beaver hat with a narrow brim jauntily turned up in back, and a short fur-lined travel cape swung from his shoulders. His gilt spurs clinked slightly as he approached.
“This is a lovely day, a special and great day for you, Joan. I want to be certain you understand that. Mother and I have decided this is best for you.”
“As you say, my lord.”
There was a moment’s awkward silence between them while birds twittered from the cherry tree behind and the green earth, damp after last night’s gentle rain, seemed to breathe out a heady freshness. She wished with a sudden stab of longing she knew Edmund better—knew and trusted him fully. He was some years older than she and had been reared, until his majority, at Lord Salisbury’s grand household at Wark Castle far to the north, where her brother John, five years older than she, was now. She loved Edmund, of course, deep down, but they had never been a family, not since Mother did not seem to love her anymore.
“The lute, Joan. You asked if you might take it, and I agreed despite the fact few court ladies play their own instruments. That is only a new trend and there are plenty of trained court musicians you will enjoy. It should be wrapped and packed if you are as worried about its safety today as you were last week.”
“Aye, brother, I am. I told you it means a great deal to me.”
“Aye, and your sweet voice with it is charming, I admit that.” Edmund put an index finger on her arm as if to reassure her, but immediately moved two steps back toward the house. Then, as if to deliberately shatter the tenuous moment between them, he took up an old subject they had argued much over these past weeks.
“But I still do not approve of that glib-tongued French beggar, Roger Wakeley, wandering in like that when I was off to king’s service and living here for over a year without my permission.”
He held out both hands as if to ward off her protest. “Aye, you have told me, lady, he was a talented singer and musician, and I suppose it is quaint you learned so well, but you ought to have been busy enough with your tutor studying French, Latin, and numbers. It is an excellent lady’s education without all the other fripperies you insist on, Joan. Your stubborn penchant for love songs and full-blown romances when your first responsibility is to learn chatelaine household duties is quite beyond me. You shall not be out riding free as the wind or playing lute songs in some forest glade at court, I assure you.”
She ignored the slight to her own abilities to manage a household, but her pulse beat faster at his slurs on the poor, banished Roger Wakeley who had arrived with a fever and a broken leg and had stayed to have both mended by the manor leech. That she’d caught the fever he had and nearly died until the ugly swelling under her arm burst and drained, and that two servants caught the malady and died hardly mattered later. For Roger, in the year before he was asked to leave by a young Edmund, had taught her to play and sing and memorize a hundred
chansons
and troubadour and
jongleur
melodies—a whole world of beauty and joy to help fill the hours dear Marta and the servants could not. And now Roger Wakeley had been gone two long years anyway, so how dare Edmund bring it all up again now!
“I do not wish us to have this argument repeatedly, my lord,” she said with a steady voice. “I shall try to please you, but you have no right to slander my dear friend and music teacher. You were gone, gone a whole year, and then you made him leave, and there was no one left but Marta since Mother even hates the sight of me—”
She stopped the rush of words, shocked that she had voiced the unspeakable thought. Tears crowded her thick lashes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. Her full lower lip pouted, then trembled. Edmund looked as surprised as she.
“My dear little sister—
chérie
—do not say so of our lady mother. Do not think so.” He moved nearer,
“This is a lovely day, a special and great day for you, Joan. I want to be certain you understand that. Mother and I have decided this is best for you.”
“As you say, my lord.”
There was a moment’s awkward silence between them while birds twittered from the cherry tree behind and the green earth, damp after last night’s gentle rain, seemed to breathe out a heady freshness. She wished with a sudden stab of longing she knew Edmund better—knew and trusted him fully. He was some years older than she and had been reared, until his majority, at Lord Salisbury’s grand household at Wark Castle far to the north, where her brother John, five years older than she, was now. She loved Edmund, of course, deep down, but they had never been a family, not since Mother did not seem to love her anymore.
“The lute, Joan. You asked if you might take it, and I agreed despite the fact few court ladies play their own instruments. That is only a new trend and there are plenty of trained court musicians you will enjoy. It should be wrapped and packed if you are as worried about its safety today as you were last week.”
“Aye, brother, I am. I told you it means a great deal to me.”
“Aye, and your sweet voice with it is charming, I admit that.” Edmund put an index finger on her arm as if to reassure her, but immediately moved two steps back toward the house. Then, as if to deliberately shatter the tenuous moment between them, he took up an old subject they had argued much over these past weeks.
“But I still do not approve of that glib-tongued French beggar, Roger Wakeley, wandering in like that when I was off to king’s service and living here for over a year without my permission.”
He held out both hands as if to ward off her protest. “Aye, you have told me, lady, he was a talented singer and musician, and I suppose it is quaint you learned so well, but you ought to have been busy enough with your tutor studying French, Latin, and numbers. It is an excellent lady’s education without all the other fripperies you insist on, Joan. Your stubborn penchant for love songs and full-blown romances when your first responsibility is to learn chatelaine household duties is quite beyond me. You shall not be out riding free as the wind or playing lute songs in some forest glade at court, I assure you.”
She ignored the slight to her own abilities to manage a household, but her pulse beat faster at his slurs on the poor, banished Roger Wakeley who had arrived with a fever and a broken leg and had stayed to have both mended by the manor leech. That she’d caught the fever he had and nearly died until the ugly swelling under her arm burst and drained, and that two servants caught the malady and died hardly mattered later. For Roger, in the year before he was asked to leave by a young Edmund, had taught her to play and sing and memorize a hundred
chansons
and troubadour and
jongleur
melodies—a whole world of beauty and joy to help fill the hours dear Marta and the servants could not. And now Roger Wakeley had been gone two long years anyway, so how dare Edmund bring it all up again now!
“I do not wish us to have this argument repeatedly, my lord,” she said with a steady voice. “I shall try to please you, but you have no right to slander my dear friend and music teacher. You were gone, gone a whole year, and then you made him leave, and there was no one left but Marta since Mother even hates the sight of me—”
She stopped the rush of words, shocked that she had voiced the unspeakable thought. Tears crowded her thick lashes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. Her full lower lip pouted, then trembled. Edmund looked as surprised as she.
“My dear little sister—
chérie
—do not say so of our lady mother. Do not think so.” He moved nearer,
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