In Bed With A Stranger(7)

"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.