"Mary, pick up that uniform. You'll have to wear that to leave Warwickshire. We can't have you seen or all our efforts will be for nothing."
The back stairs were dark. A flight of narrow stone steps led to a tower used by archers in time of siege. For the moment, it was where the books of the estate rested because there was no way to enter it except through the mistress's chamber. Hugging her arms around her body, Anne climbed as she felt the chill soak into her bones. It felt almost as though the chill was coming from inside her, and maybe it was.
Her heart ached. Never had she been away from her family. She slept in the maids' chamber, the furthest she had ever been from her mother. It might be foolishness to lament leaving the castle, but it was the only home she knew.
She shivered as she reached the small chamber. She could press her fingers against one wall and stick her leg out behind her to touch the opposite side with her foot. Very little light entered because there were naught but arrow slits in the stone walls. The wind whistled through the narrow openings, sending more shivers down her spine.
Surely she must be dreaming. A nightmare that she would awaken from soon. Her fingers stroked the front of her skirt, finding the lines of trim carefully sewn down the center front. She had helped to make some of it with her own hands, sitting with the other maids after the fires had been banked for the night. With Mary's love of fashion, every pair of hands helped with constructing her wardrobe.
The dress was fine but had not been made for her. The stays were a tiny bit too long in the waist, poking into her hips. She would have to alter it, but dared not do it now. Mary's husband might arrive at any hour.
Actually, her husband.
Anne considered that. She wasn't afraid of men but she was ignorant of them. Having been kept under a strict eye, she had told herself to not look at the boys who tried to gain her attention. It was an unnatural thing to not flirt, and now it seemed it was also unwise. What if the Scot didn't like her? She didn't know how to entice him into her bed.
A shiver shook her as she considered that duty. Maybe she should avoid it. If she produced the baby Philipa demanded, there would be no further need for her. Icy dread closed around her heart as she contemplated the deception Philipa was set on using her to achieve. The lady wasn't above murder. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Anne ordered herself not to panic. She had to think. She needed to figure out a way to get the news to her father. She couldn't tell the Scot about the deception; he would send her home and into Philipa's keeping. The idea of her sweet sister Bonnie being wed made her stomach twist sickeningly. Her father was the only one who held the power to protect her and her family.
He would. She believed that. She had to, it was her only hope.
She would write him a letter. Turning around, she looked at the desk she'd spent many an hour at doing the estate books. Yes. There was parchment and ink.
Yet, how would she have it delivered? Court was an uncertain place with nobles crowding around the Queen. Only an experienced man could see any letter into her father's powerful hand. His secretary often had letters for months before gaining the chance to present them to her noble sire.
Still, she refused to go meekly to her own slaughter. Philipa would kill her, she felt certain of it. If she lived there would always be the danger that the truth might be discovered.
Sitting down, she pulled the cork out of the small inkwell. Made of pottery, it held a generous portion of dark ink. Lifting a quill, Anne dipped it before laying the tip against a new sheet of paper. She wrote carefully, forming her letters with skill. She listened closely for steps, fearing to hear a tread upon them that would interrupt her task.
She sealed it with wax but not the seal of the house. Tucking it carefully into the estate books, she prayed that her father would be home for quartering day, when the household staff was paid. It was still four months away but the master was expected to pay each servant with his own hand. Her father had kept that tradition as long as she could remember, laying her own earned silver in her palm when she had grown old enough to deserve it. She couldn't get the letter to him, but she might leave it where he could discover it. Without the seal, no one would know where the letter came from and hopefully it would be left for the master to open. For once Philipa's laziness might just be a blessing.
Anne prayed as she had never prayed for it to be so.
In the meantime, she would have to employ every tactic she could imagine to keep the Scot from consummating his union . She needed time. A twinge of guilt assaulted her but she shrugged it away. The man was an innocent, but she could not treat him fairly. It was the first time she had planned to be unkind to a stranger but she had no choice. She would lead him on a merry chase, avoiding his touch as long as possible, and she prayed that God might grant her the ability to keep the man at arm's length.
