Chapter Three
On the road to Norwich Castle
The first day’s journey to Norwich had been long and wet thanks to a series of storms that had blown in from the east. The roads had been marred with holes and puddles, the horses up to their ankles in mud.
It made for slow going.
But Christin didn’t say a word about the discomfort of the icy conditions or vertical rain.
Not a gasp, a sneeze, or a complaint as she plodded along on her robust warmblood with Alexander, Peter, Bric, and Kevin.
The knights were dressed in full armor, including mail which became soaked, and by nightfall when they stopped, the armor was cold and heavy with moisture.
It was a most uncomfortable way to travel, but if they weren’t complaining, then she wasn’t going to, either.
Even if she was soaked to the skin.
In fact, she already felt as if she was on some kind of probation after the events of the past few days.
First, she killed a French spy and at The Pox, she killed a man who had been trying to murder Alexander.
She certainly didn’t enjoy killing but she’d grown up around knights.
She knew their code and their sense of honor, and if someone was trying to kill you or a friend, then you had every right to fight back.
She’d seen that in her father and uncle too many times to count.
Even her mother wasn’t afraid to use a dagger if necessary.
Lady Dustin de Lohr had instilled that fearlessness in her daughter.
Still, Christin received the distinct impression that Alexander was irritated at her for killing his opponent.
The first day’s journey began before dawn and ended just as the sun sank below the western horizon. The rain had started to fall again, gently this time, by the time they reached the village Peter had been planning on. He set his sights for an inn called The Buck and Boar.
It was a rather large establishment with three stories of whitewashed walls and brown cross-beam architecture. The second and third stories were larger than the first story, giving the building a substantial overhang onto the street.
Light emitted from the shuttered windows, giving the place a warm glow, as the five of them rode into the livery around the side.
The livery was mostly full but a few coins from Peter had the livery master shoving horses out of the way to pull the big warhorses in so they could be dry.
Confident the animals would be well-tended, the group entered the establishment through the rear kitchen yard.
The Buck and Boar was different from most inns in that it catered to a higher class of clientele. The serving wenches were dressed in clean clothing and were somewhat groomed, and the place didn’t reek of the usual vomit and smoke and unwashed bodies. It smelled like fresh bread and baking apples.
It smelled inviting.
Even the common room was different. There was a small common area with tables and chairs that were in good repair, a massive hearth that was blazing against the wet night, and several alcoves that had tables and chairs, lamps for light, and curtains that could be closed for privacy.
Peter led them into one of those secluded alcoves that could accommodate at least eight people.
In this alcove were a clean table, two lamps, and an iron brazier with glowing coals to warm the area.
There was even a window with precious diamond-glass panes looking out over an alley, but part of the window was open to let out the fumes from the brazier.
As soon as the group entered the alcove and began settling in, serving women came on the run.
Rags to dry off with were brought along with hot wine.
The knights began to strip off their tunics to let them dry in the warmth of the room but they stopped short of removing mail or any protection.
When in a public place, they maintained their uniform appearance at all times, especially for protection.
But for Christin, it was different.
No protection and no armor meant she was soaked through to the skin.
As the knights dried off, she sat as close to the brazier as she could get, removing her cloak and gloves, wringing out the skirts of her traveling dress and hoping the heat would dry it somewhat.
She was shivering, and her teeth were chattering, and she was quite certain that her lips were blue, so she kept her head down so no one would notice.
Peter handed her a cup of hot wine, but she kept her head down as she accepted it so he wouldn’t see her face.
The food began to come. Stewed beef, an onion tart, a pottage of cabbage and turnips, plus bread and butter and stewed fruit. It was a veritable feast and the knights sat down, taking the flat trenchers provided and filling them from the bowls of steaming food.
Christin sat on the end, next to the brazier still, and remained quiet as the men served themselves.
She was so determined not to be a bother that all of the food except for the bread was gone before the men realized she had absolutely nothing.
Chagrinned, it was Alexander who rose from his seat and went to the kitchens, demanding more food for the lady since she had been cheated out of a meal by four hungry men.
