State of Grace (Resurrection) (24 page)

I dawdled behind the two sisters and a gaggle of other women who were clearly invited
to wherever her majesty was taking us, and after several sets of stairs and some more of those poky narrow passages, Sibyl and her entourage halted in front of a door.

‘We will use the solar,’ she announced grandly. Although the assorted ladies twittered in consternation, they followed her inside.

The room was surprisingly pleasant, although the chairs were rather formidable, being heavy on the carvings and light on the padding. Cushions on the floor and large colourful rugs were interspersed with furs, and the walls were hung with richly intricate woven tapestries. Several low tables held threads and yarn, and a spinning wheel stood in one corner, complete with a high backed stool for the spinner to sit on.

A loom (at least I hoped it was a loom, and not a medieval instrument of torture) was against one wall, and I squinted at it, trying to make out the partially completed design, but the room was not light enough to see it clearly. Narrow shutters were closed against what I knew to be even narrower windows, and torches and candles, although in abundance, could not hope to compete with the light from
just one sixty watt light bulb. I would never take a switch for granted again. The room was positively murky.

Her ladyship sank gracefully into the largest chair
, her sister, Agnes, taking the one next to her. The rest of the ladies draped themselves on the remaining chairs and the cushions. From what I could make out, who sat where and on what revealed where they were in the pecking order of this particular hen-house.

I sat on the floor trying to hide behind
three ‘ladies’, barely into their teens. The room was crowded with about twenty bodies in it, and became even more crowded as serving women bearing wine jugs and cups traipsed in.

I accepted a cup, sniffing it cautiously, before taking a sip. Thankfully it wasn’t as strong as the stuff that had gotten me tipsy last night
. I had a feeling I would need all my wits about me.

I eavesdropped on the conversations around me, and
was relieved to find these women were not so different from women of my own time: husbands, children, who said what to whom, older ones teasing younger ones about potential admirers, who fancies who. My ears pricked up as I heard Roman’s name.

‘I have heard tell th
at he is a nobleman in disguise and has been tasked by the king to visit his all in his land to discover who is loyal to him.’

‘I have heard that he is the
second son of a great king beyond the Bezantine Empire and is travelling our lands to find himself a wife. He intends to wed for love and not for wealth. He has riches enough of his own, and wishes to find a maid who will love him for himself.’

‘That would explain his clothes, servant and horses. Whoever heard of a bard with a fur trimmed cloak, and have you seen the quality of his horse?
Even his servant is better clothed than some of Sir Bernard’s men at arms.’

‘He
even acts like a lord,’ one said scathingly. ‘He has a manner far above his station. I don’t know how Sir Bernard allows it.’

‘Oh, but I for one am glad he does,’ giggled another, elbowing a third in the ribs. ‘He might not be suitable for a husband, but that does not stop one from wishing.’

‘Or dreaming.’

‘Hah! We all know who you see when you close your eyes as Fordwin climbs atop you!’ Laughter flowed and eddied around the room, main
ly from the older women. A few of the younger ones were a little embarrassed, but most joined in.

Agnes sighed, her eyes dreamy. ‘I won’t be thinking about any other man when
Leofrick takes me to the altar,’ she said.

‘You are lucky
, lady. Leofrick is young and handsome. And he owns enough lands already, with the prospect of more.’

Sibyl cleared her throat, her annoyance evident. ‘Can we talk about something other than husbands,’ she said crossly.

Two of the three girls I was hiding behind filled the other in on the details behind Sibyl’s bad temper, in low voices.

‘Lady Sibyl is not betrothed, in spite of her being
twenty. Sir Bernard had failed to find her a husband he deems worthy, since Walter of York was taken by a fever,’ a girl of no more than fourteen whispered. ‘Any longer unwed and I think the Lady Sibyl will –’  She broke off when she saw me listening, so I didn’t get to find out what she thought Sibyl would do. My attention was captured by Sibyl herself, who was staring at me with undisguised dislike.

‘Co
me here, to me, wench,’ she commanded imperiously.

Having no choice, and with all faces turned towards me, I stood, smoothing my skirt with my hands, and picked my way around the females to stand before her. I waited.

She said, ‘I don’t expect Norman manners, but you will show some respect.’

At a loss, I curtsied, wobbling on the way back up. It seemed to satisfy her.

‘What is your name?’ she asked.

‘Grace,’ I replied.

‘Grace…?’ she prompted.

I hesitated for a moment until I realised what she wanted. ‘Grace, my lady,’ I said. I felt like an extra in ‘Merlin’.

‘Grace,’ she repeated. ‘Do you have another name? A family name? Or can you tell me where you live, where you were born?’ She spoke slowly as if talking to a five year old.

‘My name is Grace
Llewellyn, and I am from Br – London.’ I had been going to say Brecon, but I realised just in time that I would have to say where I lived and who I know. Where I lived hadn’t been built yet and everyone I know had yet to be born. Tricky.

‘Where in
London?’ Sibyl enquired politely enough, but the ice in her tone was unmistakeable.

