“Where have you been? Dawdling servants have to clean the floors.” She had also stared pointedly at Evangeline’s skirts, which were covered in dirt from the mud that spattered on her when she had chased the pigs. She sent Evangeline for more water and gave her a block of lye soap and set her to work on the floors.
That evening, when Mistress Alice dismissed Evangeline from her work, she hurried toward the undercroft to change her dress, which was now wet from scrubbing floors all day. Her hands were blistered, cracked, and red, but it had been worth it to spend time talking with Westley.
As she hurriedly pulled on a clean dress, Muriel came up behind her and caught her wrist. “Come outside with me,” she whispered.
Evangeline complied and followed her out. It was not dark yet, so they hid among a stand of trees.
Muriel looked hard into her face. “Are you not tired yet of all this nonsense?”
“Nonsense?” Evangeline spoke close to Muriel’s ear so she could speak as softly as possible and only be heard by her friend.
“Living like a servant, working harder than either of us were ever meant to work. This is not the kind of life you were born for. Your grandfather was a king!”
“Lower your voice. Someone might hear.” Evangeline glanced around, but she did not see anyone.
She grabbed Evangeline’s hand and turned up the palm. “Look at this! Red and raw. Blistered and bleeding. Is this what you want?”
Evangeline only stared back at her.
“Listen to me. I understand.” Muriel’s voice was much softer and kinder. But her eyes still flashed. “You don’t want to marry someone you do not feel a courtly love for. But courtly love is for poems and songs. It is not . . .” She sighed. “Romantic love is very well to dream about, to imagine what it might be like to fall in love and marry and live in bliss for the rest of your life.” Muriel rolled her eyes at the mention of living in bliss. “But it is not the way of kings and those with royal blood. You have the good fortune of being betrothed to the king’s advisor, to an earl. You will be wealthy. You will not have to work or worry about anything. You will be taken care of.”
And thereby, Muriel would be taken care of. But perhaps Evangeline was being unkind to her loyal friend.
“I don’t mind working.” Evangeline stared down at her hands. Some of the blisters were oozing a mixture of blood and clear liquid. The pain would not bother her if she could talk to Westley again tonight and get to read the holy book that he obviously wanted to share with her.
What she did mind was her own incompetence. She cringed inwardly at the thought of there being more incidences such as the ones with the scythe, the water, and the pigs.
Muriel stared hard at her. “What do you think I’m supposed to do? Forget about my life before? I’m thirty-two years old. I have no wish to begin a new life as a servant.”
“Are they treating you badly? Is Lady le Wyse cruel to you?”
“No, she is better to me than I ever was to the servants at Berkhamsted Castle, but that does not mean I want to stay here.”
“I’m very sorry, Muriel.” A fist seemed to pound her chest. “I have been thoughtless. Please forgive me. Perhaps you can return to Berkhamsted Castle without me.”
Muriel grunted, then leaned toward Evangeline, her face only inches from hers. “What do you think they will say to me? They know that I left with you. The king’s men will force me to tell them where you went. I am trapped here. Trapped.” Muriel held out her hands in frustration. “Unless you come back to Berkhamsted Castle with me.”
Evangeline’s heart twisted inside her. Did Muriel think she was very selfish to want to stay here when Muriel obviously wished to go back to her old life? But if they both went back, Evangeline would be forced to marry Lord Shiveley.
“Lord Shiveley will not give up so easily, Evangeline. His men and King Richard’s will find you eventually. You are not far enough away, and your unusual height and red hair will give you away.”
If they thought Evangeline was dead, they would stop looking for her. Perhaps Muriel could say she had died, lying to them the same way she was lying to the people of Glynval.
“Please, Muriel. Give me some time to figure out what to do.” She clasped her friend’s hand. “Please.” Evangeline begged with her eyes.
“What choice do I have?”
She squeezed Muriel’s hand, but Muriel did not squeeze back. She turned away and began walking back to the undercroft in the bottom floor of the manor house.
Did she think Evangeline was selfish, too selfish to deserve her friendship? The old familiar terror—that she was too selfish to be worthy of love—filled her chest like a full bucket of water.
Evangeline couldn’t let Muriel think she was selfish. She needed to think of a plan to get Muriel back to Berkhamsted Castle so she would not lose the one friend she had long depended upon.
Westley was on his way home on a small footpath through the woods when John Underhill rounded the bend just ahead.