The slate still lay on the table, so she gathered the chalk and a damp cloth to clean the surface and practised her numbers. She knew how to use the numbers to add up purchases and to tally her coins. Writing them was another thing. She’d promised to take the lessons seriously, so she leaned down and concentrated on getting them right.
When the cleaning cloth dried out too much to work, she stood to rinse it in the bucket and saw him there. When he’d entered, she knew not. He stood, leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest, just watching her.
‘I did not hear you,’ she said. ‘Why did you not say something?’
‘You were bent to your task and I did not want to interrupt you. My cousin would be pleased,’ he said, walking towards her. He inhaled as he bent down to review her work. ‘That is betony that you use in your tea?’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Would you like some?’
At his nod, she fetched a cup, poured the tea in and added a dollop of honey, making it the way she liked it before asking him. He took a drink of it and laughed.
‘This tastes just how my mother makes hers,’ he said.
‘Does she grow betony in the keep’s garden for it?’ she asked. Cat sat down on the bench at the table and sipped her cup. The tea had soothed her, but her body and the rest of her reacted to his presence, his nearness.
‘Aye, along with so many other herbs. You should visit her and let her show you.’
‘I hope to plant it here,’ she said. ‘My garden at home is quite pitiful.’ She realised her error as soon as the words were out. ‘At Gowan’s,’ she corrected. ‘Was.’
‘What else did you grow in your garden there?’ he asked.
She spent a few minutes while he finished his tea telling of her successes—few—her errors—many—and her hopes for this new garden. Once his cup sat empty, her mouth went dry.
‘You did not open the book.’ He nudged it towards her.
‘I waited for you,’ she said. ‘It is your mother’s?’
She peeled open the oilcloth and moved it aside to place the book flat on the table. Careful not to move the candles too close, she marvelled over the elaborately decorated, thick leather cover. The colours sparkled in the flickering light.
‘Aye,’ he said, with a frown. ‘But I do not think that is the book I thought it to be.’
‘Should you return it now?’ she asked, picking up the wrapping to prepare it.
He opened it and let the pages separate. She saw numbers, large ones, painted in bright colours and gold and silver on their edges.
‘Will you read it? Some of it? Even if you must return it?’ she asked, leaning her chin on her uplifted hands. His voice always thrilled her, so she could not wait to hear him read passages from it. ‘Is it in Latin? Greek?’ Since she could read neither those nor any other, it mattered not. Only that he could mattered.
‘Neither. French, the language of the royal court,’ he said. ‘Choose a number you have practised and I will read that page.’
Aidan walked around the table and sat next to her. The bench was not so long that she could get very far from him. And that was a good thing, for he wanted her close, under his hand, able to be kissed when he wanted to.
‘As you can see,’ Cat said, pointing at the slate, ‘I struggle with even the simplest number. So, page one.’
Aidan carefully lifted the pages until he found the one embellished with the number she chose. Opening it and spreading it out before them, he noticed the illustrations were of a garden, filled with many flowers and plants and trees. A voluptuous woman, with the same colouring as Cat, stood in the middle with her arms open in welcome.
‘My beloved is mine, and I am his. He feedeth me among the lilies.’
The images might have been tame enough, but these words were words of love and desire, expressed by a king. This book was not the storybook he thought he’d taken from the shelf, but another kind of book completely.
‘Let me try another,’ he said, turning to Catriona. ‘Choose another page.’
‘Four,’ she whispered.
Aidan turned back to that page and read the verse at the top to her. This one was covered in vines and grapes. Barrels of wine sat in the centre of it.
‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for his love is better than wine.’
These verses were the infamous Songs of Solomon, words of love and passion and desire. Words usually kept hidden from those not educated to read in Latin. But these words were in French, the language of the English court. And he doubted that this book had been created by the holy monks.
