A Kingdom of Dreams (32 page)

Even allowing for complete wardrobes for Royce and herself and Aunt Elinor, Jenny could scarcely conceive of ways to use so much. Overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task that lay ahead, and by her lack of imagination and knowledge of fashion, Jenny turned a little dazedly to the two enormous trunks overflowing with furs. "I think," she said aloud to Agnes as she gathered up an armful of luxurious dark sable, "that this could be used to line a cape made of that dark blue velvet for the duke."

"The
cream satin
," Agnes burst out almost desperately, then she closed her mouth and her face resumed its habitual frown.

Jenny turned to her in relieved surprise that the woman—whom she'd just learned had been seamstress to the former mistress of Claymore—had finally offered a voluntary word. Trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm for the idea, Jenny said, 'The cream satin? Truly? Do you think the duke would wear that?"

"For you," Agnes said in a choked voice, as if forced to speak by some inner fashion consciousness that cried out against the misuse of the sable, "not him."

"Oh," Jenny said, startled and pleased by the combination suggested. She gestured to the white fur. "And that?"

"The ermine to trim the sapphire brocade."

"And for the duke?" Jenny persisted, more pleased by the moment.

"The dark blue velvet, the black, and that dark brown."

"I've little knowledge of fashion," Jenny admitted, smiling with pleasure at the suggestions. "When I was young, 'twas of no interest to me at all, and later—these past years—I've lived in an abbey, and the only fashions I saw were the garments we all wore. But I comprehend already that you've a wonderful eye for how things will look, and I'll gladly take all your suggestions."

Turning, she surprised a startled look on Agnes's face, and something that might almost have been a smile, though Jenny rather suspected it was due more to her admission to having been in an abbey than her compliment to Agnes's taste. The other two seamstresses, both plain-faced young women, seemed to have thawed slightly as well. Perhaps they found her less "the enemy" if she'd been living in peace as a pious Catholic these past years.

Agnes stepped forward and began gathering up the fabrics, including the linen and cottons, which had already been singled out for specific uses. "Can you do the design for the cape and gown?" Jenny asked, bending to scoop up the cream brocade. "I haven't much idea how it should be cut, though I'll help with the cutting, of course. I'm more clever with shears than I am with a needle, I fear."

A muffled sound like a swallowed giggle escaped one of the younger women, and Jenny turned in surprise to find the seamstress called Gertrude suffused in an alarmed flush. "Did you laugh?" Jenny asked, hoping she had, regardless of the reason, for she longed desperately for some sort of female camaraderie.

Gertrude's flush deepened.

"You
did
laugh, didn't you? Was it because of what I said about being handy with shears?"

The woman's lips trembled and her eyes almost popped out as she strained to keep her nervous mirth contained. Without realizing that she was staring the poor woman down, Jenny tried to imagine what the maids could be finding funny about her skill with shears. A thought struck her, and her mouth dropped open. "You
heard
about that, did you? About what I did—to your master's things?"

If anything, the poor woman's eyes widened yet more, and she looked at her friend, swallowed a giggle, then looked back at Jennifer. " 'Tis true then, my lady?" she whispered.

Suddenly the desperate deed seemed rather funny to Jenny, too. She nodded gaily. " 'Twas a dreadful thing to do—worse than sewing the armholes closed on his shirts and—"

"You did
that
, too?" And before Jenny could answer, the two seamstresses let loose great, gusty shouts of laughter and began to nudge each other in the ribs, nodding with approval. Even Agnes's lips were trembling with mirth.

When the two younger women had left, Jenny went into Royce's room with Agnes to give her samples of his clothes so that she might use them to gauge his measurements for the new ones. There was something strangely intimate and oddly poignant about handling his doublets and cloaks and shirts.

He had amazingly broad shoulders, Jenny thought with a tingle of pride as she held a woolen tunic out to Agnes—and surprisingly few clothes, she noted, for a man of such wealth. What he had was of the finest quality, but it had seen much wear—a silent testimony to a man whose concerns had been with matters far weightier than clothing.

