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

A Lily on the Heath (Medieval Herb Garden #4) Page 46

“Are you the lady with the bird on her hand? My poppy told me about you,” said the girl, still watching her with those huge eyes. She had edged out from the corner but still kept a respectable distance. “Why are you bleeding?”

Judith’s fist was throbbing with pain, and the blood dripped in large plops onto the ground. “The falcon cut me with her talons,” she told the girl. “I must attend to it.” She whistled for Hecate, who’d finished her reward, then turned to go into the mews. Inside, she kept cloths and a paste for such situations, for one could not be called an experienced falconer if one’s hands had no scars.

“Is it hot?” asked the girl, coming closer.

Judith stopped, holding up her gloved hand for Hecate to light. “Hot? Nay, it stings a bit, but it isn’t hot.” She gestured with her injured hand, showing the nameless girl where Hecate had gripped her as she went into the mews.

But the girl wasn’t looking at her hand. She touched her wispy curls as she stared at Judith. “Your hair. Is it hot as fire? Does it not burn your head? And your pillow, when you sleep?”

“Ah,” Judith replied with a little laugh. “Nay, ’tis not hot.” She smiled ruefully at the girl. “I must bandage my hand. Will you watch?”

Inside the structure that included the mews as well as a working room, Judith released Hecate into the coop area, then closed the door. When she turned, she saw that the girl had wandered in and was standing near the entrance, watching silently. It was then that Judith realized the girl wore the same expression and had the same wondrous look in her eyes as the man she’d known as Gentle Ned.

“What is your name, young mistress?” she asked, remembering the man from her youth. Gentle Ned had been the son of one of the house servants, and he would sit for hours weaving baskets or repairing fishing nets near the fire. His thick fingers had been nimble and quick while his mind remained simple and childlike all the days of his life.

“I am Lady Violet,” said the girl, drawing herself straight with a puffed-up chest.

“Very well then, Violet,” Judith replied as she opened the jar with her salve. “I am Lady Judith.”

“I am Lady Violet,” the girl said with a stamp of her foot. “My poppy says I am a lady.”

“Indeed,” Judith replied, spreading the paste over her wounds. The blood had begun to coagulate and soon would stop, but the salve would help to keep the bad humors for getting in through the open skin. “Very well, then, Lady Violet. I shan’t forget that,” she said gravely, wondering which of her men-at-arms had fathered such a pretty little girl.

“May I touch it?”

Judith looked at her. “What do you wish to touch?”

“Your….” The girl moved her hand over her head, pulling a handful of her own hair.

“My hair?” Judith hesitated, then shrugged. “Very well. Allow me to finish wrapping my hand.”

“You have ughies,” Violet said, creeping closer with her attention trained on Judith’s hand.

“Ughies?”

“Aye.” Once again, the girl moved her hand in a gesture in place of words to indicate the talon marks. “My poppy says they are ughies when they bleed.”

By now, Judith had more than a mild curiosity about Violet’s “poppy,” but she was more intent on the matter at hand. “Aye, but this will make it stop bleeding, God willing,” she said, finishing with a bandage. “It is not the first time Hecate has expressed her irritation with me.”

“Hec-ty?”

“My falcon. Did you not see her?”

“Oh, aye,” Violet replied, her eyes wide as she looked toward the mews door. “I should like to pet her and hug her. She is nice.”

Judith gave a little chuckle. “I do not think Hecate would appreciate your hugs. Falcons don’t much like people, and they certainly don’t wish to be hugged. But mayhap some day she will allow you to touch her feathers. If you are very careful and you allow me to help you.”

“Oh, aye,” said the girl, seeming to have forgotten her desire to touch Judith’s hair.

All at once Judith heard a commotion outside and she went to the door of workroom, opening it to see what was happening in the bailey.

“Violet!” called a strident female voice. “Violet! Where are you?”

“Violet!” came another shout—this one from a man. “Where can you be?”

Judith looked at her new friend. “Someone is looking for you. Mayhap your papa and mama?”

Violet, who’d been nibbling on the side of her forefinger, shook her head. “Nay. Mama is in heaven, and my poppy isn’t here now.” She looked at the door, as if only mildly interested in the fact that her name was being shouted about.

By now, Judith had gone out into the courtyard, gesturing for the girl to follow her. “Here,” she called when she saw a frantic-looking woman running down the thoroughfare. “Are you looking for Violet?”

The woman stopped and gaped when she saw Judith standing there with Violet, and all at once the woman was curtsying and bowing. “Oh, my lady, oh, I am so sorry! Oh, my lady, please forgive me…I did not mean….”

