“Only if he catches me.” He smiled at her and went out the door.
The cold wind swept in, chilling her wet clothes and hair. Margaretha shivered and sank back down on the floor. “O God,” she whispered, “I’m so miserably cold and wet. Please keep Colin safe and don’t let him get caught snaring game. But let him catch something, because we’re very hungry, and so is this little boy.” She could barely see him, as he still hung back in the shadows. She buried her face in her hands so the little boy couldn’t hear her whisper, “And please let me stop thinking about that dream when Colin kissed me. Help me remember it was only a dream.” Her stomach immediately twisted — whether more from guilt or hunger, she wasn’t sure. She shouldn’t even think about Colin kissing her, since they weren’t likely to ever marry.
Was it possible that he might want to marry her? Could he ever love her in the way she wanted to be loved? He had never said anything about love or marriage, the way her suitors had.
She would do well to remember that Colin lived in England. He had a life there, a family and responsibilities and duties — an inheritance. He was the oldest son of an earl and should marry someone else of noble English birth, someone with ties to England’s king.
Colin surely never imagined marrying her — although he had mentioned it in his addled state after getting kicked in the head. But a suitor kissed a girl on the hand or cheek, and married people kissed on the lips, but Colin had never kissed her, even on the forehead, like a brother or friend might.
It was foolish to be thinking about such things when there were much more serious things to be decided, particularly, how they would reach Marienberg before they starved or froze to death.
Margaretha could not control the chattering of her teeth. If only she could take off these wet clothes. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs, put her head down, and went back to praying.
The little boy was moving around. His little feet came pattering toward her. She lifted her head and he was standing before her with a blanket. The gray blanket engulfed his outstretched arms, and he peered over it, his eyes barely visible.
Margaretha took it. “Thank you.” She wrapped herself in it, surrounded now by the smell of horses. She was still wet and cold, but his thoughtfulness made her smile.
“Do you know where I could get some dry clothes?” She hesitated to ask. After all, if he knew where to get clothes, he wouldn’t be wearing the ragged, insufficient clothing he was wearing.
He stared at her with large brown eyes. Then he motioned with his hand. He turned and hurried away.
Margaretha stood up and followed, still clutching the blanket around her wet shoulders. The little boy scrambled up a ladder and disappeared above her.
She tested the ladder. It looked sturdy enough. She started climbing with one hand, holding the blanket with her other hand, and soon reached the top of the ladder. Her eyes adjusted to the bit of light that was shining through the cracks in the walls, and a loft, piled high with hay, loomed before her. The little boy was at one end, brushing the hay off a trunk.
Margaretha climbed the rest of the way up, stepping onto the wooden boards covered with stray bits of hay and straw. The little boy held out a bundle of blue cloth.
She took it from him and held it up. It was a blue cutaway surcoat with lacing down the front that was made to be worn over an undergown of some type of finer, softer material. The surcoat was of finer wool than the kirtle that she had traded her silk dress for. But since she didn’t want to put her wet undergown back on, she went and lifted the lid of the trunk. She found a pale gray cotehardie, of lighter material.
The boy motioned for her to stay there, in the loft, then he scrambled back down the ladder and out of sight.
Margaretha looked around. There were no windows where someone might see her from outside, and no way up to the loft except by the ladder. So she quickly dropped the blanket and stripped off her heavy-with-rain kirtle, then her clinging undergown. Her teeth chattered as the air touched her bare, wet skin, and she pulled the enormous gray cotehardie over her head as fast as she could. The dress was made for a larger woman, but at least it was dry. She then pulled on the sleeveless blue surcoat. The sides were open all the way to her hips on both sides, exposing the gray cotehardie beneath. It smelled slightly musty and was not the warmest garment, but it would do. She then wrapped the horse blanket around her. She would smell like horses and musty hay, but at least she wouldn’t freeze to death.
Margaretha wrung as much water as she could from her kirtle and undergown, and spread them out to dry. Then she went to rummage through the trunk again. Colin would be terribly cold and wet when he returned.