“That’s stinging nettle you just sat in. Don’t you know to stay away from that?” Wisps of light brown hair swayed against the girl’s cheeks.
Annabel wanted to say that she hadn’t sat in it, she fell, and no, she didn’t know. But the painful stinging made her suck in an agonized breath through her clenched teeth. Her skirt must have flipped up just enough to expose her bare legs to the plant. Millions of tiny, likely poisonous needles seemed to have invaded her skin, but staring at her hands, Annabel could only see a few barely visible, hairlike thorns. She yanked a few of them out as the horrible stinging made its way up her legs and spread over her arms, into her cheeks, and along her scalp until her whole body tingled in misery. She closed her eyes, thinking death would be pleasant.
“You don’t look well. Are you apt to topple over again?”
“Nay, I am well.” Annabel opened her eyes, but her surroundings looked blurry again. She put out her hand to try to steady herself.
“Sit down before you fall again.” The young maiden’s voice seemed slightly amused as she grabbed Annabel’s arm. Annabel sank heavily to the ground.
She leaned away from the stinging nettle plant, wanting to get as far away from it as possible. Her head spun faster now, so she closed her eyes and tucked her chin to her chest. Breathe in. Breathe out. O God, don’t let me faint.
A child’s voice broke through her daze. “Miss Annabel?”
She looked up. Adam stood in front of her, this time holding a brown jug and a sack.
“Some bread and ale for Beatrice and Annabel.”
He handed the heavy jug to the maiden, whose name was Beatrice, apparently, then dug his hand into the sack and pulled out a small loaf of bread for each of them.
Annabel stared at the bread, and her trembling fingers slipped around it. Never had she been so grateful for bread. She carefully pinched off a small bite and put it in her mouth, hoping it would cure the weakness in her limbs and the rolling of her stomach. She chewed slowly, struggling to control a shudder.
Beatrice took a long drink of ale and smacked her lips. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth then handed the jug to Annabel.
She dropped the small loaf into her lap and grasped the ale jug with both hands. As with the bread, the sour beverage never tasted so good. After several swallows, she handed the jug back to Beatrice.
Adam moved away to deliver bread and ale to other workers, and Annabel and Beatrice ate in silence.
The agony in Annabel’s body never lessened as the prickly sensation swept over her arms and down her spine. She shivered. The bread had calmed her stomach, but the rest of her body felt as weak as a newborn lamb. She imagined herself pitching face forward again.
But everyone else was working and so would she. Falling into the harmless-looking nettle plant was no excuse to stop, no matter how bad the stinging that enveloped her whole body. The barley had to be harvested or the entire village would suffer lack this winter.
She placed one hand on the ground and the other on her knee and pushed herself up. With effort she bent over, picked up her ball of twine, and took a step toward the piles of barley on the ground. Though she swayed and her head began to spin, Annabel focused her eyes on a spot on the ground, willing herself to stay upright.
“Annabel? Beatrice?” Adam’s voice sounded near.
Carefully, Annabel turned to look at him.
“Lord le Wyse wants you to go back to the manor house and help Mistress Eustacia.”
Behind Adam, Lord le Wyse was scowling at her. No doubt he thought his new servant miserably lacking.
She thanked God anyway for her reprieve. A sigh of despair threatened to escape, however, when she turned toward the manor house and realized how far she would have to walk to get to it. The linden trees hid the building from view, and the field’s furrows stretched out long before her, littered with the dull shades of brown, white, and gray of the villagers’ clothing, the barley, and the dirt.
At least she saw no fiendish green nettle plants.
“Saints have mercy, how pale you look.” Mistress Eustacia stared at Annabel. “I told him you were none too sturdy, and he sending you out in the fields.” She clucked her tongue.
Beatrice offered, “It might be because she fell into a patch of stinging nettles.”
“Stinging nettles! Why, child, don’t you know to stay away from those? You’ll be stinging for hours, you will. Come, sit.” Eustacia pulled out a stool then addressed Beatrice. “Did you rub some fern on it? The underside of a fern leaf does some good, it does.”
“I didn’t see any.” Beatrice shrugged then walked toward the window and the basin of water at the end of the upper hall. “I’ll start on the churning.” She proceeded to scrub her hands and wrists with the water.
A fine red rash covered Annabel’s hands, and a chill crept over her face and along her arms.
Eustacia’s brows creased, her fists planted on her hips. “No more,” she said with a firm set of her ample jaw.