Her gaze involuntarily shifted to the butcher shop’s doorway, where Bailiff Tom stood just inside. He immediately stepped back into the shadows.
The lord followed her gaze and then looked back at Annabel. “Wait here.”
His expression became even fiercer just before he turned from her and strode into the shop.
“Bailiff Tom? How dare you shove that maiden?” His booming voice easily carried into the street.
He reappeared in the doorway, clutching Bailiff Tom by the back of his neck.
Pushing Tom toward her, the stranger jerked him to a halt only an arm’s length away.
“My bailiff wishes to ask forgiveness for his behavior.”
Tom didn’t look her in the eye but said in a strained voice, “Forgive me.”
She nodded, aware of the small group of wide-eyed villagers gathering to watch.
The man let go of Bailiff Tom’s neck. After straightening his elegant waistcoat, the lord stood tall, his back straight and his broad shoulders looming over the small group of villeins that now surrounded him. He held one arm tight against his midsection as he spoke. “I am Ranulf le Wyse, the lord of this village.”
The people immediately sank to one knee and bowed their heads before him.
“I will not tolerate loutish behavior from the men of my demesne.” The people lifted their heads. Lord le Wyse’s commanding tone riveted every eye. “And I warn you not to hope for preferential treatment. My father’s steward may have taken bribes, but I’m the lord now, and,” he fairly growled, “it isn’t in my nature.”
He turned in one swift motion, mounted his black horse, and galloped away.
Annabel watched him disappear down the road, then she turned to go home, moving quickly to get away from all the people staring at her. What kind of man was this new lord? He’d assured them that he didn’t tolerate bribes or lawlessness. Her mother had been guilty of both.
What would her family’s future be at the mercy of Lord Ranulf le Wyse?
Chapter
2
Instead of going inside when she reached home, Annabel ran around to the back of the house, unable to stop her mind from reliving the confrontation with Bailiff Tom — and with their formidable new lord. Her hands were shaking as she stared down at the ugly bruise that had formed on the underside of her wrist.
She found Dilly nibbling the grass in her pen and sank down on her knees beside the goat. Dilly grunted and nudged Annabel with her soft head. She stroked the animal’s furry sides and her hands gradually stopped shaking.
She let her fingers find the scar on Dilly’s leg. Just after Father died, she had discovered the goat in a muddy ditch. A bloody wound oozed from the animal’s foreleg, and she had bleated so piteously Annabel climbed down and rescued her. The leg soon healed, leaving a scar. It reminded Annabel of the new lord’s scar that ran down one side of his face, cutting a line through his beard. What had happened to cause Lord le Wyse’s scar and the loss of his eye? A fight? Some kind of accident?
She moved away from the goat’s leg and rubbed her ears. Thankfully, no one had yet claimed the lost goat. It was a serious offense to steal another person’s animal. But Dilly’s milk supplied a valuable part of the family’s daily sustenance. If anyone told their new lord that she’d found the animal, he might take Dilly away, claiming the goat belonged to him. She probably did, as did almost everything in Glynval.
In addition to having to live off the milk from a lost goat, many things had changed when her father died, including Annabel’s future. While her family and the villagers expected her to marry, Annabel’s dearest wish was to enter a convent, to read the Holy Writ, to know all that God had spoken. But without money from her father’s ships, it was impossible. Convents were a haven for the daughters of wealthy families.
A familiar donkey’s bray sounded from the lane. Annabel stood and peeked around the corner of their house. She leaned against it, the sharp stones’ edges digging into her hip, reminding her that the rest of the villagers lived in wattle-and-daub structures with dirt floors. The stone house had never seemed so dear.
Roberta Chapman came into view, sitting astride their donkey. Annabel shrank back from running out to greet her. Mother’s shoulders slumped as she slowly dismounted, her eyes weary as she went inside. Annabel said a quick prayer, squeezing her eyes tight, then opened the back door from the kitchen.
“What news?” Her brothers stood facing their mother.
Annabel leaned against the doorway between the kitchen and the main room of the house and watched, unseen, as Mother took off her wimple, her face drawn and pale. Mother sank onto a stool, which creaked beneath her weight, and laid her hands, palms up, on her knees.
“Tell us,” Edward demanded.