The Countess Read Free Page B

They had traveled much longer and farther, under more primitive conditions than Eglantine had ever expected.
    And still they were not there. She had never imagined Christendom to be so very large. She was chilled to the bone, her wet wool traveling kirtle weighed more than could be imagined and, worst of all, her feet were nigh frozen. She cursed Theobald soundly beneath her breath as she rode, surprising herself with her creativity.
    It could not be said that their passing went unnoticed. Eglantine traveled with a retinue of some fifty souls, including maids and squires, stablehands and scullery maids, cooks and a candle-maker, a seamstress and a saucemaker, a falconer and a stonecutter. Eglantine had borrowed a retinue of palfreys from Guillaume’s stables, assuming that he would not want her to travel unprepared for eventuality—along with, of course, the requisite trap and wagons, tents and pots, hunting dogs and tools.
    The same rationale had prompted her to partake of her brother’s treasury, though she had left him a note of apology for that. Her daughters’ happiness, after all, rode in the balance and Guillaume could well spare the coin.
    But one eventuality for which Eglantine had not prepared was the cursed rain. ’Twas incessant, ’twas a burden upon the soul. It turned the rough excuse for a road to a river of mud, it frayed tempers thin, it prompted usually tranquil steeds to fight the bit and defy command. ’Twas no mystery why they found so few inhabitants in these parts, nor indeed, why Theobald’s deed was held so worthless.
    Eglantine was more than prepared for a roof and a hearth though none loomed ahead. “Surely, Louis, we draw near by now?”
    â€œI cannot say, my lady.” The châtelain gestured to their local guide. “And he most certainly will not say.”
    The rough and rude individual hired to guide them was no better than a crooked gnome from some child’s tale, though he kept a killing pace. He cackled incomprehensibly to himself and trotted ahead of the horses, his knobby knees moving in a blur, his pace one that the horses had trouble matching in the mud.
    Eglantine knew she had never seen a more ridiculous garment than his long yellow chemise. Leather sandals were strapped to the guide’s feet, but otherwise his legs were bare, as crooked as the rest of him and decidedly hairy.
    â€œIn the manner of the Scots,” Louis had supplied in response to Eglantine’s incredulous stare upon introduction to this creature. “The leine chroich ’tis called, the saffron shirt, though my pronunciation of the language of the Gaels may be somewhat lacking. And I do question the availability of saffron in such a cold clime. Perhaps they use other sources for their dyes.”
    The man had been untroubled then by their obvious discussion of him, and still did not appear to care that Eglantine conferred with Louis in familiar French. Louis had taken it upon himself to develop a passing familiarity with that language of the Gaels, a talent which had already served them well.
    When they encountered other living souls, at least. Her palfrey’s hooves made a sucking sound as the creature struggled to follow the guide. They passed yet another of the tall stones standing on end that seemed to fill this barren countryside and Eglantine glared at it.
    â€œOne would think that even a land of barbarians could put this curious habit to better use,” she commented to Louis. “But a few of these stones together and one might have a wall, some thatching would make for a shelter far better than any we have enjoyed these few weeks.”
    â€œI believe I did warn you that ’twas not a land for tender sensibilities,” Louis replied and there was naught that might have been said to that.
    Esmeraude began to wail, as she had done more or less constantly since leaving Arnelaine. Eglantine steeled herself against her own child’s