“Water?”
“Thank you.” Annabel took the proffered ladle and drank. As she handed it back to him, she noticed a cut on the boy’s upper arm, oozing fresh blood. “What happened to your arm?” She bent lower to get a better look.
“Got too close to a scythe.” He stared at her with big eyes.
“You must have a bandage for that. Here, sit down.” Annabel’s dress was old and threadbare, and so she hoped would tear easily. She took hold of the hem, giving it a good yank until she felt it rip. Tearing off a long strip of material, she knelt beside the boy, who sat obediently on the ground. Carefully, she wrapped the cloth around the wound and tied it in place.
She gazed into his complacent eyes, and compassion welled up in her. “What’s your name?”
“Adam.”
“How old are you, Adam?”
“Eight years.”
“You be wary of flying scythes.” She pointed a finger at him but smiled to soften her words. “You wouldn’t want to lose an arm.”
He grinned and his eyes twinkled. He pointed behind her. “Over there’s my father. His name’s Gilbert Carpenter.”
She turned and spied a man who was talking to Lord le Wyse several feet away. Lord le Wyse was frowning at her but quickly turned away.
So he was watching her. She’d better get back to work. She bent to gather more barley stalks and the boy came closer.
“My father and I came here from Lincoln, to help the lord build his castle.”
“That’s a long way. Did your mother come too?”
“Nay. My mother’s dead. But my father says he’s looking for my new mother. You could be my mother.”
Annabel’s eyebrows went up in alarm, but her heart expanded at the hope in his eyes. Poor fellow. Every child needed a mother.
He flashed her another grin as he picked up his bucket. “I’ll bring my father to meet you.”
She scrambled for a suitable way to answer him. “But I’m too young to be your mother.” His face fell, his eyes wide with hurt. A pang of guilt assaulted her. “But I’m just right to be your sister, eh?”
His face brightened a little. “You’ll like my father. He’s the master mason.”
“Let’s get our work done first, and later we can talk.”
Adam moved on to take the water bucket to other laborers.
What would the boy say to his father? She imagined him declaring that he’d found a mother. She cringed. Her first day and already she’d gotten herself into an awkward predicament. More than one.
As the day wore on, a constant stream of sweat slipped from her hairline down her cheek. The thin shift underneath her dress plastered itself to her body. The work seemed endless, as the ripe barley stretched on and on across field after field. Over and over she bent to gather the stalks in the crook of her arm. Her elbow ached and her back felt as if it would break in two. Her hands were covered in dust and her shoes were filthy. She wondered if later in the evening there would be a safe, private place for her to bathe.
Annabel tried to keep her eyes down, for whenever she met the gaze of one of the other women she saw either hostility or amused curiosity. At least she’d seen no more of Bailiff Tom.
By the time the sun was no longer directly overhead, weariness snaked up her legs and into her arms. When were they supposed to take a rest? She longed to ask one of her fellow workers, but they were all keeping a distance of several feet. Her head felt light, and each time she raised herself from her stooping position, the world swayed and her eyes clouded. To faint now would show the villeins she was as useless as they imagined. They might even think she was pretending to faint to avoid doing her work.
They worked their way to the edge of the field, near the bank of the river. She gathered another armload of barley stalks and began tying the twine. The stalks in the middle slipped through the sheaf, and then the whole bundle slid limply to the ground. Annabel bit her lip. Tears of pure exhaustion sprang to her eyes.
She took a deep breath, willing the tears away. She bent and started gathering the stalks again. When she stepped forward to reach the last ones, her toe struck a rock and she stumbled. Her legs gave way and she fell forward, landing on her hands and knees in the clump of weeds that grew beside the barley stalks at the edge of the field.
An intense stinging seized her hands and lower legs. She pushed herself up, but before she could stand, someone caught her under her arms and helped her up. When the person let go, Annabel swayed precariously and her eyes refused to focus.
When her surroundings gradually lost their blur, a young woman about her age stood beside her.