remarked pleasantly.
Arnaud de Cerizay murmured polite agreement and held out his hands to the warmth of the cooking fire as if at ease, but Monday could sense his tension. Eudo le Boucher never made conversation just to be sociable.
‘I hear that you and Hervi are fighting for Geoffrey Duredent tomorrow?’
Her father gave a guarded nod. ‘What of it?’
‘It is your good fortune. So am I. And I have a new flail to try out. I warrant I can dent a few helms with it, and beggar some high-born striplings into the bargain.’
Arnaud made a noncommittal sound.
Monday wondered why le Boucher was lingering. Surely he could sense that he was unwelcome?
The knight caught her resentful gaze on him and stared her out with a smile. ‘Have you thought about betrothing your girl yet, Cerizay?’ he asked provocatively. ‘She is almost a woman grown.’
Monday went cold and folded her arms across her breasts in a protective gesture.
‘There is time enough,’ Arnaud said repressively. ‘And I shall consider long and hard before I settle her on anyone.’
‘There speaks a wise father.’ Smiling, le Boucher inclined his head and sauntered off in the direction of his own tent.
‘The arrogance of that man,’ Clemence hissed. ‘I wish I had never consented to sew for him. Did you see the way he looked at Monday?’
Arnaud sighed heavily. ‘Yes, I did, but I have to admit he was right. She is indeed almost a woman grown, and he will only be the first of many to look at her thus.’
‘I don’t want a husband!’ Monday burst out, her arms still folded across her breasts, and fear surging at her core.
‘I have no intention of betrothing you anywhere for the nonce.’ Lines of care marred her father’s face. ‘I have encountered no man I consider worthy, and until I do, your honour is mine to the last breath in my body.’
Hearing the bleak note in his voice, Monday felt guilty. Her development into womanhood was the root cause of the problem. Nor was there a remedy unless she became a nun.
Her mother said nothing, but there was a look of utter weariness on her face as she stooped into the tent to put her sewing box away.
Their guests arrived shortly after that, Hervi as hearty and bold as ever and bearing a gift of six fresh duck eggs, their shells a delicate speckled blue. Clemence accepted them with pleasure, a smile returning to her face. Hervi seated himself at their trestle with the ease of familiarity. Alexander was more hesitant, torn between being polite and following his brother’s casual example.
Monday murmured a greeting and busied herself setting out the eating bowls and a basket of small loaves in the centre of the trestle. She flickered a circumspect glance at Alexander and met his eyes on her in similar scrutiny. Both of them immediately looked away, but not before Monday had noticed that Hervi’s rumpled spare clothes swamped the youth’s gaunt frame. Her head was filled with questions, but none that she could ask without appearing rude or forward.
Indeed, the conversation during the meal that followed was carried almost entirely by Hervi and her father as they discussed their tactics for the morrow’s tourney. Alexander ate in silence, but was obviously listening hard, absorbing every word like a young plant putting out roots in search of nourishment. Monday eyed his slender fingers gripping the handle of his spoon, contrasted them with the ham-like ugliness of Hervi’s and her father’s and found it difficult to imagine Alexander joining the two older men on the battlefield. It was much easier to see him as a monk. And he spoke so little that she half wondered if he had taken a vow of silence.
The repast was completed by a dish of raisins and slivers of dried apple. Alexander took only a small handful of the fruits and ate them slowly, declaring ruefully that he had lived so long without proper food that he had yet to adjust to eating a full meal again.
‘You are young,’ Arnaud said
Arnaud de Cerizay murmured polite agreement and held out his hands to the warmth of the cooking fire as if at ease, but Monday could sense his tension. Eudo le Boucher never made conversation just to be sociable.
‘I hear that you and Hervi are fighting for Geoffrey Duredent tomorrow?’
Her father gave a guarded nod. ‘What of it?’
‘It is your good fortune. So am I. And I have a new flail to try out. I warrant I can dent a few helms with it, and beggar some high-born striplings into the bargain.’
Arnaud made a noncommittal sound.
Monday wondered why le Boucher was lingering. Surely he could sense that he was unwelcome?
The knight caught her resentful gaze on him and stared her out with a smile. ‘Have you thought about betrothing your girl yet, Cerizay?’ he asked provocatively. ‘She is almost a woman grown.’
Monday went cold and folded her arms across her breasts in a protective gesture.
‘There is time enough,’ Arnaud said repressively. ‘And I shall consider long and hard before I settle her on anyone.’
‘There speaks a wise father.’ Smiling, le Boucher inclined his head and sauntered off in the direction of his own tent.
‘The arrogance of that man,’ Clemence hissed. ‘I wish I had never consented to sew for him. Did you see the way he looked at Monday?’
Arnaud sighed heavily. ‘Yes, I did, but I have to admit he was right. She is indeed almost a woman grown, and he will only be the first of many to look at her thus.’
‘I don’t want a husband!’ Monday burst out, her arms still folded across her breasts, and fear surging at her core.
‘I have no intention of betrothing you anywhere for the nonce.’ Lines of care marred her father’s face. ‘I have encountered no man I consider worthy, and until I do, your honour is mine to the last breath in my body.’
Hearing the bleak note in his voice, Monday felt guilty. Her development into womanhood was the root cause of the problem. Nor was there a remedy unless she became a nun.
Her mother said nothing, but there was a look of utter weariness on her face as she stooped into the tent to put her sewing box away.
Their guests arrived shortly after that, Hervi as hearty and bold as ever and bearing a gift of six fresh duck eggs, their shells a delicate speckled blue. Clemence accepted them with pleasure, a smile returning to her face. Hervi seated himself at their trestle with the ease of familiarity. Alexander was more hesitant, torn between being polite and following his brother’s casual example.
Monday murmured a greeting and busied herself setting out the eating bowls and a basket of small loaves in the centre of the trestle. She flickered a circumspect glance at Alexander and met his eyes on her in similar scrutiny. Both of them immediately looked away, but not before Monday had noticed that Hervi’s rumpled spare clothes swamped the youth’s gaunt frame. Her head was filled with questions, but none that she could ask without appearing rude or forward.
Indeed, the conversation during the meal that followed was carried almost entirely by Hervi and her father as they discussed their tactics for the morrow’s tourney. Alexander ate in silence, but was obviously listening hard, absorbing every word like a young plant putting out roots in search of nourishment. Monday eyed his slender fingers gripping the handle of his spoon, contrasted them with the ham-like ugliness of Hervi’s and her father’s and found it difficult to imagine Alexander joining the two older men on the battlefield. It was much easier to see him as a monk. And he spoke so little that she half wondered if he had taken a vow of silence.
The repast was completed by a dish of raisins and slivers of dried apple. Alexander took only a small handful of the fruits and ate them slowly, declaring ruefully that he had lived so long without proper food that he had yet to adjust to eating a full meal again.
‘You are young,’ Arnaud said
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