Annabel paid little heed to the sharp edges of the pottery fragments as she raked them up with her palms and placed them into her apron. Maud knelt to help, picking up a larger piece of broken pottery then mopping up the spilled ale with a cloth. Her hands were shaking too, and her face was red and puffy.
Annabel dumped the contents of her apron into a refuse bucket and hurried over to finish cleaning up the rest of the ale. What should she say to Maud? A wave of guilt pressed down on her as though the stone that had hit the bailiff was sitting on her shoulders.
But Maud’s mouth was pinched and set, and she didn’t seem in the mood for talk. She grabbed another pitcher, filled it from the barrel in the corner, and topped off the rest of the mugs.
Annabel wiped her hands on her apron, which was now splattered and dirty. A pricking sensation on her leg, like the poke of a thorn, drew her gaze down.
A triangle of pottery was sticking out of her leg, with a trail of blood oozing into her shoe.
“Annabel.”
Mistress Eustacia waddled toward her, a clean cloth in her hand. “You’re bleeding, lass.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I broke the pitcher—”
“Never you mind. Come and let me wrap it up.”
They moved to the bench that stood against the wall, and Mistress Eustacia carefully pulled the piece of pottery from Annabel’s leg. Getting down on one knee, the older woman wrapped the cloth twice around the leg.
“Oh, pray don’t bother with it, Mistress Eustacia. It’s nothing.” Her vision swam like a fish, and she propped her elbow on her knee and put her head in her hand. This was what she got for not eating anything all day.
Mistress Eustacia patted her shoulder. “You’re tired. Go down to the undercroft and crawl into bed, and I’ll bring you a choice bit of pheasant and some ale, I will.”
She didn’t relish being alone in the dark undercroft, but the thought of escaping from Lord le Wyse’s and the coroner’s presence made the air rush back into her lungs.
“Now, you go and get some rest. I’ll accept no argument, I won’t.”
Her legs a bit wobbly, Annabel headed to the door. Lord le Wyse and the coroner stood directly in her path. She looked down at her dirty apron and prayed, Let neither of them take notice of me. She told herself to breathe as she walked past the men and soon was almost to the door.
“Annabel.”
She turned quickly then had to blink the black spots away. “Yes, my lord?”
“I would like you to read to us tonight.”
“Yes, my lord.” She felt her heart lift, and her joy caused the words to come out in a whisper. It was a great relief knowing that he still wanted her to read to him.
She didn’t intend to look at him, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing up into his face. He actually had a pleasant face when he wasn’t angry, and his features were evenly proportioned, almost regal. His dark hair suited his skin color perfectly. He was quite a contrast to the balding, slightly paunchy coroner.
As she left the room and started down the steps, she had to grip the railing to keep her balance. But her mind was even more unbalanced, or else she wouldn’t have been lingering on her lord’s features. She was becoming completely daft, with all the horrors that had happened of late.
Following supper, Sir Clement stretched his legs as he sat in the upper hall of the manor house, sipping his ale while he talked with Ranulf.
Ranulf nodded, his mind wandering away from the fire investigation.
He had probably made a mistake by requesting that Annabel read to them, but his intention was to behave as usual. Or, at least that was one intention. He also wanted to keep her as near to him as he could. He could see she was rattled, even more than he expected, and he hoped to be a calming influence on her.
Truthfully, he simply wanted to be near her.
It was useless to deny it. After his wife’s betrayal and death, after being assured that no beautiful woman could love anyone as disfigured as he was, he’d determined to go through life alone, childless, without the heartache of rejection. No woman would touch his heart again. No amorous feelings would complicate his thoughts.
Now he was willing to deceive the king’s coroner to protect a beautiful girl.
If he hadn’t forced her into the position as a lowly servant, she wouldn’t have been so vulnerable to the bailiff’s lecherous attentions. She would have been safe at home. Now, she was tormented with fear and guilt and worry, wondering if the bailiff would die, compelled to protect the person who had protected her.
It was his duty to look out for Annabel’s safety and wellbeing, as he would for any servant. His emotions, frustrating as they were, would not and should not be a factor.
He realized he had not been listening to Sir Clement. He blinked at the coroner, who sat staring at him, his tankard of ale halfway to his lips.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“So I see. Your mind is on something — or someone — else.” He grinned and took a large swill from his tankard. “Who is she? The beautiful daughter of a knight? A lady in His Majesty’s court? Or a comely lass from the village?”