They had reached the bottom of the stairs and now they began to walk across the hall floor toward the high table. Hugh noticed that Ralf had a noticeable limp.
A servant stepped up to Cristen’s side and she stopped to speak to him. “How is Berta this morning?”
The man smiled at her, revealing two missing front teeth. “She is feeling better, my lady. She wanted to come down to the morning meal but I told her she had best not stir until you gave her leave.”
Cristen nodded. “You did well, Martin. I will go to see her after the breaking of fast.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
Hugh looked with curiosity into the small oval face of the girl who was walking beside him flanked by her dogs. “Are you a doctor then, Lady Cristen?”
She laughed. “No. I merely have some knowledge of herbs, and the castle folk find me helpful.”
“Not just the castle folk,” her father interjected. They had reached the dais by now, and he gestured Hugh to the chair on his right. “Cristen’s skill as a healer is well known in all the surrounding countryside.”
Hugh said, “So that is why you were able to take care of me so ably yesterday.”
The two dogs established themselves with comfortable familiarity behind Cristen’s chair. She said, “If you would like, Hugh, I will show you my herb garden after we have broken fast.”
Hugh looked at her. “I should like that very much.”
Hugh stood before the high table, waiting for Cristen to return from her visit to the sick Berta. The cats were gone from in front of the fireplace and the hall was filled with servants busily scouring the trestle tables and moving them back against the walls so they would not be in the way of the morning activities.
Sunlight slanted in through the open windows on the right wall, dappling the heads of the busy servants.
Thomas, the young knight who had been part of Hugh’s escort, passed in front of him and offered a tentative smile. Grave-faced, Hugh nodded back.
What am I doing here?
It was the thought that had haunted Hugh ever since Ralf’s death. Night after night, he had stood in front of the fireplace at Keal, staring at his own hall, at his own dependents, and the thought had risen in his brain.
What am I doing here?
Accompanying that question was the terrifying sensation that he had been separated from the rest of the people in the room by a wall of ice. He could see them clearly enough, but he could not communicate with them. No matter what he did, he could not break through the frozen wall that isolated him in such desolate loneliness. The despair that welled up inside him at these moments was almost unbearable. One day it would be truly unbearable, and what would he do then?
A warm hand touched his arm.
A white-tipped tail slapped against his leg.
He looked down into a pair of clear brown eyes.
“I’m ready,” Cristen said. “Do you still want to see my garden?”
Hugh inhaled deeply. “Aye,” he said. “I do.”
5
The morning was pleasantly warm, with only a few fleecy white clouds floating across a serene blue sky. As Hugh walked down the castle stairs with Cristen, he looked around and for the first time actually saw the outside of Somerford Castle. He had been in no condition to notice much of anything yesterday.
Somerford had obviously been built as a traditional motte and bailey castle, although it had been added to as the years had gone by. The original wooden keep had been replaced by a three-story stone structure situated on a hill that overlooked a swiftly flowing stream, which Cristen informed him led into the River Avon a few miles away. Around the top of the hill, or motte, was a ten-foot-high wall that had also probably once been made of timber but was now built of local stone. Four guards stood duty on the four sides of the wall’s sentry walk, which afforded them an excellent view of the surrounding countryside.
A sloping bridge that finished in a drawbridge led over a filled moat from the motte to the level lower ground of the bailey. Hugh walked across the bridge with Cristen, their feet, encased now in outdoor boots, making a hollow sound on the wooden planks. The dogs paced along at Cristen’s heels, as close as shadows.
Looking around, Hugh estimated that the bailey of Somerford probably covered about four acres. It contained the usual necessities of castle life: cookhouse, bakehouse, brewhouse, armory, barns and pens for cattle and horses, grooms’ living quarters, and workshops for the skilled craftsmen who served the castle.
Nigel maintained a guard of resident knights, but Hugh thought that this castle was more a home than it was a military bastion.
All that might change with the coming war.
Unlike the inner wall surrounding the motte, which was made of stone, the outer wall of the bailey was constructed of the original wood. Hugh remembered passing over the outer moat and through the bailey drawbridge yesterday. He didn’t remember anything else.
As they walked along, Cristen was greeted respectfully by each homespun clad workman they passed.
No, it was more than respectfully, Hugh corrected himself. It was fondly.
“My garden is this way,” Cristen said to him as she led the way toward a part of the bailey that was blocked off by a five-foot-high wooden fence. He trailed after her like one of her dogs as she led the way into her private domain.
The first thing that struck Hugh as he walked through the gate was the heady, aromatic fragrance of the herbs. He looked around and saw row upon row of plants, all neatly laid out one after the other. Along the far wall of the garden there grew a profusion of rosebushes that were in full bloom. He could smell their perfume mixed in with the herbs.
Adela had loved roses.
Against another wall there stood a small wooden shed.
Cristen saw him looking at it. “The shed is where I dry my herbs and make my medicinal potions.”
“You are young to be so knowledgeable,” Hugh said.
“The garden was actually started by my mother. She was interested in herbs and healing and she passed her knowledge along to me.”
She tipped her head up to smile at him. This morning she wore her hair plaited into two long braids and her sleeveless blue outer tunic was worn over a long-sleeved robe of red. It was too warm for a cloak.
“I need to boil up another cough mixture for Berta, if you don’t mind waiting,” she said.
“Of course not.” He followed her to the shed and looked inside. Dried herbs hung from the roof and shelves lined the walls. They were filled with bottles, some already filled and stoppered, some still open, waiting to be filled. A small charcoal brazier stood near the door, and there was a bench along the wall beside it.
“Pull the bench into the sun and sit down, Hugh,” she said. “This won’t take very long.”
He did as she suggested and watched her as she competently crushed some ingredients together and put them in a bottle with wine and honey.
“Most frequently I use crushed almonds and chestnut leaves for coughs,” she said. “As Berta seems to be responding well to the mixture, I won’t try to change it.”
Hugh sat in silence, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back and shoulders. The shed and the garden seemed very peaceful, and he felt some of the chapel-induced tension begin to drain away. The dogs stretched out in the sun behind him.
Cristen took tinder and flint from its place on a shelf, lit the charcoal brazier, and placed the flagon she had filled on the heat. Then she came to join him on the bench.
“Have you ever met the Earl of Wiltshire?” Hugh heard himself asking.
“Aye,” she returned. “I have met him a number of times.”