Annabel sat up, glaring back at Maud’s long face. She was about to retort that he was a furniture maker, not a cripple. But Beatrice broke in, “You have something against cripples?” She seemed half in jest and half cross.
“Why? Are you partial to cripples?” Maud challenged.
“Perhaps.” Beatrice smiled broadly. “Consider Lord le Wyse. He’s the man I think is the handsomest of all.”
This brought loud exclamations from the other girls. Some thought she was crazy, others agreed.
“But the lord’s not a cripple,” a Lincoln girl put in stoutly. “His hand is a bit maimed, but there’s nothing wrong with his legs.”
“How do you know?” Beatrice asked suggestively, making the girls laugh. “If I could have any man I wanted, I’d choose Lord le Wyse. Who’s afraid of a little eye patch, a lame hand, and a few scars? He’s rich as the king of England and twice as tall.” Her voice turned smooth and silky. “We’d have beautiful, rich children.” Beatrice ended with a high-pitched cackle.
The room erupted into a bedlam of squeals, taunts, and laughter.
Annabel sank down into the straw mattress as anger welled up inside her. Lord le Wyse was rude, had a bad temper, and seemed to especially dislike her. Still, she didn’t like the way they were disrespecting their lord. If Lord le Wyse heard them talking so, what would he do? His anger would stop their laughter and send them running for cover.
“Lord le Wyse wouldn’t let you anywhere near him, you freckle-faced goat of a girl.”
The tone of disdain in Maud’s voice made Annabel cringe. Several Ooohs and ohs went through the crowd. She scrunched down even lower, wondering if Beatrice would laugh about the insult or get angry. Her answer came when Beatrice leaned forward, clenching her fists. “I’d rather be a goat than a donkey’s behind. Why are you wearing your tail on your head?”
Maud’s limp brown hair did somewhat resemble a tail, and the way her eyelids drooped over wide-set eyes in her long face did even more to evoke the face of a donkey.
Both girls stepped forward, quickly closing the gap between them. A few girls screamed and scrambled away, while others yelled, “Hit her!” “Fight!” and “Don’t let her talk to you like that!”
A whistle cut through the chaos, so loud and shrill it made Annabel cover her ears.
All voices ceased. Every eye faced the door where Mistress Eustacia stood with her hands on her hips, her face flushed and her jaw set.
She glared for a long moment at Maud and Beatrice then allowed her fierce gaze to rove around the room. “Fighting is reason enough for dismissal or punishment.”
Dismissal for paid workers, some form of punishment for indentured servants like Annabel.
Mistress Eustacia went on in a hoarse voice that, though quiet, reverberated off the stone walls. “Shocked at your behavior, I am. You sound like a bunch of half-drunk men with your talk. Have you no shame, speaking of your lord that way?”
Maud looked down at her hands, but Beatrice narrowed her eyes and turned her head to the side, staring defiantly at the wall.
“Some one of you, a few minutes ago, when your lord and master was getting ready for bed, shamelessly came and tried to tempt him.”
Annabel closed her eyes, her stomach sinking.
“Who did this? Who knows?”
Silence.
“Tell me now or tell me later, but when I find out who it was, that maid will be punished.”
A few murmurs of “Yes, Mistress” came from the girls.
“Now every last one of you, to bed. Take a strap to all of you, I will.” Mistress Eustacia’s face glowed red and her large bosom heaved, as though from physical exertion. “It would serve you all a good lesson if the master turns you out and hires from the village girls of Glynval. And tomorrow I will expect you all to work two extra hours” — a few soft groans echoed around the room — “for this misbehavior and disrespect for your own lord. For shame.” She leaned over and blew out the small torch in the iron sconce nearest the door. The maids blew out the remaining candles while Mistress Eustacia watched, hands on her hips. “To bed.” She turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
After a few moments of silence, Annabel heard soft weeping.
“What are you crying for?” a voice whispered loudly.
From the direction of the crying came, “What if she tells Lord le Wyse what we were saying? Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll do to us?”
Instead of reassurances, there was an uneasy silence. Several moments passed and the crying started up again. This time, no one said a thing.
Ranulf walked into the manor house and saw that it was empty.
No, not empty. A woman stood in the corner, her back to him. She wore a beautiful silk dress of deep red, her hair covered by a gold-embroidered coif.
His feet moved slowly, as if weighed down, as he was compelled to go to her.
She turned and Ranulf saw her face. “Guinevere.”