Chapter 20
Twenty
What can I say of Margaret of Roxburgh? Among mortals, ’tis reckoned better to say nothing than to speak someone ill. Among the fair folk, on the other hand, it is forbidden to lie. And so, it seems I must say nothing at all.
Nay, I can say this: I never knew Margaret to say an unkind word.
She had no need to, when she could open her blue eyes round and wide in innocent shock or make a moue of disapproval with her perfect little mouth.
Which she did. Often. Margaret of Roxburgh could chastise me in a thousand different ways and never even utter a word.
But for Thomas Shepherd, she had nothing but smiles.
“Oh, it is good to see you, Thomas!” She clasped her hands together, smiling prettily. “And forgive my forwardness, but you are looking so well.” Her eyes glanced away, and her cheeks grew rosy pink.
Thomas might forgive her forwardness, but I never shall. Warmth in my veins, tingling in my fingertips, but the sight of the cross at her throat made it retreat, turned my flesh cold.
“You do flatter me, little Maggie.” His eyes passed over her, indiscreetly. “Although not so little anymore, are you? ’Tis a fine lady you’ve become.”
And I was as small and plain as I had ever been. I would take off this false seeming right now and show him who I truly am. Yet the very doors spoke poison to me; my fae half retreated inside.
Margaret lowered her gaze, wielding blushes like a weapon. “I did worry so, when you left us, Tom. Glad I am you prospered in the meantime. And is the dog doing well?”
“The dog?” It creaked out of me, while a sinking sensation hit my belly.
“Er, yes.” Thomas rubbed the back of his neck and avoided my eyes. “I did mention Cullen was a gift from one of the baron’s vassals.”
Margaret blinked prettily. “’Twas me! Oh, I am so glad you have Cullen as your boon companion, Thomas. It is like I myself have been looking after you all these years!”
Just that morning I had witnessed a touching farewell between dog and man; much barking and leaping, tussling and petting there had been. Now I imagined it between Thomas and Margaret herself.
“You haven’t been,” I said. “Looking after him, I mean.” Not the way I have.
Margaret appeared to notice me for the first time. “Who is this?” she asked, eyes fixed on the birthmark at my throat.
Thomas had told me to feel no shame for it, “For lady, I would gladly pluck that rose.” But Margaret’s goggling eyes brought the embarrassment back, made me forget the brush of Thomas’s fingers—and later, his lips—against the mark.
It was a blemish now, a flaw, and I rubbed at it until Margaret looked away.
“I am called Bess,” I croaked out, then cleared my throat.
“Bess is a cunning woman,” Thomas said. “Here to lend what help she may to the baroness.”
“Here with you,” I added, taking his hand, and squeezing it perhaps too tight.
Margaret averted her eyes from our clasped hands, and her mouth went round, like a crude, obnoxious poppet’s.
“Yes, now I remember. I did hear there was a healer coming.” Her pretty little nose wrinkled, and she crossed herself.
I suppose she, like the priest back home, believed it unwise at best, heretical at worst, to mess with “the Lord’s will. ”
My belly churned, and I swallowed back bile. She really is all iron and crucifixes, blushes and moues and sanctimonious pride.
Margaret cocked her head at me. “Did you not travel with your husband, then?”
“I do not have one.” I had a paramour only—the handsome shepherd who stood before us both.
She bowed her head, clasping her hands at her breast. “Oh, I am sorry for your loss.” I could almost picture her eking out a single perfect tear.
I stared at her a moment. “I never had a husband.”
“Oh.” Eyes owlish and wide. “Then you are convent--bound?”
If I had been drinking, I would have spat it out. “No,” I growled. “I came with Thomas.”
Margaret pulled away, her expression strained. I could only imagine what manner of woman she thought me. “Neighbors, then.”
“We could hardly be closer.”
She gave a feeble smile. “Well. Yes. We should have someone show you to your quarters. Richard!” She waved over a lanky groom.
“Do show the baron’s son and the young cunning woman to their rooms.” Rooms, again.
Plural. It lingered like a snake’s hiss in my ears. I did not see what I could do about it.
Little did I know, when I demurred at the idea Thomas and I were to have separate chambers, that I was lucky to be given quarters at all.
The manor house had no place to put a woman who traveled alone.
Never mind that Thomas and I traveled together.
