Free The Wise Woman by Philippa Gregory Page B

puffed sleeves, and the hem with a dark red ribbon of silk. Meg had been a proud woman, ready to defy the laws against commoners wearing color. There was even a silver cord to tie around the waist.
    “I’ve never seen cloth so fine!” Alys said, awed. “The color of it! And the feel of it!”
    “It comes with an embroidered stomacher,” the dwarf said, tossing Alys the gown and turning back to the chest. “And an overskirt to match.” He rummaged in the chest and dragged out the stomacher with long flowing sleeves and fine silver laces up the back, and a rich red skirt embroidered with silver.
    “Get it on,” he said impatiently. “We must be in the hall before my lord comes in.”
    Alys checked her movement to take the stomacher and skirt from him. “I cannot wear a whore’s gown,” she said. “Besides, I might take the pox.”
    The dwarf gasped and then choked with malicious laughter. “Not such a wise woman after all!” he said, tears oozing from his eyes. “Take the pox from a gown! That’s the finest excuse I ever heard.” Abruptly he flung the stomacher and skirt at her and Alys caught them. “Put it on,” he said, suddenly surly.
    Alys hesitated still. In her head she could hear a cry in a voice, her own voice, calling for Mother Hildebrande to come and take her away. To save her from this shame just as she had rescued Alys, all those years ago, from Morach. She shook her head. The loss of the abbey and the loss of her mother was like a nightmare which cast its shadow over every moment of her day. A long shadow of loneliness and danger. There was no mother loving her and protecting her, not any more.
    “I cannot wear a whore’s gown,” she said in a little whisper.
    “Wear it!” the dwarf growled. “It’s that or a shroud, missy. I don’t jest with you. The old lord has his way without question. I’ll stab you as I stand here and go to dinner alone if you wish. It’s your choice.”
    Alys untied her belt and slid her robe to the floor. The dwarf stared at her as if appraising a mare for breeding. His eyes slid over the swell of her breasts under her coarse-woven shift, assessed her narrow waist and her smooth young muscled flanks. His lips formed into a soundless whistle.
    “The old lord always had an eye for a wench,” he said softly to himself. “Looks like he saved the pick of the crop for his deathbed!”
    Alys flung the gown over her head and pulled it down, thrust her arms through the soft woven sleeves. They were padded on the inside with white silk and slashed so the fine white fabric showed through, caught at each wrist with a little cuff and button made of horn. She turned her back to David and he laced the scarlet laces at the back of the gown and tied them in silence. She turned back and eyed the stomacher and overskirt.
    “I don’t know how this goes,” she confessed.
    David looked at her curiously. “I thought maids dreamed of nothing else,” he said. “The overskirt goes on next and ties behind.” He held it out for her and Alys stepped into it, turned under his hands and let him tie the skirt at her waist. It swept from her waist to the floor with a rustle, leaving an open slit at the front for the plain red to show. Alys smoothed her hands down the skirt; the silver embroidery was cold and scratchy under her palms. The skirt was too long—Meg, the old lord’s whore, had been a tall woman.
    “Now this,” David said. “Make haste, girl!” He held out the stomacher and sleeves toward her and Alys thrust her arms through the wide-cut hanging sleeves and turned her back again for David to lace her from behind.
    “Damned lady’s-maiding,” he grumbled, as he pulled the silver laces tight and threaded them through the holes. He tied a firm bow at the base of the stomacher and stuffed the bow out of sight under the boned waist. Alys turned to face him.
    “Pull it down at the front,” he ordered. “And pull the sleeves down.”
    Alys pulled the stomacher down