lord’s stern voice, a scowl darkened the bailiff’s features. When he realized who addressed him, he plastered on a smile that did nothing to hide the black look in his eyes.
“Bailiff, I need you to go to the barley field behind the grove of chestnut trees and make sure everything is progressing with the harvest there.”
“Yes, my lord.” Tom turned to Annabel, but she kept her eyes focused on Lord le Wyse. Tom thrust the scythe at her and stalked away.
Her knees went weak with relief, but also with trepidation. What would her lord say? Had he noticed her lack of usefulness with the scythe?
With his mutilated hand, the patch over his eye, and his scarred face, he was probably accustomed to inspiring fear, even repulsion, in people. She tried not to show anything but respect for him and turned her gaze to the ground.