“Violet!” called a deep voice, and just then Sir Nevril came barreling around the corner of the nearby stable. Judith was surprised to see Tabatha in his wake, followed by two other men-at-arms.

When they saw her, both Tabatha and Nevril froze, their eyes going from Judith to Violet to the older lady and back again. The other men stumbled to a halt, and everyone seemed to be looking around as if lost.

“What is the meaning of this?” Judith asked sharply. She felt as if she’d walked into the middle of a chamber and everyone had stopped talking at the sight of her—not so very different from the way she’d felt that night at Clarendon when it first became known she was the king’s mistress. ’Twas not a pleasant feeling.

“’Tis nothing, my lady,” Tabatha said, speaking first after exchanging a glance with Nevril. “Clara was watching little mistress Violet, and she somehow slipped away. I hope she wasn’t—uh—bothering you.”

“Come now, little poppet,” crooned the other woman hopefully—presumably the erstwhile Clara—as she crooked her finger at the girl.

“I am Lady Violet,” said the urchin, her hands going to her hips. “Lady Violet de Monde!”

Everything stopped at that moment. Judith’s breath caught and she looked at the horror-stricken faces around her. Something inside her pitched unpleasantly, and she turned to look at the girl. Bending so they were nearly eye-to-eye, she said, “What is your papa’s name, Lady Violet?”

“Lord Malcolm de Monde, Lord of Warwick,” pronounced the little girl proudly.

Judith straightened abruptly and looked around at the circle of guilt-ridden faces surrounding her. “I see,” was all she said. Her mind was awhirl, her insides a storm. “And how long have you been here at Lilyfare?”

This question was not directed at the girl, but instead at Sir Nevril—who seemed the most likely person to have a truthful answer.

“My lady,” Tabatha said, putting out a hand as if to shield Nevril from needing to respond.

But he would have naught of it. He stepped forward, pushing Tabby behind him as he bowed to Judith. He shifted himself protectively in front of Violet, who’d been dragged firmly to Clara’s side by the wide-eyed woman. “My lady, please do not take your fury on the girl or her nurse,” he said. “’Tis only the fault of me, for I was supposed to be watching her whilst—”

“Silence!” Judith ordered. “I do not wish to hear any explanation or excuses.” For the only person on whom she would take her fury would be Lady Violet’s “poppy.”

Judith looked down at Violet, who did not appear to be cowed by the tension going on around her. “I shall see you on the morrow, Lady Violet. Here. Just after the midday meal. And I shall properly introduce you to Hecate.”

With that, she spun about and stalked off.

“Tell me what you know of Violet,” Judith demanded of Tabatha later that evening.

“What do you mean, my lady?” said the maid, industriously shaking one of the bed coverings out the chamber window. Summer was waning and soon the cool days of autumn would fall. She’d replaced the bed curtains with ones of heavier material to keep the cold out, and now fur blankets would cover the mattress.

But Judith would have none of her evasion, and when she did not respond other than slamming down a metal goblet on the table, Tabatha turned slowly. She held the fur blanket in a bundle protectively against her middle as she looked at her mistress. Then, drawing in a deep breath, she exhaled and said, “I do not know much, my lady. Truly. Other than what Nevril has told me.”

“And so it is Nevril now—no longer Sir Rabbit Stew?” Judith’s tones were sharper than usual. Knowing she was in a bad temper did little to alleviate it, for after meeting Violet, she had spent much of the day stewing about the situation and the mood had settled over her like a heavy cloud.

“Aye,” replied Tabby. Her eyes were downcast and her cheeks flushed pink. “He has asked me to wed him….”

“A man of war? A man in chain mail? Surely you set him on the right path and told him nay.” Judith heard how brittle her voice was, but at the moment, she simply couldn’t care. She was empty, bereft, confused.

“Uhm….” Tabatha was silent for a moment, then she turned. “I agreed. To wed him.”

“Indeed. And when were you going to approach me on this subject? Or was this meant to be yet another secret kept from me?”

Tabby shook her head, misery in every element of her posture. “Ah, my lady. ’Twas only just this morrow that he asked me. And then…everything happened. Now he fears you will not allow us to wed, and you will send everyone from Warwick away.”

Judith hmphed. The thought had indeed crossed her mind during the fit of rage that caught her up some time ago. But of course that was not practical. Nor was it necessary. Still. Once roused, she had a temper to match her flaming hair, and Nevril was right to be wary of her—at the least until her husband was there to bear the brunt of her fury, hurt and confusion.