Page 53
“M’lady?” He sounded a little impatient now. “I’ve brought ye something t’ wear.”
Shaking her trepidation, she walked briskly to the flap and pulled it back. Behind Wharton, the camp appeared to be empty.
He looked at her garments in disgust. “I thought ye promised t’ keep only two things out o’ that bag.”
“I have to dress!”
“If ye can call it that.” A wool sack, one that looked much like the first, sat at his feet, and he thrust it at her. “Here. From th’ master, with his compliments.” He sounded quite gallant, but then he spoiled it by adding, “Ye’d best shuck that ugly cotte an’ throw me out that sack afore th’ master gets back, or he’ll do as I told him an’ keep ye naked an’ with child.”
“You said that?”
“It’ll be th’ only way t’ keep a woman such as ye out o’ trouble, from what I can see.” He turned away, muttering, “Not even one hour married an’ ye got yerself stolen.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” she called after him.
He shrugged.
“I got myself out of it!”
He made a sound with his mouth that would have been more appropriate coming from his arse.
“How childish,” she said. She used her best mommy voice, but Wharton only jeered.
A head peeked out from behind one of the other tents, and she realized some of the squires remained. But where had the knights gone?
No matter. That obscure embarrassment still lingered, and she ducked inside. At the table, she dumped out the sack’s contents. She gasped. Jewel colors glowed in the dim light. Somehow, Wharton had gotten his hands on clothes. Lovely clothes. Cottes of thin wool. Slim tubes of hose. Shifts, all of them as fine as the one she’d stained the night before. And shoes. Shoes of all sizes.
She backed away from them as if they were a slithering snake. “Wharton,” she whispered. Then louder, “Wharton!” She ran outside, looking for Hugh’s manservant.
She found him squatting by the fire, darning a hole in a man’s rough black hose. Stalking up to him, she grabbed him by the front of his surcoat. “How did you get those clothes?”
“M’ lady, why do you ask?” He smirked at her. He had been waiting for her. He knew just what she suspected.
“Did you steal those clothes from my nuns?”
He placed his hand on his chest in a gesture of innocence. “Steal from nuns? What a dreadful thought.”
She leaned over until her face was level with his. “How did you get those clothes?”
He rose, keeping his eyes glued tight to hers. “My master gave me a purse full o’ coins an’ told me t’ buy you a wardrobe.”
“Oh.” What else could she say? “Oh. Well…did the nuns want to sell their clothes?”
“Lady Corliss encouraged them t’ open their trunks, an’ th’ gold convinced them.”
She stumbled back. “Oh.”
“Thanks would be appreciated.”
“Of a certainty,” she mumbled. “My thanks.”
“Not me.” He looked disgusted. “My master.”
Glad to break eye contact, she glanced around. “Where is he?”
“Dress t’ please him. That’s th’ thanks he wants.”
That seemed reasonable. “But where is he?”
