Hidden Honor. Anne Stuart
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“I find that difficult to believe,” Elizabeth muttered as she pulled off the plain worsted dress that was little better than a servant’s garb. “I’ve yet to meet anyone who cared about my well-being. Besides, I’ve been doing my best to keep out of his way. He’s the one who keeps appearing wherever I am.”
Dame Joanna laughed softly. “I think it makes perfect sense. You’re very young, aren’t you? You’ll understand when you’re older. Though if you’re immured in a convent perhaps you might never need to learn.”
She helped slip the gown off Elizabeth’s shoulders, so that she stood there only in her plain linen chemise. “Your father did dress you like a serving maid, didn’t he?” she said. “I think you’ll find my chemise a little more to your liking. The fabrics are very fine.”
“I shouldn’t be taking your clothes,” she protested as Joanna herded her toward an adjoining room and the tub filled with steaming, scented water.
“I have more than I need, and I can easily acquire anything I want. Besides, in truth I have little need of clothing in my chosen profession. Don’t blush, little one,” she added in amusement, stripping the shift over her head so that she stood naked by the tub. “It’s the way of the world.”
Growing up in a household of brothers, Elizabeth was unused to having people see her nude body. She practically leapt into the tub, splashing water onto the floor and the hem of Joanna’s dress as she quickly sank up to her shoulders in the blessed warmth. “You can’t call me little one,” she said after a minute. “I’m taller than you are.”
“You’re taller than everyone.” The words were matter-of-fact, devoid of insult. “But in many ways you’re still a child.”
Elizabeth resisted the impulse to argue. The warmth of the water was too soothing to her aching muscles, and she liked Joanna. “Older and wiser than you think,” she said, ducking her head under water and letting her long, thick hair swirl around her.
“So very old and wise,” Joanna said softly when she emerged. “Fortunately you’ll be out of harm’s way soon enough, so I won’t have to enlighten you as to the true nature of most men. And in the meantime Prince William has made certain that you’ll have the best possible protection.”
“Prince William has no interest in protecting me. No interest in me at all,” she protested. There were dried rose petals floating in the water, perfuming the air.
“And we’ll keep you believing that as long as possible,” Joanna said. “Would you like a serving girl to help you with your hair?”
Elizabeth remembered the contemptuous maids of Wakebryght Castle far too well. They’d clearly deemed her unworthy of their lord, and in the end he’d agreed. No, she didn’t want any of them coming around her, mocking her.
“I’m used to dealing with it myself,” she said. “I prefer privacy.”
“In that case I’ll await you in the other room. The maids are busy enough packing clothes for my journey. I suspect when I return some of my favorite pieces will be missing. It will give Owen the perfect chance to buy me more.”
“He likes spending money on you?” Elizabeth asked. Her father had always bemoaned even a farthing spent on his wives or lemans.
“When he spends money on me he knows he can expect something in return. It gives him a way to win my gratitude, and he always takes full advantage of it.”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t you obliged to do what he tells you to do, anyway?” she asked, unable to hide her curiosity. It was one of her besetting sins—one she would no longer be able to indulge in a convent.
“Up to a point. But there are certain things a man like Owen of Wakebryght enjoys that I can refuse. I’m a courtesan, not a whore. If he wants to do something painful or degrading he has to pay for it.”
“But wouldn’t that make you a whore?” Elizabeth said, confused. And then realized the severity of what she’d said. “I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t have…”
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Joanna murmured. “You’re right. In the end that’s what I am. I simply have more say in whom I bed and what acts I perform. And I do it on linen sheets, not in a stableyard.”
Elizabeth cursed her unruly tongue. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’ll be spared such an existence. And it’s not without its benefits. I dress well, eat well, sleep well when I’m left alone. It’s better than being locked in a convent.”
“I think I’d prefer being locked in a dungeon to spending time in Owen of Wakebryght’s bed,” she said with a shudder.
“Then be glad you’re spared. You only have a few short days before you’re locked behind those safe walls, and if we can keep you away from the prince all should be well.”
“The prince has no designs on me!” Elizabeth protested for what seemed the hundredth time. “He just wants to finish his pilgrimage, get rid of me and the monks, and go back to his life of debauchery.”
“If you say so, my lady,” Joanna said softly. And she closed the door behind her.
6
It took Elizabeth longer to dress in the unfamiliar clothes than she had ever taken in her entire life, something she attributed to lack of sleep and physical exhaustion. She’d spent the previous day bouncing around on a horse, the previous night wrestling for Lady Margery’s life, and she was facing another day of grueling travel. It was no wonder she stood and stared at herself in the wavering reflection of the looking glass, too dazed to decide what to do about Dame Joanna’s dress.
It was made of rich green cloth, and brought the green out in her eyes. Her flame-red hair looked blessedly dark when wet, and she’d plaited it in two tight braids, then had to loosen them as the pain in her head increased. The second time she simply twined the damp hair into one thick braid and tossed it over her shoulder. It hung past her waist—in the convent they would cut it off, wouldn’t they? She’d always hated it—it would be a blessing to be shorn.
But even with the demon hair darkened by water and tamed behind her back, there was still the problem of Dame Joanna’s dress. It was a bit too snug in the chest, a fact that Elizabeth found deeply disturbing, since Dame Joanna’s bountiful breasts were far too noticeable. If Elizabeth were even more generously endowed, it could garner the wrong sort of attention.
The fine cloth swirled around her long legs. The soft linen undergarments caressed her skin, and for a brief moment she stared at her reflection and imagined what it would be like to be a beauty. To spend her nights in the bed of a man who worshipped her.
She shook her head, her long plait whipping around, and common sense returned. All the fine clothes in the world wouldn’t make her anything but what she was. A plain young woman unsuited for the world. Too smart, too outspoken, too impatient, too tall for the likes of men.
The dress exposed far too much of her chest, but her lack of hips made it hang down enough to cover her long legs. That was another failing, of course, as her father had often told her. Women needed broad hips for childbearing. But Elizabeth would be bearing no children, and after a night spent listening to Margery’s full-throated screams she could only bless that fact. No matter that the arrival of Thomas’s red-faced, squalling heir had brought her to unexpected tears. The arrival of a child always affected her that way—a bittersweet joy that was more powerful than anything else she’d ever experienced.
That was one reason she’d become proficient in serving at childbed, learning from the midwives at Bredon Castle. If she couldn’t have children herself, and she was illogically fond of them no matter how annoying they could be, then she could at least assist in their delivery. Besides, she had little interest in easing the suffering of mankind—most of their ills were well deserved. But women needed all the help they could get.
After