Free The Dance of Death by Kate Sedley Page A

and to bring you your all-night.’
    I shrugged. ‘Oh, very well.’
    He followed me silently along the narrow passages and up the twisting stairs until we finally reached a row of five single cells close to the men servants’ dormitory. Once or twice I made an attempt at conversation, but my efforts were met either with silence or a grunt, so I gave up, saying nothing more until I came to a halt outside the first door of the five.
    I turned to face him. ‘This is it.’
    He nodded. ‘I’ll remember.’ He hesitated, then said with more warmth than he had displayed so far, ‘If you wish to come down to the common hall later on, you’ll likely find some games of chance being played – fivestones, three men’s morris, hazard, that sort of thing – among those of us not on duty. A few will even wager on the outcome of a game of chess. You’ll come to the chapel for prayers, of course, when the bell rings.’
    â€˜I’m in no mood for playing games,’ I said abruptly, then added, to show I meant no ill will, ‘I’ve had bad news today. I’d rather be alone.’
    â€˜In that case –’ the man stepped back a pace – ‘I’ll see you get your all-night and leave you to your own company.’ And he made off down the stairs.
    I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, a straw-filled mattress placed on a stone ledge and covered with three rough grey blankets. The pillow, however, was stuffed with feathers, and a linen sheet had been interposed between blankets and mattress. I supposed I was lucky – I was being afforded special treatment – but it was nothing like the comfort I enjoyed at home, where I ought to be, and my grievance returned in full force. My grief for Jeanne Lamprey and Reynold Makepeace also surfaced again and I found tears welling up and running down my cheeks before I could check them. Moreover, the stuffiness of the little room was beginning to make my senses swim. I almost decided to visit the common hall and distract myself with some cheerful company, but somehow could not bring myself to do so.
    The opening of the door heralded the arrival of my all-night, a ewer of wine, a mazer, a large hunk of bread and a leather bottle that proved to contain water. The young boy who brought the tray drew my attention to it. ‘I put it on meself,’ he confided. ‘Gets ’ot up ’ere, it does. These rooms are like a bake’ouse oven, I’ll tell you. An’ wine don’t allus quench yer thirst.’
    I thanked him with real gratitude. He gave me a sympathetic wink and withdrew. I moved the tray and its burden from the end of the bed, where the boy had placed it, to a shelf just inside the door. This, together with a wooden armchair, that looked as if it had seen better days and had been dragged in to give the room some semblance of added comfort (a forlorn hope!) comprised the rest of the furnishings. Luxury was not for menials, I reflected bitterly, recalling the richness of the ducal apartment and also what travelling with the Duke of Albany had meant over the past few months.
    It was too early to sleep properly, so I stretched out on the bed and tried to doze, but the castle was still too alive, echoing to the sounds of distant laughter and raised voices. I sat up again and swung my legs to the floor, my feet tapping a tattoo against the cold stone. Now, suddenly, I felt fidgety, bored and bad-tempered all at the same time. I knew that if I just sat and thought, grief and longing for home would engulf me once more and that desperation might make me do something extremely foolish, such as rushing headlong to the duke and telling him to find someone else to do his bidding.
    I stood up and reached for the bottle of water, removing the stopper and swallowing half the contents at one go. Then I sat down again and drank the rest slowly, savouring the clear, refreshing taste of the