Free The Lily and the Lion by Catherine A. Wilson, Catherine T Wilson Page B

into his skin that, at times, it still ached. No. He would not think upon it now. His eyes fell to his satchel containing the Prince’s dispatches, where beneath them an ingeniously double-stitched compartment concealed another letter. One that carried a wax imprint of two knights astride a single horse. Jesu! He wiped his moist brow. How much longer must he play fiddle to more than one bow? And now this. Once again, the Prince had stolen something precious from him for his own amusement, knowing full well the sting it would inflict. He shoved the crumpled feather into his pouch and stooped to pick up his bag. By Christ, this would be the last time.

To my well beloved sister, Cécile d’Armagnac, in good grace.
    I do not recall a time that I ever had the opportunity to sit and talk to a stranger. Every person in my life has been known to me. My memories are filled with faces that never changed. But I was not close to any one person. Lady Mary was my benefactor, Sister Anne, the Abbess, Sister Bridget, my tutor, but I knew nothing about them. I was expected to listen and not to express my own opinions. I doubt I would ever have questioned this, but for Simon Marshall, Lord Wexford.
    I planned to remain in my room, avoiding him at all cost. He, on the other hand, seemed determined to thwart me. Thinking to arrange with the maid to bring a tray of victuals to enjoy privately, I was stunned when told that Lord Wexford had prohibited such behaviour. Is the man privy to my thoughts?
    I went without refreshments on the first day but my nagging hunger eventually wore me down, particularly when the staff, most deliberately I believe, allowed the smell of hot pottage to waft beneath my door.
    Covering my head with a borrowed veil, I ventured into the common room.
    He was eating alone and, concentrating on the task, ignored my arrival. The table had been arranged in such a way that I was forced to sit opposite him, yet still he did not look up. Taking the ladle, he deftly filled a bowl and slid it towards me, adding a hunk of bread he had detached from the loaf.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I whispered.
    â€˜You are most welcome.’ His voice was deep yet musical and rolled comfortably from him. I fingered my spoon, self-conscious of every movement I made. ‘You must be hungry.’
    â€˜Yes, M’lord.’
    â€˜What are you waiting for?’
    â€˜Grace, M’lord.’
    â€˜Well then, say it if you must,’ he added before continuing to sup.
    I lifted my gaze and met his. He certainly was gruff. His spoon wavered momentarily, then dropped into the half-finished bowl.
    â€˜Oh, for God’s sake,’ he swore.
    â€˜Dear Lord,’ I began, my hands clasped and head bowed, ‘bless this meal and the goodness it provides. Bless each and every hand that worked to produce it, from the gardener to the cook. May it bring sustenance and …’
    â€˜Keep you and me from starving. Amen.’ He reclaimed his spoon and continued to eat, this time without peering at me.
    Taken by surprise, I sat motionless as he devoured his meal.
    â€˜What now?’
    â€˜Nothing, M’lord.’
    â€˜Then eat, before you waste away in front of my eyes.’
    I picked at the bread, soaking each piece within the hot fluid before placing them in my mouth.
    â€˜Do you have rotten teeth?’ he asked.
    â€˜I do not think so, M’lord.’
    â€˜Then why do you soften the dough?’
    Studying the remainder of the loaf beside me, I considered my answer, unaccustomed to such conversations. ‘I sat beside Sister Bridget and she ate thus.’
    â€˜Is she old?’
    â€˜I suppose she is, M’lord.’
    â€˜Did you not think to ask her?’
    The idea was ridiculous. ‘I am not permitted to inquire, M’lord, only to accept.’
    â€˜Not anymore, and stop calling me M’lord. I am Simon.’
    â€˜Yes, M … yes.’
    He smirked as I stumbled over his name.