We were unwed, and in the baron’s eyes, and those of his household, I was as nothing to Thomas.
We share a life, and he owes me his. In this world, it meant nothing unless sanctioned by God.
Eventually, I was given a pallet in the attic, where the laundress sometimes stayed when caught out in a storm. Clearly, this was a rare occurrence, for the space was barely habitable, dim, dusty, and bare. Only a blanket protected my modesty and concealed me from view.
“I will speak to someone,” Thomas promised. “It is not acceptable for you to be treated in such a base fashion.”
I bit my lip. The baron had treated his own son like a servant. We were na?ve to suppose I might fare any better.
Wait until I have saved the baroness and young Malcolm, I thought. Then the baron will see my worth and give me the respect I deserve.
And I quieted the voice that told me, I could command it now. Lammas magic warred with the heavy mortality of the manor around me, but the manor won.
’Twas no better that evening when we were summoned to the great hall to dine. To say “summoned” is a misstatement, where I was concerned. No one bothered to fetch me. Only from the bustle and scurrying of the servants around me did I know when supper was nigh.
I did wash myself, and rebraided my hair, wishing I had a gown as fine and lovely as Margaret’s—in two colors, no less! I then tracked down a groom and followed him into the great hall, where I waited to be seated.
Trestle tables were lined up on the sides of the hall, illumined by proper candles in spikes on the wall or in chandeliers overhead.
Patterned tiles covered the floor, the walls hung with fine tapestries, and an enormous fire burned upon flagstones in the center.
When I followed the smoke with my eyes, I could see the wooden roof beams were stained with soot.
The walls were not bare of shadows, but nothing of the fae was in the manor. Nothing, that is, except for me.
I could not help but gawk. Everything loomed enormous, magnificent, meant to intimidate and impress. It was an honor to be in such lavish surroundings, to be welcomed into the baron’s presence.
It was a misery to face it alone.
Thomas Shepherd sat upon a raised dais at the far end of the hall, sharing a plate with Margaret of Roxburgh and a table with his father, the Baron de Lyne himself.
He and his father were in the same room for the first time in at least nine years.
The baron sat at the center of it all, a baldachin of blue silk draped above him, framing the entire ensemble but most particularly drawing attention to him.
He stood tall, silver streaking the dark curls he shared with Thomas, which had thinned somewhat from age.
From this distance, his resemblance to the shepherd king was apparent, but I found no sign in him of the shepherd’s merriment, nor any indication there ever had been. And why should there be?
The seat at the end of the table, wherein the lady baroness no doubt normally sat, was empty.
I did not know the story of the baron and his wife.
Whether they loved each other, either at first or coming to do so over time.
If the baron had loved Thomas’s mother and saw his wife as the force that ripped him from her arms, a reluctant but necessary alliance.
But he carried himself as if the festive air around him was all illusion, no more real than shadows on the wall.
As for Thomas, I had never seen him so splendid.
Nay, I had never seen him clad in such splendor, for Thomas in his braies, splashing about in the water I had fetched him to bathe in was all the splendor my shepherd king needed.
Now he wore a deep-blue cotehardie, well-fitted and snug to the waist. His curls had been combed smooth but sprung up defiantly, and his legs were encased in snug hose.
He looked every inch the baron’s son. I saw little of my shepherd king in him at all.
And he did feed Margaret of Roxburgh from his plate and took great care that none of the food should spill on her elegant, two-colored dress.
Why should he feed her? I am the one who cannot lift the spoon to my lips, cannot touch these steel knives to cut my meat. But I sat among the servants, far from the baron’s table, constantly bumped and jostled by rowdy men.
I drank from my wooden cup and held it so tight my fingerprints were seared into the wood.
The hall was crowded, warm and stifling for a late summer evening, with little room to move.
I sat far from Thomas, far too from the minstrel whose strumming harp did accompany the festivities and fell too faint upon my ears.
We fae love music, love musicians even more, but I could not enjoy it.
Not without my shepherd king by my side.
When the festivities ended, I would be put away in the attic, like a tapestry in need of mending.
Nay. These mortals shall not disrespect me. Tomorrow I shall see the baroness and I will cure her. The baron will certainly see I have more appropriate quarters after that.
Unless they were beside Thomas, it hardly seemed worth it at all.