“I saw the red-head, my lord,” he said. “I wanted to get a better look at her.”
Brandt just shook his head. “I brought these women for my wife, not for you,” he said, thumping Alex on the chest and turning the man around. “Get on with your tasks, all of you. You will not hound those women like dogs on the prowl.”
“A pity,” Dylan muttered. “The brunette is something to behold.”
Before Brandt could scold him, he scattered with the rest of them. Brandt should have gone along with them but he just couldn’t seem to do it. He stood outside of the hall entry, listening. For several minutes it was very quiet, but soonenough, female voices could be heard lifted in humor and every once in a while someone would laugh. Eventually, he heard his wife laughing. It was good to hear. After what she had gone through, he was pleased to hear that she hadn’t lost her ability to laugh.
With a smile, he went about his business.
FRANCE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
August 1356 A.D.
Chateau Melesse
Brittany
Ellowyn and Annabethwere giggling so hard that they were nearly crying. They could hear Bridget screaming at the French chatelaine of Melesse Castle, a severe woman who had to be at least seventy years old. She was precise, nasty-tempered, knowledgeable, and a bully. Ever since Brandt and Ellowyn had arrived nearly seven months prior, the woman went out of her way to make the duke and duchess comfortable but she was horrid with their retainers.
It had proven something of a challenge for Annabeth and Bridget. Both young women had turned out to be wonderful companions and Ellowyn was very fond of them both, and they both seemed to have a somewhat wicked streak when it came to the haughty French servants of Melesse. The chatelaine, Mme. de Simpelace, was the queen of the roost and Ellowyn’s two ladies had taken to calling her Mme. de Pimpleface. The chatelaine was not amused when she caught wind of the nickname and the battle for supremacy was on.
Ellowyn had brought up the subject of dismissing the woman but Brandt wasn’t keen on hiring anyone new. They were, for all intent and purposes, in an enemy land, and he didn’t want a new chatelaine, perhaps with a great hatred for the English, so close to his beloved wife.
Meanwhile, old Mme. Pimpleface would go out of her way to make things difficult and this moment was a perfect example. On this warm and lazy afternoon in the last week of August, Ellowyn had asked for warmed cider and the woman had produced a scorching product that was anything but cider. Very protective of their young duchess, Bridget had gone after the woman and even now was demanding that she squeeze the apples herself and boil the juice. Mme. de Simpelace was not inclined to do so, and the catfight was on.
So Ellowyn and Annabeth giggled like fools as they sat in a richly appointed solar that Brandt had assigned to Ellowyn for her personal use. She sat in a very comfortable chair, perhaps the most comfortable in the entire castle, and held her swollen belly as she snorted.
“Mayhap I do not need any cider after all,” she finally said, sobering. “It seems to be too much trouble for madam.”
Annabeth made a face. “It is not too much trouble for her,” she sniffed. “She simply likes to make things difficult, and I am positive she likes to argue with us. I think she feels she is doing her duty to France to protest the English in her own small way.”
Ellowyn, still grinning, picked her knitting up off her lap and looked to resume where she left off. “I suppose,” she said. “Brandt trusts her because she has been with the family for so long so I suppose there is not much we can do about her.”
As Ellowyn resumed knitting a large and lovely blanket that was to be part of the baby’s trousseau, Annabeth picked up the needlepoint she had been working on. She watched Ellowyn out of the corner of her eye, her slow and steady stitches with the soft white wool. Having spent every single day with the woman since the moment she met her, not only had they become good friends but she was also very attuned to Ellowyn’s moods. She could tell by her mannerisms, her behavior, and her movements what shewas feeling. And she knew that today she was feeling particularly blue.
“Mayhap the duke will return today,” she said as she stabbed at the material in front of her. “He has been gone for quite some time now. He never leaves you for long.”
Ellowyn was carefully stitching her blanket. “Forty-seven days,” she said softly. “It is the longest he has been away yet. Sometimes I think I forget the color of his eyes or the feel of his skin. It seems like such a long time.”
Annabeth sighed faintly. They had the same conversation almost every day since the duke left. Since the moment they arrived in France back in February, the duke would go off with the Prince of Wales for days or weeks at a time, but he would always return. Strangely, the prince had never come to Melesse and Annabeth had heard the knights whispering that it was because he was jealous of the woman who had stolen the Black Angel’s heart. For whatever the reason, they had never met the man.
“But the duke will return,” she insisted softly. “When he left this last time, he said he would be in the Aquitaine, did he not? That is some distance away. It will take time to return home again.”
“And Dylan with him?” Ellowyn glanced up, grinning at Annabeth when the woman blushed.
“I would hope so,” Annabeth said softly. “And Bridget is most anxious for Brennan to return.”
“I know she is,” Ellowyn looked down at her knitting again. “Has he even kissed her yet?”
Annabeth shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “But Bridget is determined that he will very soon. She wants to be married to him before the end of the year.”
The door to the solar opened, interrupting their conversation. Bridget entered the room, the pale and lovely red-head, with a cup in her hand wielded high like a trophy.
“I have it!” she said. “Cider, my lady. I had to kill several Frenchmen to get it, but here it is.”
Ellowyn and Annabeth were back to giggling. “Really, Bridget,” Ellowyn admonished softly. “Warmed cider is not worth murder.”
