Joining (9 page)

Dinner, the larger of the two main meals of the day, was served a bit before noontime. She had never in her life slept passed Terce, let alone nearly to Sext.

The servant was giving her a long-suffering look, as if to say, I
tried, but you did not.
Young Ena made an excellent maid, had been serving both sisters for many years now, but she did often have a condescending air, due to her long years of service.

Milisant ignored her and pushed her way out of the big bed she shared with her sister. Jhone, of course, would have risen at a normal hour and had no doubt been entertaining their guests all morning, one of the many tasks that fell to the lady of a keep. And Jhone was considered the lady of Dunburh, since Milisant had never aspired to that distinction, and there was no other to take it since their mother had died.

She dropped the bed robe she slept in during the winter months on her way to the garderobe, where she snatched up a clean tunic and braies. She was half dressed when she recalled that she should be dressing in something other than her normal attire today. In fact, she had promised her father. But she quickly shrugged off that thought and continued wrapping the silver cord to cross-garter her leggings. Dress differently just because Wulfric had ordered her to? After the way he had insulted her with that remark about looking like a beggar?

She snorted to herself before she looked around the chamber for her footwear. Not spotting them, she asked Ena, “Where are my boots?”

“Under the bed where you left them.”

“I never leave them there. I leave them at the washbowl. You know I cannot sleep with dirty feet. You heat the water for me yourself.”

That had been a quirk of hers ever since she had removed the boot from her mended foot those many years ago and had been treated to the stench of it after wearing the boot for three months. Ever since then, she had been unable to get to sleep at night unless she washed both her feet just before getting into bed.

Ena bent down by the bed and rose with the missing boots in hand and a told-you-so smirk on her lips. “Mayhap that is why you did not sleep last eventide?”

Milisant blushed. She had been so upset last night that she had forgotten something like that. She recalled wanting, nay, needing to talk to Jhone, but her sister had been fast asleep and she had been loath to wake her. So she had gone to bed without sharing her worries, and thus they had preyed more heavily on her mind.

Her belly reminded her, loudly, that she had not been kind to it yesterday, so she hurriedly finished dressing, eager to rectify that. When she reached for her thick woolen cloak, though, the maid held out another.

“If you are not going to dress as your dear papa would like, at least wear this in honor of the guests below,” Ena suggested.

She was holding out a long mantle better suited to be worn over a bliaut. But it was a fine piece of rich blue velvet trimmed in black fur. Milisant supposed she could concede that much and nodded, letting the maid drape it over her
narrow shoulders and fasten the golden clasps and chains that would keep it from falling off.

It did not do what the maid had hoped, though, which was let her lady realize that it would look much better with the light blue bliaut it had been designed for. So Ena was left sighing as Milisant rushed out of the chamber.

The Great Hall was noisy, the castle folk already gathered for the midday meal. Milisant nearly ran down those last few steps in the north tower, her rumbling belly prodding her to haste. But she came to an abrupt halt as she entered the hall and found Wulfric right there at the bottom of the stairs, as if he had been waiting for her. And so he had been, she realized, when his eyes moved over her slowly, then his head shook just as slowly.

“Only half done, wench. You will take yourself back upstairs and finish the other half.”

Her back went stiff. Her jaw set stubbornly, her eyes flashed. She was about to retort when he continued.

“Unless you would like my assistance. So go now and dress yourself properly, or I
will
dress you myself.”

“You would not dare,” she hissed at him.

To that he chuckled. “Would I not? Ask your priest about marriage contracts, and you will learn that we are all but wed, verily, missing only the bedding ceremony. Which means I have rights where you are concerned, wench, that supersede your father’s rights. When you were contracted to me, that gave my family the control of you if they so wanted it. My father could have dictated your education, where you
would live, and aught else to do with your upbringing, could even have put you into a nunnery until the wedding. That he left you in your family’s care was obviously a mistake, but one I am in a position to rectify. So you will honor me today by looking like the lady you are supposed to be. If I must help you to do so, so be it.
Do
you need my help?”

Milisant stood there in shock. Furious beyond common sense, she opened her mouth to heap invectives on him, but noticed her father across the hall frowning at her and closed her mouth again. To Wulfric she gave the most baleful look she could manage, but she did indeed turn on her heel to remount the stairs.

This was intolerable. The man had no sensitivity, no tact, no understanding. Everything he said to her was intended to provoke her to argument. Was he hoping she would fly into a rage so he would have an excuse to use his great strength on her again? She did not doubt it. Nothing too despicable was beneath his doing, the churlish lout.

Eleven

Wulfric smiled to
himself, well pleased. Lord Nigel had been correct after all. The girl would obey him, simply because she did not know him, and so did not know how much he would tolerate from her. She also did not know what means he would use to force any issue between them; thus she would not be eager to find out.

He still was not happy with her, doubted he ever would be. She would never give him the tender care he could expect from a wife.
Jesu,
she actually admitted she loved someone else. So she would never be happy in their marriage either, and she was not like to let him forget it. Her ways were abrasive. He could expect a never-ending battle with her. But he
would
make a lady out of her. She would not embarrass him.

The lady Jhone rushed past him and up the stairs, her expression concerned, so she had likely witnessed her sister’s upset. He sighed, regretful that she had not been the eldest daughter, for she was lovely in every way, would have made him a fine wife indeed. Compassionate,
soft-spoken, eager to please—everything her sister was not.

