Norwyck's Lady. Margo Maguire

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      A shudder ran through her and she whirled away from the window. Her unruly response to the young lord was unacceptable. The man had no liking for her, and she had no business having the kind of reaction he kindled in her. Besides, ’twas entirely possible she had her own young man or a husband waiting somewhere for her. Mayhap even children.

      The thought of children gave her pause. Marguerite ran her hands down her bodice, across her breasts and to her belly. Had an infant once nestled in her womb? Suckled at her breast?

      She did not think so, though she could not be certain. The children whose faces came to her at odd times must have some significance to her. Who were they? Why did she see them every time she closed her eyes?

      Rather than dwell on a puzzle that served only to upset her, Marguerite pressed one hand to her heart and turned her attention elsewhere. She let her gaze alight upon the furnishings of the circular room.

      The bed, she already knew, was a comfortable one, with rich linen fittings and warm woolen blankets. Two chairs flanked a stuffed settle near the fireplace, where a fire blazed cozily. There were two large wall hangings that Marguerite was able to see clearly now, beautiful, colorful tapestries depicting happy times.

      A short, stuffed bench sat before the wash table, and a small mirror hung on the wall above it.

      Two closed trunks perched against the wall opposite the bed, and upon inspection of the first, Marguerite discovered a cache of gowns, shifts and hose—among them the clothes Eleanor had brought up the day before. At the bottom were shoes, which Marguerite took out. When she tried to slip her feet in, she discovered a collection of jewels in the toes.

      There were rings and chains of gold, with an assortment of colorful gems set into them. Marguerite weighed the pieces in her hands. Eleanor must have put them here, she thought. The child was well-meaning and eager to please, and just young enough that she would not understand the value of such jewelry.

      Marguerite put the treasure into the toe of the hose, then placed the sock carefully at the bottom of the trunk. She would see that the gold and precious gems were returned to their rightful place as soon as she was able. In the meantime, she opened the other trunk to see if any more treasures awaited.

      Inside were two musical instruments, a psaltery and a gittern. For some reason Marguerite could not fathom, these instruments seemed more precious to her than the gems she’d hidden away in the other trunk.

      Carefully, she lifted them out and set them on the bed. Each instrument was beautifully made, from the highly polished wood to the tightly woven strings. Marguerite brushed her hand across the strings of the gittern, causing a discordant sound.

      The instruments, the strings, the sounds, seemed familiar. She knew the gittern needed to be tuned, and she tightened or loosened the pegs accordingly. Afterward, when she strummed, it sounded right to her ear, though something was missing.

      She did not have time to ponder the question, though, for the door to the chamber opened and Eleanor came in. “You have Mama’s gittern!” the child said as she approached the bed.

      “Oh, ’twas your mother’s?” Marguerite asked. “I’m sorry. I’ll put it—”

      “Nay, can you play it?”

      “I…I don’t know.”

      “Try.”

      Marguerite took the neck of the instrument in her left hand and strummed the strings with her right, as she had done before Eleanor had come in. She placed the fingers of her left hand over different strings and elicited various notes when she did so. As she strummed the instrument, a pleasing sequence of sounds filled the room.

      She knew how to play!

      When Eleanor clapped her hands, Marguerite looked at the child in astonishment, then back at the gittern.

      “Play another!”

      “I…something is not…” Marguerite said, frowning. She was completely puzzled. She felt entirely at ease with the instrument in her hands, yet something was wrong.

      “I know!” Eleanor turned, reached into the trunk and pulled out a small object. “Kathryn calls this a plec…A plec—”

      “A plectrum,” Marguerite said, though she could not say how she had come up with the word. It had just suddenly appeared upon her tongue.

      “Aye,” Eleanor said. “And when Kate tries to play, the sounds she makes…” The child wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

      Marguerite took the quill from the child and began to play a tune, using the plectrum. The instrument now felt much more natural in her hands, and Marguerite sensed that she must have played many times before. When she noticed the calluses upon the fingertips of her left hand, there could be no doubt that she was a practiced musician.

      “I forgot,” Eleanor said. “Sir Walter sent me to see if you are hungry. Are you able to come down and break your fast with us in the great hall, or would you rather have a tray up here?”

      Marguerite hardly knew how to respond. She’d been cloistered in this tower room ever since awakening without her memory, and she felt strangely timid about leaving. “I don’t think your brother—”

      “Bartie is training on the practice field with the rest of the knights,” Eleanor said, unconcerned. She lifted the lid of the trunk that contained the clothing, and pulled out a bundle of dark green cloth. “He will be out there for hours.”

      Marguerite set down the gittern and took the gown from Eleanor. ’Twas a lovely creation of velvet, with contrasting panels of gold and white silk. “Did this belong to your mother?” she asked the child.

      “Nay. To Bartie’s wife.”

      “His…wife?”

      “Aye,” Eleanor said. She stuck out her lower lip and looked away. “She died in spring.”

      So that was the reason for Bartholomew’s hostility. His beloved wife had died, and here Marguerite was, an interloper in what must have been Lady Norwyck’s tower room. ’Twas no wonder he was not disposed to be friendly toward her, and Marguerite did not think ’twould be prudent to wear the late Lady Norwyck’s clothes.

      “Mayhap your brother would be disturbed by seeing me in his poor wife’s gown.”

      “Why?”

      “Well, it might remind him of her.”

      Eleanor seemed to consider this for a moment, then shook her head. “Nay,” the girl said. “He never saw her in it.”

      Marguerite’s expression must have been a startled one, causing Eleanor to explain. “This gown was made while Bartie was away, fighting the Scottish wars,” she said. “When he came home, Felicia was with child, so she never wore it.”

      “A-and she died…in childbirth?”

      “Aye,” Eleanor said. “And the bairn with her.”

      “How terrible,” Marguerite said, aghast at Eleanor’s revelation. “Your brother must have been devastated.”

      “Aye,” СКАЧАТЬ