“Lady Remington?” Mari-Elle repeated. “What kind of name is that?”
“French, I believe, my lady,” Remington was starting to flush around her cheeks.
Mari-Elle glared at Remington. “I did not ask your opinion, girl. Leave us.”
Remington swept away, her jaw clenching and her face red. She brushed past Skye and Rory near the kitchen door.
“Bitch,” she hissed. “No wonder Gaston hates her.”
“Look at the boy, Remi,” Skye whispered. “He looks terribly uncomfortable.”
Remington gazed at Trenton, a smaller version of his mighty father. “Poor thing,” she murmured, and then looked pointedly at Rory. “Whatever you put in her food, I hope it makes her so miserable she wants to die.”
Rory grinned. “Oh, I can guarantee that she will be feeling quite awful in an hour or so. Charles gave me a root that will make her food run right through her. She shall be in the privy all night.”
Jasmine joined the little group, setting her wine pitcher down. “Charles and Dane have surely finished sabotaging her room by now,” she whispered. “Just wait until Lady Mari-Elle retires for the night. God help her.”
Remington had a delightful mental picture of what lay in store for Lady de Russe. It never occurred to her that Gaston might become angry over what they had done; she thought she was helping him.
“Remember; we deny all knowledge,” she whispered urgently. “Unless Gaston plans to put us to the whip, we continue to deny everything. And you, Rory; the suspicion will be on you and you must not give in. We know how you like to confess your sins.”
“What if Lady Mari-Elle puts us to the whip?” Skye asked, fear shadowing her face.
“Gaston won’t let her,” Remington said confidently. “See how he ignores her? I promise you, the woman is as good as gone.”
“Is it time for our song yet?” Jasmine asked eagerly, picking up her lyre from its perch on the wall.
Remington passed a sly glance at Mari-Elle, studying the woman’s sharp profile. “Oh, yes.”
Remington couldn’t sing a note. In fact, the only sister who could remotely sing was Jasmine, and she couldn’t sing if shewere playing her lyre because she lacked the coordination. But they had a special song in mind for Lady Mari-Elle, composed by Rory no less, and they would sing it or die trying. Anything to welcome the new mistress of Mt. Holyoak.
Quietly, they took their places by the huge hearth and Remington stood forward, clearing her throat loudly until the room eventually quieted. Gaston saw her standing bravely in front of the room, wondering what in the hell she was doing. He slanted a concerned glance at Arik, who merely lifted his eyebrows. The meal was growing more interesting, and more puzzling, by the moment. Something told him to put a stop to it, but morbid inquisitiveness won over.
“Good knights and honored guest,” Remington began; she had a most delightful speaking voice. “In honor of our arrived mistress, we have commissioned a special song. With your permission, my lord Gaston?”
Gaston nodded slightly, his eyes glittering at her. A roomful of people was watching them and he carefully banked his reaction.
Remington resumed her spot between Rory and Skye. Jasmine began stroking the lyre beautifully, the rich chords filling the hall. The men relaxed, settled back, and waited for what was sure to be a most delightful song. They were positive nothing else could come from such a lovely woman.
They were wrong.
Which was why they were startled when the chords suddenly stopped and all four women dug into the song with the fragility of waves crashing onto jagged rocks. The first word, a roaring “Oh” sounded like four drunken tavern wenches lifting their tankards in tribute to a fine man gone by.
It certainly made them sit up and take notice. Patrick sprayed his wine all over the floor at the boom, his eyes widening in surprise. Antonius, who had been balancing his chair on twolegs, almost fell over had Nicolas not reached out and grabbed him. The loudness, the rowdy manner coming from the sisters was beyond believing.
They were not even singing; they were yelling at the top of their lungs.
Oh! We serve the lord, his keep, his hold
We love to eat, to piss, to scold
They call us bawdy. Hiyo! ’Tis an art.
In honor of our new mistress, a ceremonial fart.
They put their tongues between their lips and let out the most obnoxious sound ever heard. The entire room burst into screaming laughter, tankards banging so loud on the tables that it was difficult to hear. The room was full of rabble-rousing men, demanding more of the song.
Gaston could only stare at the four women near the hearth, barely comprehending what he had just heard. Absently, his hand went to his head in utter disbelief and beside him, Trenton erupted into giggles. Mari-Elle, however, was not amused.