Many of his shirts were slightly frayed at the wrists, and buttons were missing from two of them. He was badly in need of a wife, Jenny thought with a whimsical little smile, to look after such details. No wonder he'd reacted with such pleasure, months ago in camp, when she'd volunteered to do mending. A sharp stab of guilt pierced her for the deliberate damage she'd done to what few articles of clothing he apparently had. Unlike the maids, she no longer found that funny, and the fact that they did puzzled and concerned her. It seemed rather odd, but then there was much about Claymore that struck her as being odd.

Now that the dam of reticence had been broken, Agnes seemed willing to talk at length about how to proceed with all the garments, and when she left, she actually smiled shyly at Jenny, but that, too, bothered Jenny as much as it pleased her.

When the maid left, Jenny stood where she was in Royce's bedchamber, her forehead knitted into a puzzled frown. Unable to come up with any answers, she flung a light mantle over her shoulders and went out to seek answers from the one person with whom she felt free to talk.

Sir Eustace, Sir Godfrey, and Sir Lionel were in the bailey, seated upon a low stone bench, their faces covered in a fine sheen of sweat, their swords dangling limply from their hands—obviously trying to recover their strength after a night of carousing and an afternoon devoted to practice with swords. "Have you seen Friar Gregory?" Jenny asked.

Sir Eustace thought he'd seen the friar talking to the wagoner, and Jenny started off in the direction he indicated, not certain exactly which of the stone buildings clustered around the vast inner perimeter of the castle wall was the one which housed the wagons. The kitchen, easily identified by its high, elaborate chimney structure, was next to the castle itself. Beside the kitchen was the store, the brewhouse, and a lovely chapel. Across the bailey from her was the smithy, where a horse was being shod and where Gawin was busily polishing Royce's shield, ignoring the stacks of armor and weapons waiting to be mended by less exalted hands than his. The wagon shed was beside it, and beyond the wagon shed were the stables, a piggery, and a large dovecote, which appeared to be empty of birds.

"Are you looking for someone, your grace?" Jenny whirled around in surprise at the sound of the friar's voice. "Yes, for you," she replied, laughing at her own jumpiness. "I wanted to ask you about… about things," she said, casting a cautious glance at the hundred people about the bailey who were busy at various tasks. "But not here."

"A stroll outside the gates perhaps?" Friar Gregory suggested, immediately comprehending her desire to speak where they'd not be observed or overheard.

When they approached the guards at the gate, however, Jenny received a shock. "I'm sorry, my lady," the guard said with polite implacability, "but my orders are that you cannot leave the castle except in the company of my lord."

Jenny blinked at him in disbelief. "What?"

"You cannot leave—"

"I heard you," Jenny said, controlling a sharp spurt of anger, "Do you mean I'm—I'm a
prisoner
here?"

The guard, a seasoned soldier with vast experience in battle and none at all in dealing with noble ladies, shot an alarmed glance at the sergeant-of-the-guard, who stepped forward, bowed formally, and said," 'Tis a question of… er… your safety, my lady."

Thinking he meant that she might not be safe in the village after what happened yesterday, Jenny made an airy motion with her hand. "Oh, but I don't intend to go further than yon trees and—"

"I'm sorry. My lord's orders were specific."

"I see," Jenny said, but she didn't see at all, and she didn't like the feeling of being a prisoner one bit. She started to turn away, then she rounded on the hapless sergeant. "Tell me something," she said in a low, ominous voice. "Is this… restriction… against
anyone
leaving the castle, or only me."

His gaze shifted to the horizon. "Only you, my lady. And your lady aunt."

Angry and humiliated, Jenny turned away, and then it occurred to her that Royce had undoubtedly sent Arik with Aunt Elinor—not as her escort but her guard.

"I know another place," Friar Gregory suggested mildly, taking her arm and guiding her back across the wide bailey.

"I can't believe this!" Jenny whispered angrily. "I'm a
prisoner
here."

Friar Gregory made a sweeping gesture with his hand that encompassed everything in the enormous bailey. "Ah, but what a glorious prison it is," he commented with an appreciative smile. "Beautiful beyond any castle I've seen."

"A prison," Jenny informed him darkly, "is a prison!"

"It's possible," the priest said without arguing her valid point, "that your husband has reasons, other than those which you think, for wanting to keep you within the bounds of his complete protection." Without realizing where he was taking her, she'd followed him to the chapel. He opened the door and stood back for her to enter.