‘Um.’ I thought quickly. History not being my strongest point, I said ‘
Richmond’, only to be met with a blank look.

‘I do not know this ‘
Richmond’,’ she said. ‘Have you set eyes on the Tower? I understand it is impressive.’

I carefully thought about my answer, conscious of the open hostility of those around me. From what I could recall
London had been little more than a village at the time of the Norman conquest. Didn’t Edward somebody or other build the Tower of London, or was that William the Conqueror himself? Or was that after 1066? I had to say something, so I took a gamble.

‘Sure. I mean, yes. Your lady, I mean
, my lady.’

‘Describe it to me.’ I heard the threat, but couldn’t determine how much danger I was going to be in if I got it wrong. I had done all the touristy things when I first moved to
London, Tower Bridge, Madame Tussauds, Hyde Park, the National History Museum, and luckily the Tower of London had been on my to-do list. It had been one of the first places I had visited. Corrine, who I shared a flat with at the time, was a born and bred Londoner, and she had taken great delight in showing her city off to me. I remembered being impressed by the squareness of the building and the paleness of the stone. I prayed it hadn’t changed much.

I told her what I remembered, slowly and carefully, thinking about each sentence
before I uttered it. Sibyl must have thought I was a moron.

When I ran out of things I could say, I puttered to a halt.

‘Sibyl,’ Agnes said. ‘Come, let us play chess. Why concern yourself with her? She is nothing.’

Chess? Really? And thanks – I am officially ‘nothing’. Cheers. I rolled my eyes sarcastically, and knew it was a mistake as soon as I did it. Sibyl’s gaze sharpened. She was really quite beautiful, I thought, in spite of the sourness of her expression. Her hair was loose tonight
, except for a braid reaching from both temples around to the back of her head and fastened by an ornate gold clip. As been as ‘
Claire’s Accessories’
didn’t exist, I had to assume it was real gold, and not an import from Taiwan. Her hair shone an old-gold in the candle light to match her clip. Her dress was an exquisite sky blue with silver and gold embroidered leaves and flowers intertwined. I knew enough, now, to realise the gold and silver thread really was gold and silver thread, and all the embroidery would have been done by hand. She noticed me looking and smirked. It didn’t do much for her rosebud mouth, I thought, snidely.

‘What is Roman to you?’ she asked suddenly.

I tried frantically to recall what he had said. ‘He is, um, er, a relation,’ I stuttered.

‘Ki
nsman?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Kinsman.’

‘What kind of kin?’

‘Cousin?’

‘What kind of cousin?’

She wasn’t going to let this
go, was she, and she didn’t sound as if she believed me, either.

‘First cousin?’ I couldn’t help the inflection in my voice
, but I had no idea how many kinds of cousin there could be, so I gave an educated guess. I must have said the right thing because she relaxed back into her chair, and I heaved a sigh of relief. I appeared to have passed whatever test she had set me.

‘Sibyl,’ Agnes cajoled. ‘Would it matter? He cannot be for you.’ 

It was this sister’s turn to wear her hair in a braid and it coiled, like a copper rope, down over one breast. My eyes nearly bugged out of my head when I realised the dress she was wearing was the same one Roman had originally stolen. It looked much better on her than it had on me, I acknowledged ruefully. I was sure he had said that it belonged to Sibyl, though. Either he’d got it wrong (and that wouldn’t surprise me because in my experience most men didn’t take much notice of what a girl was wearing), or the sisters swapped clothes. That would probably make sense because they could hardly pop out to Primark whenever they fancied a new outfit. I speculated on whether they did their own dressmaking.

Sibyl wasn’
t happy. She jumped out of her chair and padded around the room. Agnes also leapt to her feet, wringing her hands. Everyone else cowered slightly and I took my cue from them, and retreated back to the three girls I had hidden behind earlier.

‘I beg pardon, Sibyl,’ Agnes said. ‘I am sure our father will arrange a husband for you soon.’

‘He had better make haste before I wither into a crone,’ Sibyl retorted. ‘I have twenty years; I should be wed and have babes clutching at my skirts by now. Not to mention being a mistress of my own hearth.’

‘I know. It will be soon,’ Agnes soothed. This was clearly an on
-going issue.

I heard one of the older ladies mutter to her companion, ‘
Too long a virgin, that one. Tis time she was bedded. She needs a man’s hand to temper her arrogance.’

I held back laughter:
that was one way of saying she needed a good seeing to! Sobering, I worked my way through what I had learned tonight: Sibyl, unmarried, clearly had the hots for Roman. Roman didn’t seem to be bothered one way or the other by her, and even if he did, it wouldn’t have been allowed (although I did have the notion that societal rules had little influence on Roman). I guessed that all the women, except me, were in the same situation regarding marriage and husbands, but what perplexed me more was that they not only accepted arranged marriages, they appeared to welcome them. Nah, that definitely wasn’t for me. And to think Sibyl considered herself old at twenty! I must be positively ancient, although, I had to admit, I didn’t look much older than her, and I recalled that lives tended to be much shorter in medieval times than in the twenty-first century. I gave silent thanks to Clarins: their stuff must be working.