Chapter Six #2
Isabeth cocked an eyebrow. “Say anything you wish,” she said.
“I will happily tell him about the knight you’ve been flirting with for the duration of this journey.
You did not think I saw the winks and smiles you’ve been passing him, did you?
My husband warned me about you. It seems that he was correct. ”
Marian’s mouth shut and her face turned red.
Her lips worked as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring forth the words because she knew if she did, Isabeth would toss them right back at her.
She wasn’t used to that, not in the least, and the fact that Isabeth had noticed the flirting she’d been doing with the young knight she’d met in Middlesbrough had her rethinking her next move.
It wasn’t as if she had been particularly discreet about it, but for someone to call her out on it…
“Bitch,” she muttered.
“At least I am not a harlot.”
The retort came fast and succinctly. It was like a slap to Marian.
Her head snapped back, her eyes widened, and she jerked her palfrey around, heading back to where her women were riding.
Isabeth watched her go, rather pleased with herself because she had met Marian de Wolfe on her own terms and she had held her own.
The lines of battle had been drawn and she wasn’t sorry in the least. She just wanted to go home and she wanted that witch of a woman to leave her alone.
But she wasn’t unrealistic. Time would tell if Marian kept her mouth shut and stayed away.
Or if her sense of highborn vengeance meant Isabeth was in for trouble.
*
Ravenscar Castle was more of a fortified manse than a castle, nestled on a cliff overlooking the North Sea.
In the days of old, Northmen would land on the sandy beaches and the castle had seen more than its share of raids and sieges, but that hadn’t happened in a hundred years.
The Northmen bypassed Ravenscar for the larger settlements to the north.
Isabeth had never been afraid living here.
In fact, she loved it deeply. The smell of the sea, the sounds of the waves, and the damp breeze that would caress her face. All of it was treasured.
She was very happy to return home.
But she was also very sad.
Dyce had adored Ravenscar. It had been part of his blood even though he hadn’t been born there. It didn’t matter to him – he’d loved it the moment he first saw it and Isabeth still saw him standing on the battlements, looking out to sea as the damp north wind lifted his dark hair.
The ghost of Dyce was already there.
As soon as they’d arrived in the rather vast bailey, they were met by the majordomo of Ravenscar, Odo Norbreck.
The old man had served Isabeth’s father, a rather stout one-eyed man who had served the Earl of Alnwick at one point in his life.
He was savvy and efficient, and one look at the casket on the wagon and he knew what had happened.
His old face had been filled with sadness.
He had greeted Isabeth with sorrow and she had explained the situation to him, including the de Wolfe guests.
After asking the majordomo to see to the needs of their visitors, she retreated to her chamber and locked the door.
It was too much.
That’s what Isabeth kept repeating to herself.
All of it was just too much – Dyce’s death, the de Wolfe escort, Ronan’s insistence that he accompany Dyce’s body home and, finally, her encounter with Marian.
Yet again, her life seemed to be out of her hands, now with Ronan so determined to carry out Dyce’s final wish.
It was true that she had somewhat reconciled herself to Ronan’s presence, but now that they were back at Ravenscar, she simply wanted everyone gone.
It was too much.
Not long after retreating into the bedchamber she used to share with Dyce, Isabeth fell asleep and slept for the rest of the day.
She missed Marian demanding the best chamber in the manse and demanding separate chambers for her ladies only to be told that the best chamber belonged to Lady de Brito and the only things suitable were a series of small rooms in the small southern wing.
She missed Marian arguing with Odo, who eventually told her that she could either take the rooms or go sleep in the stables.
When Marian complained to Ronan, he told her the same thing and walked away.
Begrudgingly, she took the smaller chambers.
As Isabeth slept in an exhausted stupor, she also missed Ronan taking charge of Dyce’s casket.
There was a small church nearby called St. Mary’s and Odo had informed him that Sir Dyce had expressed interest in being buried there, so Ronan and Christian went into the small village of Ravenscar and made the arrangements.
With no vault, they selected a spot for him near the altar.
The mass was scheduled for the next day.
Isabeth finally awoke near sunset with a headache, the scent of a fish stew heavy on the air.