"What sort of reasons?" she asked as soon as they were within the dim, cool confines of the chapel.

Friar Gregory gestured to a polished oak chair and Jenny sat down. "I don't know, of course," he said. "But his grace does not strike me as a man who ever acts without good reason."

Startled, Jenny stared hard at him. "You like him, don't you, Friar?"

"Yes, but more importantly, do
you
like him?"

Jenny threw up her hands. "Until a few minutes ago, when I discovered I cannot leave the bailey, I'd have answered yes."

Friar Gregory crossed his arms, his hands and wrists concealed by the full white sleeves of his robe. "And now?" he asked, cocking one blond eyebrow, "after you've discovered it—do you still like him?"

Jennifer shot him a rueful smile and nodded helplessly.

"I'd say that answers that," he said drolly, sliding into the chair beside her. "Now then, what did you wish to speak to me about in such secret?"

Jenny bit her lip, trying to think how to explain it. "Have you noticed anything—well—odd about everyone's attitude? Not to me, but to my husband?"

"Odd in what respect?"

Jenny told him of seeing the maids cross themselves whenever Royce was near, and also mentioned she'd thought it strange when no one cheered their returning master in the village yesterday. She finished with the story of the maids' amusement when she inadvertently confirmed the rumor about damaging his clothes and blankets.

Instead of being scandalized by Jenny's destructiveness, Friar Gregory eyed her with something akin to amused admiration. "Did you really—cut up their blankets?"

She nodded uneasily.

"You're a female of amazing courage, Jennifer, and I sense you're going to need it in future dealings with your husband."

" 'Twasn't courageous at all," she admitted with a wry laugh. "I'd no idea I'd be there to see his reaction, since Brenna and I were planning to escape the very next morning."

"You shouldn't have destroyed the blankets they needed for warmth in any case, but I'm certain you realize that," he added. "Now, shall I attempt to answer your question about the villagers 'odd' reaction to their new lord?"

"Yes, please. Am I imagining all this?"

Friar Gregory abruptly stood up, wandering over to a bank of candles before an elaborate cross, and idly righted a candle that had fallen over. "You're not imagining anything. I've been here only a day, but the people here have been without a priest for more than a year, so they've been only too eager to talk to me." Frowning, he turned to her. "Are you aware that your husband laid siege to this very place eight years past?"

When Jennifer nodded, he looked relieved.

"Yes, well, have you ever seen a siege? Seen what happens?"

"No."

" 'Tis not a pretty sight to be sure. There's a saying that 'when two nobles quarrel, the poor man's thatch goes up in flames,' and 'tis true. It's not only the castle and its owners who suffer, 'tis also the villeins and serfs. Their crops are filched by defenders and attackers alike, their children are killed in the fray, and their homes are destroyed. It's not unusual for an attacker to deliberately set fire to the countryside about the castle, to destroy the fields and orchards, and even to murder the laborers, to prevent them from being enlisted by the defenders."

Although none of this was completely new to Jenny, she'd never before been at the site of a siege during it or immediately afterward. Now, however, as she sat in the peaceful little chapel that stood on land that Royce had once laid siege to, the picture took on an unpleasant clarity.

"There's no doubt that some of these things were done by your husband when he laid siege to Claymore, and, while I'm certain his motives were impersonal and that he acted in the best interest of the Crown, the peasantry cares little for noble motives when they've been impoverished by a battle in which they have nothing to gain and everything to lose."

Jenny thought of the clans in the highlands who fought and fought, without complaint about the deprivations, and shook her head in bewilderment. "It's different here."

"Unlike the members of your clans, especially the highlanders, the English peasantry does not share in the spoils of victory," Friar Gregory said, understanding her dilemma and trying to explain. "Under English law,
all
the land actually belongs to the king. The king then bestows parcels of this land upon his favored nobles as rewards for loyalty or special service. The nobles choose the sites they wish for their own demesne and then they
grant
the peasant a measure of land for himself, in return for which the vassal is expected to work two or three days a week on the lord's fields or to give manorial service at the castle. Naturally, they are also expected to contribute a measure of grain or produce from time to time.