A baby rested in her arms, and her lips were set in that familiar, cold smile. She held the baby out toward him, but he realized the infant was strangely pale, even gray. Dead.
Guinevere began to laugh, a sinister sound that sent a chill down his back. She laughed as though mocking him, a noise he’d heard often. She threw the baby at him. He tried to catch the child, but his arms wouldn’t move fast enough. But instead of falling to the ground, the baby disintegrated into dust and blew out the open window.
His wife continued to laugh at him. Then she sneered. “No one could ever love you. Look at you. You’re hideous.” She lunged toward him, her silk dress glimmering in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Her hands wrapped around his neck and she began choking him, pressing hard against his throat. He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t seem to lift his hands to fight her. He was suffocating, hurting, dying.
Ranulf opened his eyes and gasped. His own hand was at his throat, and he realized he’d been dreaming.
He swallowed, his throat sore, as if Guinevere had truly been choking him. He could see his wife’s eyes as she attacked him, bloody and animallike, and he shuddered.
Will I ever be free from this nightmare? Free from the hold she has over me? Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. He flung them away angrily. Even in death, she had the power to make him feel like he was repulsive.
Chapter
6
When Sunday came, Annabel put on her best dress and tied her white-linen covering around her hair. With the rest of the servants, she headed down the lane toward the square tower of the old stone church, just visible over the trees. Each member of the lord’s household was required to attend Mass every Sunday, unless they could prove, or successfully feign, sickness.
The small parish church was the most noteworthy building in Glynval, but was naught in comparison to the abbey churches and cathedrals in and around London. Nevertheless, the maidens all grew quiet as they entered the high-ceilinged nave, genuflected, and crossed themselves. Then they each found a spot to kneel.
As Annabel knelt to pray, she pictured herself in St. Paul’s Cathedral, with its beautiful stained glass windows depicting various biblical stories. She almost believed she was there — until she opened her eyes and beheld the stark gray walls and the one murky mural over the chancel arch, featuring the devil and his demons casting people into hellfire.
The bells began to ring and Annabel bowed her head and prayed silently, thanking God for the day’s respite from work, for Mistress Eustacia’s kindness to her, and for Lord le Wyse not punishing her for breaching his privacy. She hoped from now on she could keep her distance from him and remain unnoticed in the large crowd of servants.
The parish priest, Sir Matefrid, plodded down the aisle, a crucifix in one hand, his censer in the other. He wore a long velvet robe, the same one he wore every Sunday, with a chain around his neck that hung so low the attached crucifix rested on his protruding belly. His face bore no wrinkles and very little gray sprinkled his brown hair, but the way he stooped gave him the appearance of a much older man.
Annabel’s heart beat faster as she watched him, thinking of the question she would to put to him after Mass. O Father God, please let him say yes.
Sir Matefrid had barely reached the front of the sanctuary when Lord le Wyse strode in, bowed toward the altar, and, without looking up, took his place with the rest of the kneelers just to Annabel’s left. Unable to curb her curiosity, her eyes devoured his richly embroidered waistcoat, trimmed in crimson velvet, and his crisp white sleeves. The ornate clothing did not surprise her, but his behavior once he was kneeling did. He clasped his hands, his eyes shut, his lips moving silently in prayer. His brow furrowed in concentration as he leaned forward, looking truly humble.
Glancing around, Annabel saw nearly everyone she knew, including Stephen, who knelt beside his mother. Adam stood, fidgeting restlessly beside his father, while Gilbert talked with one of the masonry workers. Margery knelt nearby, but her much-older husband, the miller, was not beside her, as he rarely ever graced the small church with his presence. Margery was whispering intently with two other maidens. Annabel watched them for a moment as they hid a laugh behind a hand or yawned and looked around.
Hardly anyone, besides Lord le Wyse, even pretended to pray.
The priest took his place before the altar and the boys of the choir began to sing a plainsong hymn in Latin. Thanks to her father’s teaching, she was able to translate the words in her head, in spite of the choirboys’ bad pronunciation.
O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
Annabel thought the chorus rather ironic, since no one looked the least like they were actually rejoicing. Some appeared solemn, including Lord le Wyse, who stared straight ahead.
O come, thou rod of Jesse, free