A Lily on the Heath (Medieval Herb Garden #4)

A Lily on the Heath (Medieval Herb Garden #4) Page 3

He reached for a hunk of cheese and, breaking off a large piece, gave her an easy grin. His curling golden hair and sparkling blue eyes made him look just as Judith imagined a grown-up cherubic angel would appear—and despite his comment, he wasn’t the least bit bedraggled. In fact, his beard and mustache were neatly trimmed and possibly even combed. Nary a hair was out of place.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” he said, brushing the cheese dust from his tunic with a slender, elegant hand. “I’d hate to imagine that you lovely ladies must needs resort to such unimaginative discussions.”

“You’ve saved us from that fate,” Judith told him, grinning at Ursula, who never failed to gawk at the handsome baron. “But now it falls to you, Lord Hugh, to determine what the topic of conversation will be. Mind you, it must be sparkling and witty and relevant.”

“Merde, my lady Judith…could you not have set me to a lesser task?” he teased, beckoning for a serf to fill his wine goblet. She merely tilted her head and smiled expectantly. “Very well then,” he said with mock exasperation. “Tell me of your hunt this day. Did you go after all? How did Hecate fly for you?”

“Two rabbits and a rat,” she told him proudly. “She was eager to be out after being locked in the mews for a se’ennight. But it was the only way for her foot to heal, keeping her silent and in the dark.”

“Excellent. But tell me you did not go on the hunt alone, my lady,” Hugh replied, looking at her with the most intent and serious expression since he sat down. “You did take Tessing with you, and some men-at-arms? Whence the royal court goes, also goes those who scuttle in its shadow. You’d be a fine temptation for ransom or to wive, my dear.”

Judith sighed. “I suspect ’tis the only way I’ll become a wife again—if some nefarious brigand or mayhap a rich lord were to snatch me up for himself.” She was only partly jesting, for the queen had made it quite clear she preferred Judith to remain her close attendant in the stead of being married off to some other vassal of the king.

Judith hadn’t been home to her fief of Lilyfare for more than six years. Instead, the keep and its small village had been managed by Roger of Hyrford, a castellan assigned many years ago by Judith’s father.

Hugh chuckled, though his eyes remained serious. “Nay, I trow even that plot wouldn’t come to fruition. A fortnight with you and your ever-working, stubborn tongue, and any kidnapper would pay the king to take you back.” He patted her hand as she glared at him in mock insult and Ursula giggled. “Nay, Judith, you know I jest. ’Tis your lively conversation that keeps me lingering at table more oft than not. But I do not jest when I remind you that you are a valuable prize for any man who wishes power, wealth, or influence with her majesty. Now tell me true—did you bring chaperones with you today when you went beyond the walls of the castle, or did you not?”

“Tessing accompanied me, as did Holbert and Piall,” she told him. “I might have an energetic tongue, but I’m not a fool.”

“I have never counted you as a fool, Lady Judith,” he told her. The concern in his eyes eased. “I’m glad to know you took no chances. Now, ’tis your turn to select a topic of conversation, for I mean to apply myself to this meal.” He was watching the line of serfs coming from the kitchen, carrying trays and platters.

“Very well then. Mayhap you’ll tell us what you know of the lately come Lord Warwick. Lady Ursula and I are quite curious.” She smiled secretly at the young, unwed Ursula—for she knew her companion was curious about the newcomer for a very different reason than Judith might be.

A serf pushed between the two rows of benches, setting a platter of small roasted quails down on their table, then another on the next table. Then followed a wooden tray with more thick slices of bread, and Hugh, always the courtier, snatched up three of them and put one on his, Judith’s and Ursula’s plates as he said, “Ah, aye, Warwick. He’s just arrived today—and why should I not be surprised that you wish to know all the gossip, Judith, my dear? If there was ever a woman who knew more of what goes on in this court than the queen, ’twould be you.” He grinned again.

Judith passed him the dish of quail stewed in wine and mushrooms, and he scooped out generous servings for her and Ursula before serving himself, pouring the fowl over their bread trenchers. “And who is my best source but you,” she said, passing the stew across to Alynne.

“I’ve not met Warwick personally.” Hugh glanced up at the man in question and studied the unkempt lord for a moment, using his eating knife to spear a small piece of quail. “By the rood, if the man can shave his face, then he could surely have his hair trimmed,” he murmured, chewing thoughtfully. “In truth, Judith, I know little of the man. But why do you ask me?” he said, turning on her with suddenly sharp eyes. “Was he not of an age with Gregory? Surely they knew each other.”