Nigel tried to summon him to table, but Wulfric declined for the moment. He was not leaving his position by the stairs so that the wench could sneak past him again and be gone for another entire day. However, he was reminded that she had gone up these stairs yesterday, yet had disappeared from the keep without coming down them. He asked a nearby servant if there was another exit and he moved to the stairs next to the chapel instead.

Sure enough, he soon heard the light steps of a woman coming down the other stairs. She was a crafty one, he had to admit, one with a sharp wit. He had actually gone to bed last night somewhat amused over her parting remark. Serve him his tongue indeed.

But he was wrong about who was coming down the stairs. He was surprised to see that it was Jhone instead—and then not so surprised as another thought occurred to him.

“’Twould seem I moved to this location too late,” he said to her when she reached the bottom step. “She was not up there, was she?”

“She?”

“There is no need to stall for her, Jhone, by playing dense. So she thinks to hide from me for yet another day? She will not—”

“You are mistaken.”

“Am I?” He frowned and indicated she should precede him up the stairs. “Then you will show me—”

“I already have,” she said cryptically, and slipped past him to hurry into the hall.

His frown got much darker. He did
not
like riddles, which was what he had just been served. He debated whether to climb the stairs himself to search out his betrothed, when he was already sure she would not be up there, or to follow her sister to find out what she had meant.

With a low sound of aggravation, he entered the hall to follow the lady, only to find that there were … two of them. He stopped short and simply stared at the two women sitting on either side of their father, both wearing gowns of light blue velvet with a darker blue chemise, both wearing blue wimples, both—identical.

’Twas the lighting, of course, it had to be—yet daylight streamed in the windows, casting no shadows. He took a few steps closer and could still see no difference. They were shaped the same, dressed the same, both incredibly lovely, both—identical. A few more steps and he noted one gown was embroidered about the neck and sleeves with gold thread, the other with silver, but that was the only difference. Their faces were the same—identical.

Why had he not seen it sooner? But then he knew why. Each time he had looked at Milisant Crispin he had seen the outrageous clothes she was wearing and looked not much further. He’d seen her legs, clearly defined by tight leggings, and had been annoyed that every other man could see them as well. He’d seen her dirtstained skin and had not seen what was beneath the dirt. And he’d been clouded by anger each time, that she was just as he had feared she would be.

He continued now to the high dais where the lord’s table sat, uncomfortably aware that he did not know which woman to sit next to. Neither of them was watching him, which might have given him a clue.

Wulfric rarely felt such uncertainty, and liked it not at all. Nor did he like feeling like an idiot, which was exactly how he felt for not having known that Nigel Crispin had twin daughters. His father had no doubt mentioned it to him at some point in his life, but he had either not been paying attention or he had just never been interested enough to remember. Either way, he could fault himself for not knowing.

The odds were even that he could make the right choice without looking like a fool, so he moved to the first seat that he came to, which would put him next to the twin nearest the stairs.

She was kind enough to correct him, though, before he sat down, turning to whisper to him, “Are you sure you wish to sit here?”

Obviously not, and so he continued on to the empty seat next to the other twin. However, this one, too, turned to whisper to him before he sat down, “I am Jhone, Lord Wulfric. Do you not wish to sit with your betrothed?”

He flushed then, and flushed worse as he heard the other twin giggle. Lord Nigel even coughed, likely aware of what Milisant had done, or used to such antics from his identical daughters.

Wulfric was not amused, not in the least, especially since he was forced to turn about to return to the other end of the table. He could
only be grateful that he had not compounded his embarrassment by thanking the first twin for her misleading warning.

Reaching her again, he lifted the bench Milisant sat on, literally off the floor, to move it back so he had room to sit down. He heard her gasp, and grab the table for support, and felt much better as he took his seat next to her.

She was now glaring at him, which helped even more to soothe his disgruntlement. But she was also quick to hiss, “Next time give warning ere you move the furniture.”

He raised a brow at her. “Next time do not pretend to be who you are not.”

“I pretended naught,” she insisted. “I merely asked you a logical question. Considering all the frowns I have received from you since your arrival, I assumed you would not want to share this meal with me.”

“When you dress like a villein, wench, one must worry about catching lice. Little wonder you elicit frowns.”

She was blushing now, profusely. “Think you I would lose my lice just from changing clothes?”

He chuckled. “Nay, I suppose not.
Am
I like to catch them from you?”

She smiled tightly. “One can surely hope.”

He did not get to reply to that as the food was being ushered into the hall by a long line of kitchen folk, and a servant leaned between them to set down the large crust of bread that they would share as a trencher. Another came to pour wine, then another …

Wulfric gave up the idea of conversation for
the moment and sat back to wait until their trencher was filled. He was almost smiling, and amazed, actually, that he felt like it, after the red cheeks he had just worn to the table.

Who would have thought that he would find Milisant Crispin amusing. Her attitude was not. Her habits were not. Yet what came out of her mouth either infuriated him or amused him. And he could not say why it amused him, when that was certainly not her intent. Nay, her intent was clearly to insult, last eventide and again now.

Mayhap that was all it was. As insults went, hers were paltry at best. But then, he had never been insulted by a woman before, and that might be why as well. ’Twas not exactly a talent most women aspired to perfect, when a typical insult could lead to drawn swords.

By courtly custom, he was supposed to feed his lady, finding the choicest meats and offering them to her. Wulfric simply could not resist saying, once the servants stopped hovering, “Since you prefer to take the manly role, mayhap you would like to do the honors and feed me?”