Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
A quick glance, as if he were as unaccustomed to receiving thanks as she was to giving them.
‘You are kind to say so,’ he said, solemn as if she had taken an oath.
‘Usually, no one...’ She let the words trail off. She had been helped by servants, pages, or even squires on occasion, but never by a gentleman.
He studied her with eyes that seemed to look deeper than she wanted.
‘Let us go,’ he said, finally, mounting his own horse. ‘And hear the King’s tales of how he killed the stag.’
No. She was not invisible to this man. And that made him even more dangerous.
They returned to the lodge and Anne retreated to the chamber next to her lady’s, glad of a chance to rest her leg until the hunting party returned and Lady Joan called for her.
Her lady had a maid, of course, to help her out of her garments, but to Anne fell the honour of combing her lady’s hair.
Thus their days would end, with Anne allowed to sit behind her lady, a concession to Anne’s condition. Then, as Anne combed the long, blonde locks, first with the thick side of the comb, Lady Joan would chatter of her day’s delights. Once in a while, she would ask Anne what she had observed of this lady or that knight.
No, Anne could not run or walk, but she could watch and listen. And that, in and of itself, was a talent.
So Anne would talk and Joan would listen—one of the few times she did listen—and tuck each bit of information away, only to pull it out later, to use as one might offer a treat to a dog to lure him to her lap. Or, she might express a similar opinion, one she already knew the hearer held. At that, the man—and it was almost always a man—would be delighted and think her the most wonderful woman and one who understood him completely.
Lady Joan soon returned to the lodge, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the hunt. She sat down in front of the mirror and Anne placed herself behind her, ready to start combing her mistress’s hair.
‘Did you enjoy the hunt, my lady?’
She lifted her shoulders. ‘I do it because Edward likes it. He shot the stag so his father owes him for the wager they made. And so, a happy day.’
‘A joyful day indeed, my lady.’ Words by rote.
Joan glanced back over her shoulder, pulling her heavy hair out of Anne’s hand. ‘And your hunt? What more have you learned of Sir Nicholas?’
That was the reason, the only reason, that she had ridden beside Nicholas today. So she could answer that question.
‘He has no lady, so he needs no gift for her.’ And he was not likely to have one, if she judged him right. ‘He holds a French hostage and he plans to return to fighting when he has discharged his duty to the Prince.’
And he kissed me.
But her lady must not know about the kiss.
Lady Joan nodded, absently, and turned forward. ‘The King’s messenger returned.’
Anne picked up the comb again and let loose a breath, slowly, so as not to betray her relief. Her lady was satisfied. There would be no more questions about Sir Nicholas tonight. ‘So soon? I thought it would take near a fortnight to travel to Canterbury and back.’
‘He did not go so far. He met some travellers who reported there is no pestilence between here and there.’
‘So when will Sir Nicholas leave? Tomorrow?’ She prayed it would be so. Every minute that she shared a roof with the man seemed a threat.
‘I think so. Edward said he would go, too, but I don’t want him to. No reason for him to risk the plague. Sir Nicholas steered the Pope to our side. He can certainly handle the Archbishop.’ She looked back at Anne with an assessing eye and smiled. ‘Come. Let me comb your hair.’
‘It is my task to comb yours, my lady.’ Uneasy, to be treated with such kindness from Lady Joan.
‘Ah, but you are ever so patient with my little foibles. Come. Turn around.’
So Anne pulled a few blonde strands from the teeth on the side of the comb made for thick hair and discarded them, then handed the comb to Lady Joan. ‘You’ll need use only the thin side, my lady.’
An uneasy feeling at first, to have her lady at her back, where Anne could not read her every expression. Yet the gentle tug, the soft hands, the few moments of peace spun around her, as if Joan’s calming presence itself touched her head and shoulders. As long as she stayed close, she was wrapped in Joan’s world, where everything would be as it must.
‘Your hair is lovely, Anne.’
It wasn’t. It was thin and pale red, like a garment too often washed, but her lady was ever kind. ‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘Hold up the glass,’ Lady Joan said. ‘Take a look.’
As she did, Anne could see the two of them reflected there. Even though Lady Jane was eight years older, it was her face that held the eye.
She wondered what Nicholas thought of it.
Yet her lady was pointing to Anne’s face next to hers in the glass.
‘You are young still.’
Younger than Joan, though Anne did not remind her.
And Joan did not pause to note it. ‘True, your hair is more red than fair, your mouth is too wide, your cheeks and hands have lost a maiden’s purity.’
She glanced at her fingers, rubbing the callous earned by her stitches. If her hands were not as white and soft as Joan’s, there was a reason for it.
‘But your brow is broad and fair. If we plucked this stray hair here, touched your cheek with safflower powder to give a glow—’
Anne near dropped the mirror. ‘Those things will not disguise my leg.’
‘No, but you may yet catch a man’s eye.’
She laughed then, that laugh she had perfected. Anne could delight the ear, if not the eye. ‘Do you think to rid yourself of me, my lady?’
‘Of course, not. I promised your mother...’ She did not finish the sentence. There was no need. ‘But I am so happy, with Edward. I want you to find a husband, too.’
Anne had seen all the scenes of love and lust and of marital contentment, knowing that none of it would be for her. A man might wed a plain woman for money or because she could help raise children and run the household. He might bed a beautiful one for love or lust.
But a lame one was of little use to anyone. Except, perhaps, to God.
But Anne had never wanted the cloistered life, shut away from the world’s delights...
‘Perhaps another pilgrimage,’ Lady Joan began.
She shook her head. Her mother had petitioned God in the beginning. As soon as she had risen from the bed of childbirth, she had travelled to the shrine of the Blessed Larina, carrying her babe, hoping for a miracle. Larina did not grant it. Neither did St Winifred, St Werburgh, St Etheldreda, or the Virgin herself.
The miracle she was given was not a cure. It was the protection of Lady Joan.
One could not question God’s wisdom.
‘No, I am certain of it.’ Lady Joan said as she rose, leaving half of Anne’s hair uncombed, and paced the chamber. ‘A pilgrimage to Canterbury. God will give you a miracle.’
Where had such a strange idea come from? Joan had never spoken of curing her before. ‘My lady, I don’t think—’
‘And you can