It was by far the strangest prayer she had ever sent to heaven.
Time passed slowly. Anne paced once the books were in order, unable to sit still. She wasn't used to being idle. Her belly rumbled for hours before Mary appeared with a meal near sunset.
Her half-sister shrugged. "I'm not used to serving so I forgot to bring you something at midday." Setting the tray down with a clank, she turned and looked at the small alcove. "Mother says you have to sleep here. I'm to fetch you some bedding. It's so boring waiting for this husband to show himself. Mother says I cannot return to court until you have a baby. I wish he'd hurry up."
Selfish brat.
Anne waited until Mary was on her way down the stone steps before muttering. To the pampered legitimate daughter of the house she was little more than a strip of fertile land to be planted and harvested.
Still, she'd be wise to hold her tongue. The alcove would be very cold at night with no fire. Anne just hoped that the witless creature remembered to bring her something to keep her warm.
There were no silver domes to keep the food warm. It was poor fare as well. A bowl of porridge, 'twas cold and congealed. The end of a loaf of bread was lying near the bowl, its center stale. Two tarts were sitting among the fare, their richness a stark contrast to the rest of the meal. A tear stung her eye as she recalled sharing one with Brenda just a few hours ago. Wiping her tear aside, she refused to indulge her pity. Life was hard and crying was for children who hadn't learned that fact yet.
Her belly grumbled and she reached for the porridge. As hungry as she was, the taste was bearable. There was no serving ware with the food, so she dipped her fingers into it. A small pitcher of whey sat next to it. Anne frowned as she drank it. Whey was the weakest part of the morning milk, after the cream had been skimmed off for butter. But at least it helped wash the cold porridge down her throat. There was no ale or cider, nothing else to drink at all.
Steps on the stairway interrupted her meal. Mary huffed as she appeared at the top of the stairs.
"This will have to do. I can't go hauling pallets from the servants' quarters without raising suspicions."
She dropped whatever was in her grasp on the floor and turned around, leaving quickly.
Rather a blessing that you don't have the care of any of the horses … Anne frowned. And now you're talking to yourself.
Washing her fingers in some of the whey, she wiped them on the hem of her skirt. She hated soiling the garment but couldn't think of a better solution. Anne walked toward the heap of cloth on the floor, picked it up and shook it out. Made of thick boiled wool, it was a traveling cloak fashioned with a deep hood to shield the wearer from the weather. The wind blew in the arrow notches, making the alcove as cold as the yard below. Even with the cloak, she would shiver half the night.
At least you have a quilted petticoat …
Turning in a huff, Anne looked at the tarts and bread. Her mouth watered but she resisted the urge to eat them. Who knew when she would have more food. It was best to save some. A half filled belly was easier to endure than an empty one.
The sun set and with it the light faded. Candles were locked in a cupboard near the kitchen. They were handed out carefully, to conserve resources. Standing near an arrow slit, she watched the yard below. Light twinkled in the stable as the last chores were done. The retainers walked the walls, guarding as they always did. She was tempted to sneak down the steps and set her letter into the captain's hand but it was such a great risk. Philipa did hold the estate tight in her grip. She'd turned more than one person out without a care for their plight. The captain might take the letter to his lady instead of her sire. With the earl at court so often, many at Warwickshire coveted Philipa's good will.
Despair wrapped around her as she picked up the cloak. Icy fear gripped her heart as she pulled the wool around her body. She was so close to everyone she held dear and yet separated from them. Loneliness sent tears into her eyes despite her efforts to remain strong. With nothing but darkness to keep her company, she didn't have enough strength to fend off crying. Sinking down against the wall, she pulled her knees closer to her body as the night grew colder. Somehow she slipped off into sleep, her mind full of dreams of the fire burning in Philipa's room. She tried to get closer to it, straining toward the warmth but couldn't seem to move, her body shivering so much she was stuck next to the stone wall.