“Evil for those who must trust to the waves.” Loyse put down her sewing. She crossed to the windows, but there was nothing to be seen through the lace of spume which blotted out the dark of the day.
The maid made no pretense at work. She was drawn in upon her self close to the hearth where sea coral burned fitfully, rocking back and forth, her hands pressed against her breast as if she would ease some pain there. Loyse went to her. She had little of pity or interest in the wenches of the castle—from Bettris and her countless predecessors to the slatterns in the guardroom. Now against her own inclination she asked:
“You ail, wench?’
The girl was cleaner than most. Perhaps she had been ordered to tidy herself before being sent hither. Now the face she turned to Loyse drew the attention of Fulk’s daughter. This was no village girl, no peasant dragged in to pleasure a retainer and then become a work drudge. Her face was a mask of fear which had been so long a part of her that it had shaped her as a potter shapes clay. Yet under that something else struggled.
Bettris laughed shrilly. “ ’Tis no pain in her belly that eats at her, only memories. She was a sea wrack herself once. Weren’t you, slut!” Her soft leather shoe struck the girl’s haunch, nearly turning her into the fire.
“Leave her alone!” For the first time Loyse flashed her hidden fire. She had always kept aloof from the strand after a storm, since there was nothing she could do to dispute Fulk’s rule—or rather Fulk’s license there—she would not harrow herself with sights she could not forget.
Bettris simpered uneasily. With Loyse she was uncertain of her ground, so she did not rise to the challenge.
“Send the mewling idiot away. You will get no work from her as long as the storm rages—nor afterwards for a while. ’Tis a pity for she is clever with her needle, else she would have been sent to fatten the shore eels long ago.”
Loyse went to the wide expanse of the bed where much of her gear had been spread about. There was a shawl there, plain in the welter of brilliant silks and fine fabrics. Catching it up she took it back to the fireside and threw it about the shuddering maid. Disregarding Bettris’ amazement, Loyse dropped on her knees, put her hands to cover those of the girl, and looking into that drawn face, tried to will away from them both the grisly customs of Veriaine which had warped them in different ways.
Bettris pulled at her sleeve.
“How dare you?” Loyse blazed.
The other stood her ground, a sly grin now on her full lips. “The hour grows late, lady. Would Lord Fulk take it well that you nurse this slut when he meets with the Duke’s lords to sign the marriage contract? Shall I tell him why you do not come?”
Loyse regarded her levelly. “I shall do my lord’s bidding in this, as in other things, wench. Do not think to lesson me!”
She broke hold with the girl’s hands reluctantly, saying:
“Stay here. No one shall come near you. Understand—no one!”
Did the other understand? She was rocking back and forth again, racked by old pain cut into her dulled mind even after the scars had faded from her body.
“I do not need you to robe me,” Loyse turned on Bettris, and the other flushed. She could not face the younger girl down and she knew it.
“You would be the better for some knowledge of the kind of sorcery any woman knows, lady,” she replied sharply “I could show you how to make a man look at you full faced as you pass. If you would but put a little dark stain upon your brows and lashes, some of the rose salve on your lips—”Her annoyance was forgotten, as her creative instinct aroused. She surveyed Loyse critically and impersonally and the other found herself listening in spite of her scorn for Bettris and all she represented. “Yes, if you would listen to me, lady, you could perhaps draw your lord’s eyes away from that Aldis long enough for him to see another face. There are other ways, also, for the charming of a man.” Her tongue tip worked along her lips. “There is much I could teach you, lady, which would give you weapons to use for yourself.” She drew nearer, some of the glitter of the storm flashing in her eyes.
“Yvian has bargained for me as I stand,” Loyse replied, rejecting Bettris’ offer, all that Bettris stood for, “and so must be satisfied with what he gets!” And that is more true than Bettris can guess, she added silently.
The woman shrugged. “It is your life, lady. And before you are out of it, you shall discover that you cannot order it to your liking.”
“Have I ever?” asked Loyse quietly. “Now go. As you have said, it grows late and I have much to do.”
She sat through the ceremonies of the contract signing with her usual calm acceptance. The men the Duke had sent to fetch his bride to Kars were three very different types, and she found it interesting to study them.
Hunold was a comrade from Yvian’s old mercenary days. He had a reputation as a soldier which reached even into such a backwater as Verlaine. Oddly enough his appearance did not match either his occupation, nor his reputation. Where Loyse had expected to see a man such as her father’s seneschal—though perhaps slicked over with some polish—she found herself fronting a silk clad, drawling, languid courtier, who might never have felt the weight of mail on his back. His rounded chin, long lashed eyes, smooth cheeks, gave him a deceptive youth, as well as the seeming of untried softness. And Loyse, trying to match the man to the things she had heard concerning him, wondered and was a little afraid.
Siric, who represented the Temple of Fortune, who tomorrow would say the words while her hands rested on the war ax, thus making her as much Yvian’s as if he clasped her in truth, was old. He had a red face and there was a swelling blue vein in the middle of his low forehead. As he listened or spoke in a soft mumble, he munched continually on small sweetmeats from a comfit box his servant kept ever in reach, and his yellow priest’s robe strained over a paunch of notable dimensions.
The Lord Duarte was of the old nobility. But in turn he did not suit his role very well. Small and thin, with a twitching tic which pulled at his lower lip, the harassed air of a man constrained to some task he loathed, he spoke only when an answer was demanded of him. And alone of the three he paid some attention to Loyse. She discovered him watching her broodingly, but there was nothing in his manner which hinted of pity or promise of aid. It was rather that she was the symbol of trouble he would like to sweep from his path.
Loyse was grateful that custom allowed her to escape that night’s feasting. Tomorrow she must sit through the start of the wedding banquet, but as soon as the wine began to pass—yes—then! Holding to that thought she hurried back to her room.
She had forgotten the sewing wench, and it was with a start that she saw a figure outlined against the window. The wind was dying now as if the worst of the storm had blown out. But there was another sound, the keening of one who has been hopelessly bereaved. And salt air bit at her from the opened pane.
Angry because of her own worries, tense over what was to come and to what she must nerve herself during the next twenty-four hours, Loyse sprang across the room and seized me swinging window frame, pulling at the girl that she might slam it shut. Though the wind had ceased, the clouds were still slashed by lightning.
And in one such revelation Loyse saw what the other must have watched for long moments.
Driving in upon the waiting fangs of the cape were ships: two . . . three of them. And such ships as dwarfed the coastwise traders she had seen pulled to their deaths there before by that treacherous onshore current which enriched and damned Verlaine. These could only be part of a proud fleet of some great seafaring lord. Yet in the continued flashes of light which gave only seconds’ viewing, Loyse could sight no activity on board any of the vessels, no attempts being made to ward off fate. They were ghost ships sailing on to their deaths and apparently their crews did not care.
The lights of the wreckers, of the shoreline scavengers, were already moving in clusters from the high gate of Verlaine. For a man on the spot might just conceal some rich picking for himself in the general confusion, though Fulk’s weighty hand and a quick noose for those caught had cut down such thievery to a shadow. They would cast nets to bring in the flotsam, turn to tasks they had long practice in. And for any who went ashore still living! Loyse exerted her strength and dragged the girl away, shut and barred the window.