“Aye, they fostered together at Kentworth.” Before she could finish her thought, the king rose from his seat. He was wiping his hands with a cloth, and as the hall settled into expectant silence, he handed the rag to one of the pages who stood at attendance behind the high table.

“This night we have been gifted with the presence of the jongleur Duchande, and he has offered to entertain us this evening. The tables shall be moved back and the rondelets and estampies shall commence!”

A roar of approval filled the hall, and the serfs and pages moved quickly to pull tables away from the dais. This left an empty space large enough for two dozen or more people to dance. Judith climbed eagerly over the bench, gathering her skirts with her, as several of her friends vacated their finished meals as well.

“The last time we danced was on Easter,” said Lady Ursula, her eyes sparkling. “I hope I remember the steps for the estampie.”

“’Tis very simple,” Judith told her, catching Ursula’s hand on the left and Alynne’s on the right. They were forming a large circle, or rondele. “Follow the music, and stamp your foot on the third count, then hop on the fourth. Ah, you’ll remember once the music begins.”

And so it began. Duchande the jongleur wasn’t traveling alone, for though he played the psaltery, another of his companions played kettledrums and another had a wooden flute. As Judith hopped and stamped and promenaded through the vigorous steps of the fast-paced estampie, she couldn’t help but smile broadly. Dancing thus was nearly as enjoyable as watching Hecate take flight, then dart down after her prey, ending with the satisfying sensation of the agile bird settling back onto her leather-covered fist.

Judith glanced at the high table as she danced past, aware that her veil had slipped down and several of her braids were loosening and swirling about her shoulders and elbows. The king and queen were watching the dancers, and so was Lord Warwick. She caught his eye and with a breathless laugh, she stamped her foot hard in time to the music and spun into the next step. Ignoring the stinging vibration from slippered foot meeting solid stone, she dipped and hopped and continued in the circle as the music went on and on.

As she circled around, stamping and hopping and twirling, Judith couldn’t help but feel the attention from the high table settling heavily, implacably upon her.

The last bloody thing Malcolm wanted or expected was to be seated next to the king during dinner, but a benefit of that dubious honor was the excellent view of the Great Hall. Another benefit was being served first, and with the most choice of courses and best vintages of wine.

When Mal realized he was quite hungry and that the quality of the food far surpassed anything he’d eaten in months—yet another reason to obtain a wife—he ceased his inward grumbling about having to make conversation with Henry. More oft than not in his experience such conversations ended expensively—either by virtue of costly services such as men-at-arms being committed, time pledged, or fines and taxes levied as the result of a careless tongue boasting about a particularly good harvest or imported goods.

And there was always the danger of Henry deciding one’s estate would be an excellent place to stay while journeying through his kingdom—making that the most expensive prospect of all. Mal had known lords who’d emptied their coffers to the last coin to pay for an extended royal visit, and he didn’t want to be one of them. Particularly since he’d just spent the last three years attempting to refill his own after five summers of drought. However, Henry had hardly been in England for two years, and seemed to be intent on his problems in France, so it was likely he wouldn’t be traveling to the north any time soon. Thus Mal settled in to enjoy his meal and allowed the king to complain about the upstart French vassals in Aquitaine that continued to challenge his authority.

It was partway through the second course of stewed quail that Malcolm noticed the vivacious young woman seated three rows away from the dais. She seemed to be greatly enjoying herself, conversing with ladies and men alike, laughing, jesting, gesturing. Everyone seemed to want to speak to her. It wasn’t until she turned and a bit of red-gold hair slipped from beneath her veil that he felt a stab of recognition.

Surely it wasn’t Lady Judith. Mal shook his head mentally and sopped up the last bit of gravy with a crust of bread. The falconer in the meadow had merely put him in mind of her earlier today, and that, combined with the color of this woman’s hair—albeit a color he’d never witnessed on anyone other than Lady Judith—made him see a resemblance where there was none.

But he found himself unable to keep from studying her in the same way a dog couldn’t cease from gnawing on a flea bite. When the music started and she came near the dais to dance with her friends, Mal saw her face clearly for the first time as she stomped and twirled about.

It was Judith. How could he have doubted it? The woman was as she had ever been—surrounded by a crowd, talking and motioning energetically. Just watching her lithe, graceful figure made Mal twitchy and irritated. Apparently the years had done naught to relax her tongue or settle her boisterous spirit. Even the death of her betrothed at the hand of her powerful cousin Gavin Mal Verne seemed not to have dampened her spirit.