“Of course, my lord.”
Two weeks later, Plimmwald Castle, The Holy Roman Empire
Avelina stood behind Lady Dorothea, brushing her long golden hair.
What were Jacob and Brigitta doing today? Had they found the breakfast of bread and pea porridge she’d left for them? Would they remember to tend the vegetable garden and milk the goat? She would have to ask them if they had washed—
“Ow! What are you doing?” Dorothea spun around and snatched the brush out of Avelina’s hand. “Are you trying to tear out my hair?”
“No, of course not.” Avelina knew from experience that it was better not to cower but to look Dorothea in the eye when she was in a passion.
Dorothea frowned and handed her back the brush. “My ride this afternoon has my hair in a snarl. See that you don’t tear it out of my head.”
Dorothea turned back around on her stool, and Avelina continued brushing her thick, honey-colored hair, Dorothea’s fairest feature.
A knock sounded at the door, and Hildegard, one of the older maidservants, entered the room carrying a tray. “Lady Dorothea, Cook sent this up for you.” She smiled, flashing all her teeth. “She made it from the last of the cherries. A perfect tart for my lady.”
The last of the cherries. Avelina tried to keep her eyes off the tart, but the smell of warm fruit made her take a deep breath through her nose. Her mouth watered. She could almost taste it.
“It does look good.” Dorothea picked it up and took a bite.
She waved her hand. Did she want Hildegard to leave? Avelina continued brushing.
Dorothea turned and snatched the brush out of her hand again, glaring at her while her mouth was full. Hildegard glared at her too.
Avelina shrugged, smiling apologetically.
Another knock sounded on the door. Dorothea swallowed the bite of cherry tart and called, “Enter.”
One of her father’s guards opened the door and bowed. “The earl wishes to speak with you.”
Dorothea’s face turned pale. She put the tart back on the tray, brushed her hands off with a cloth, then preceded the guard out the door.
Was Dorothea worried her father had found out about her trysts with his knight Sir Dietric? The earl never punished her, so why did she look so afraid?
Hildegard followed her out, leaving Avelina alone.
Cherries were Avelina’s favorite fruit. The tart drew her closer. It was rather small, but if she took a tiny bite, no one would notice.
She leaned over it. Did she dare? Another whiff of the warm, tangy cherries filled her head. She reached down and pinched off a small piece, making sure to cradle a whole cherry on the bit of pastry crust. She placed it in her mouth and closed her eyes.
Tart and sweet melded together and spread over her tongue.
Hildegard burst back into the bedchamber. Narrowing her eyes at Avelina, as if she knew she was contemplating eating the rest of the tart in two bites, Hildegard snatched the tray up and carried it back out, her leather shoes making shushing sounds on the flagstones.
Avelina swallowed, sighed, and went to work putting away Dorothea’s sewing materials that she had been searching through, as well as the hair ribbons she had strewn everywhere before finding the one she wanted. Avelina put away the tightly fitted bliaud Dorothea had discarded in favor of a looser cotehardie, and finding nothing else to do, sat on the cushioned bench by the tall, narrow window clutching her gray mantle around her shoulders, staring out at the foggy night.
The light of the moon cast a pale glow on the fog that was rolling up to the castle walls. She hoped Brigitta would be able to heat the frumenty she had left for them without burning herself, and Jacob would be able to keep the fire going. Father’s back always pained him more on foggy and rainy days.
Footsteps sounded on the stone floor in the corridor. Avelina turned her head just as Dorothea rushed into the room—and burst into tears. She bent forward at the waist, her hands covering her face.
Avelina stood and waited for her mistress’s orders. Should she go to her and try to comfort her? Dorothea rarely welcomed any sort of affection from Avelina, though she had been her maidservant and confidant for the last eight years—since Dorothea was ten and Avelina was twelve.
“Whatever is the matter?” Avelina asked.
Dorothea continued to cry, but the sobbing sounded more angry than sad. She suddenly straightened and glared. “My father is sending me to Thornbeck Castle. He wants me to marry the margrave. But precisely what do you think the Margrave of Thornbeck will say if he were to suspect . . . ?” A defiant look came over her face. “I won’t go. I won’t.” She raised a fist, tossing her head and sending her blonde hair over her shoulders and cascading down her back, the ends dancing at her waist.