I said, ‘Zarina has just told me she’s agreed to marry Haward.’
Edild did not appear nearly as amazed and delighted as I had hoped. ‘Well, of course,’ she said. ‘With poor Derman dead and no longer a problem, I’m sure she wouldn’t hesitate.’
‘But-’ I stopped.
Zarina’s confession regarding her true relationship to Derman had emerged with considerable pain and shame; that had been very evident. I could fully appreciate why she had been driven to such a desperate measure, and indeed, as she’d pointed out, she had been very young and extremely worried for her own safety.
Was there any need for anybody else to know? Haward, perhaps, although from what Zarina had said, it sounded as if Derman had only been her husband in name. Anyway, I did not agree with what I perceived as the usual male attitude: that it was fine for a man to have sown plenty of wild oats and slept with any number of women before marriage, yet for a woman to behave in the same way was almost as bad as if she’d cut several people’s heads off. I reckoned that Zarina had every right to keep that particular aspect of her past to herself. If she chose one day to confide in my brother, that was up to her. I wasn’t going to tell him.
Which meant, I realized, that I shouldn’t really tell anybody else. .
Edild was looking at me curiously. ‘But?’ she prompted.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said.
‘Nothing?’
It is very difficult to hide your thoughts from my aunt. But she would, I was sure, be the first to agree that another’s secret is sacrosanct. I held my head high, looked her in the eye and repeated firmly, ‘Nothing.’
She raised an eyebrow, then, apparently accepting that the matter was closed, smiled at me very sweetly and said, ‘Thank you for offering to go and speak to Lord Gilbert. I accept. Oh, and Lassair?’
‘Yes?’
‘You could look in on Lady Claude while you’re there. Take some more of the medicaments you prepared for her, in case she needs them.’
I slipped back inside the house and fetched what I needed. Sir Alain, I observed, was still sleeping soundly. He had turned on to his right side, and I could see that the wound on his head was now uncovered. The swelling had gone right down; with any luck, he would be left with no permanent effects once the headache had gone.
It was good to have encouraging news to report up at the hall. As I set off up the track, I thought about what I would say. Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma would be relieved; Lady Claude too, I hoped. But something was niggling at me. I wondered if she really would welcome the news. If Sir Alain had died, she would not have to marry him and could revert to her true desire, to enter a convent. Maybe, when I reported that he was well on the way to recovery, Lady Claude would not be able to prevent the sneaky, evil little thought that if only Alberic had hit him slightly harder, she could even now be making her plans to take the veil.
Instantly, I reprimanded myself. The little I knew of Lady Claude told me that she was a God-fearing, devout woman, ever mindful that temptation was all around us and that we had to be on our guard all the time not to fall into sin. Even if she did entertain a fleeting regret that her future husband had survived the attack, she would no doubt instantly fall on her knees in prayer, begging for forgiveness and offering all sorts of dire, unpleasant and probably painful things in penance.
They were not really like us, the lords and ladies. I reflected as I walked along just how different my life was from Lady Claude’s. She had wealth; she was about to marry into a powerful and influential family; she would live in the most comfortable home that money could buy and probably want for nothing all her long life. None of which, I reminded myself, would really mean much to her when all she wished to do was answer her God’s call and be a nun.
I would not, I decided, have changed places with Lady Claude for anything.
I was shown into the hall, where I found Lord Gilbert, Lady Emma and the two children preparing for an outing. The nursemaid was in attendance to take care of the little girl, and the boy was sitting up on his father’s shoulders, kicking him with small, sharp heels and saying, ‘Come on, horsey!’
Lord Gilbert flashed me a slightly embarrassed glance, but Lady Emma, serene and more than equal to the moment, said smoothly, ‘Lassair, it was good of you to come to see us. What news of Sir Alain?’
I told her, and she expressed her relief. ‘Please, do go up to tell Lady Claude,’ she said. ‘She is in her sewing room.’ She glanced at her husband, who shrugged — as well as a man can shrug with a small boy on his shoulders — as if to say, You tell her.
Lady Emma turned back to me. ‘We had promised the children that we would all go out this afternoon. The weather is so lovely, and they have been indoors too long. I did try to encourage Lady Claude to join us for the midday meal — and, indeed, to accompany us on our outing — but she refused.’
I felt she was waiting for me to comment, so I said, ‘She will have been very worried about Sir Alain, no doubt. I expect she felt she would be poor company.’
Lady Emma’s face cleared. ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure that is so.’ She sounded relieved to have her guest’s awkward manners explained. I remembered how I’d wondered if Claude was wishing Sir Alain’s injury had been more serious; fatally serious. Was Lady Emma thinking the same thing?
I could not, of course, ask her.
‘I will find my way up to Lady Claude’s room,’ I said.
‘Will you? Thank you, that means we need keep the children waiting no longer.’
‘Come on, horsey!’ yelled the little boy, heels flailing, and I heard his father emit a grunt of pain.
I watched as they all trooped outside. Out of nowhere, I had the sudden wish that I was going with them. They all looked so happy, so carefree, and here I was about to shut myself up with a nervy, brooding, sickly woman with whom I had not one thing in common.
I am a healer, I reminded myself. I do not have to like my patients; I just have to help them.
I straightened my shoulders, hitched up my satchel and strode determinedly towards the doorway leading to the steps and Lady Claude’s rooms.
I tapped on the sewing-room door and, after quite a long wait, I heard her voice say, ‘Come in.’
She had shut herself up tightly in there, and even the tiny window set high up in the wall was fast closed. The sweet summer air outside had been firmly forbidden entry. There was an unpleasant aroma of bad breath and stale sweat, and it was not only that which made me stop on the threshold; for an instant I sensed that an invisible barrier stretched across between the door posts. All my senses — steadily becoming more highly attuned, thanks to my rigorous sessions with Hrype — were shouting at me, Keep away! I paused, uncertain what to do. Then I gave myself a mental shake, commanded myself not to be so fanciful, and stepped into the room.
Without looking up, she said, ‘Close the door.’
She sat crouched on her little stool, hunched over a large piece of stout canvas stretched on the wooden frame. Beside her on a small wooden table was the black velvet bag that she normally wore hanging from her belt. The drawstrings at its neck that normally kept it closed had been loosened, and the contents were laid out on the table. She was, I saw, embroidering yet another picture — hadn’t she run out of Deadly Sins by now? — and the needle was threaded with a length of dark brown wool. The small, careful stitches were outlining a sinister figure that appeared to have wings. I watched as her hand stabbed firmly through the canvas, the needle disappearing only to emerge again almost instantly from beneath, always in exactly the right spot. She was, I realized, a true craftswoman.