Since they were feeding additional men, she knew that Odo had ordered a stew, something plentiful and filling, but Isabeth couldn’t stand the smell.
It was one of several things that made her gag these days, so she sealed up her windows with her oil cloth curtains, hoping to keep the smell at bay.
She let old Gerta know that she was awake, finding the woman in her usual alcove right outside the chamber door.
Gerta was never far from Isabeth, like a faithful dog, and the old woman rushed to prepare her lady’s bath.
She grabbed a serving wench who was busying herself in another chamber, sending the girl down to the kitchens to order the bath, before following Isabeth back into her chamber.
“How are you feeling, lass?” she asked.
Isabeth went to her satchels and opened them up. “Better,” she said. “I suppose I should go into the village and speak with the priests about burying my husband. I shall go in the morning to make the arrangements.”
Gerta began unloading the satchels with enthusiasm. “That is not necessary, my lady,” she said. “Sir Ronan has already done that.”
Isabeth paused and looked at her in surprise. “He has?”
“Aye.”
Isabeth pondered that bit of information. “I see,” she said after a moment. “It seems to me that he was assuming much by doing that. I should have done it.”
Gerta shrugged. “I’m sure he was trying to be helpful,” she said. “He seems very… helpful.”
“You mean very bold.”
Gerta lifted her eyebrows as she went to the large wardrobe in the chamber, garments slung over one arm.
“He’s not the bold one,” she said. “His wife has been demanding since she arrived. All she does is complain. She hates the chambers she and her ladies are sleeping in, she hates the cold wind from the sea… I’ve heard the other servants tell stories about her already.
She’s very angry that she doesn’t have the biggest chamber at Ravenscar. ”
Isabeth eyed her. “Is she creating problems?”
Gerta opened the wardrobe and hung one of Isabeth’s finer garments on a peg. “She’s causing a stir, for certain,” she said, trying to be diplomatic. She wasn’t usually so tactful, but she didn’t want to upset her lady’s delicate condition. “Her women are quite demanding, also.”
That didn’t sit well with Isabeth. Considering how Marian’s lady had treated her, she could only imagine how she was treating the de Brito servants.
“What have they done?” she asked. “And do not spare me, Gerta. What have they done?”
Gerta hung up the last garment. “It’s difficult to say…”
“Gerta?”
The old woman sighed heavily and looked at her.
“The women spent time in the kitchens, overseeing what is being cooked, making sure everything is to their lady’s liking,” she said reluctantly.
“The cook was saving two big sides of beef, but they demanded that the cook boil it immediately and then they took the best for her. When the servants do not move fast enough, they slap them.”
Isabeth’s mouth popped open in outrage. “Slap?”
Gerta nodded sadly. “Aye,” she said. “Today has been a difficult day, my lady, but no one wanted to bother you with such things. You are grieving and we understand that.”
Isabeth’s eyes were still wide with shock and rage. “Has no one told Sir Ronan?”
Gerta shook her head. “No one will speak ill about Lady de Wolfe to her husband.”
But that didn’t include Isabeth. She did not have to remain silent and she wouldn’t.
She stared at Gerta for a moment before moving to the ice-cold water in the basin near the bed and quickly splashing water on her face before lathering a small, lumpy bar of soap that smelled like lavender and washing her face with the froth.
She splashed water on it again and dried her face with a small towel, embroidered with flowers, before rushing over to the wardrobe.
“Help me dress,” she snapped softly.
Gerta did. Between the two of them, they managed to get her out of her traveling gown, the one she’d fallen asleep in, and dressed her in a shift and a simple garment of a soft blue.
The dress itself was nothing more than long sleeves, a bodice that clung to her torso, and a flowing skirt, but she wore it like a goddess.
Gerta ran a comb through her locks several times before braiding her hair, a long braid that trailed down her back, and secured it with a blue ribbon.
She did all of it as she followed Isabeth around the chamber as the woman hunted down slippers and a shawl.
Once she was fully dressed, she put the shoes on her feet and the shawl around her shoulders and quickly quit the chamber.
But Gerta remained behind.
She had a feeling there was about to be an explosion.
*