Christin could hear him in the kitchens, barking.
“What is he doing?” she hissed at Peter. “He does not need to go through so much trouble.”
“Let him,” Bric said from across the table, mouth full. “If you give him a free rein long enough, he may very well end up confiscating this entire inn just for you.”
His pale blue eyes twinkled as he said it, leading Christin to believe that he was jesting with her for the most part, but given Alexander’s reputation, there was probably some truth to it.
“That is truly not necessary,” she said. “I did not mean for him to go to the trouble. I could have easily gone to the kitchens myself.”
Bric shook his head, shoving more food into his mouth. “Do you not know when a man is being polite to you?”
Christin looked at Peter, who simply lifted his shoulders. “I fear that she does not,” he said, answering Bric. “She has fostered in the finest homes, trained with the finest teachers, but she is the kind of woman who would rather do for herself. Chivalry does not mean very much to her.”
“That is every man’s dream,” Bric snorted. “Every man dreams of a woman who does not make demands of him. Lady Christin, you should fetch the best husband in all of England with that attitude. In fact, if I thought your father would not grind me into mincemeat, I might offer for you myself.”
Christin flushed a dull red, embarrassed by such talk even though she knew he was teasing her. “And what would you do with me?” she asked. “Keep me locked up at Narborough? I do not suppose you would let me continue serving The Marshal.”
Bric looked at her as if she had gone mad. “Never,” he declared. “The woman I marry will know her place and that will be to make me happy. And anything else I can think of.”
He exaggerated his heavy Irish accent, which made it both humorous and threatening. As he chuckled at his own wittiness, Christin went along with his joke.
“Then God help the woman you marry if that is as much as you think of her,” she said. “Women have minds and opinions, you know. They do very well for themselves.”
Bric pointed his knife at her as he chewed. “You are an exception,” he said. “But, then again, you are a de Lohr. The entire family is full of exceptional people. But women, for the most part, are cattle. They want to be herded, fed, kept warm and safe. Once in a while, they do something useful.”
He and Kevin laughed in agreement. Even Peter grinned until Christin pinched him. “Ouch!” he yelled, rubbing his arm as he looked at her. “What was that for?”
“For concurring with them,” she said, lifting an eyebrow in a gesture that looked very much like her mother. “You think more of women than they do – right?”
Peter made a face at her but didn’t answer, fearful of another pinch. He continued eating as Alexander returned to their table with two serving wenches in tow. The women had two big trenchers full of food and both of them ended up in front of Christin.
Her eyes widened.
“That is a great deal of food,” she said, looking to Alexander. “Truly, my lord… you did not need to go to the trouble, but I am most appreciative.”
Alexander eyed her a moment before digging into his own food.
“It is the least I can do for the woman who saved my life,” he said.
Then, he looked at the others. “There are three rooms on the top floor and I have confiscated all of them. One is for the lady and the other two are for us. Peter, you and I shall share a chamber because I do not wish to be kept up all night by Bric’s snoring.
And if you snore, I shall throw you out of the window. ”
Peter snorted in reply, shoveling food into his mouth just like they all were.
Even Christin began to eat the stewed beef and carrots boiled in vinegar and cinnamon, but she was still so cold and so wet that she shivered the entire time.
The hot food helped but with her wet clothing, even the heat from the brazier against her amounted to little more than hot, damp clothing.
She was just drinking the last of her hot wine when she heard Alexander’s voice.
“Peter,” he said quietly. “Look at your sister.”
Christin’s head shot up, looking at her brother with wide eyes, wondering why on earth Alexander should say such a thing. Even Peter looked at her curiously, his mouth still full of food.
“Why?” he finally asked.
Alexander set down the cup in his hand. Those dark eyes were fixed on Christin as he stood up and came around the table. She was looking at him with great curiosity, and perhaps even some fear, when he reached out and lifted her left arm by the wrist.
“Feel her clothing,” he said. “The woman is soaked to the skin and none of us has noticed.”