Burnell picked up a bit of bread and chewed it. “It is amazing. She is a priest’s byblow, she should be modest and grateful, yet she acts as if we were here at her behest. She is arrogant. She spoke of the jakes in the most insolent voice. I do believe she was attempting to insult me, although it doesn’t seem likely since I am the Chancellor of England. The ‘Chancellor of England’—the words themselves sound like music, like the majestic ringing of bells, do they not?”
Garron nodded, grave as a bishop.
“Only an idiot or a halfwit would speak to us as she just did. Sitting in the jakes! The priest pondered in the jakes? You want to smile, I can see it in your eyes, though they are a bit blurred to me just now. Why are you not furious with her? I marvel at her boldness and wonder how such a thing could happen since she is a bastard. Also, her gown is too short and her hair is too red, a willful red, and those little braids tucked inside—well. She needs discipline, Garron, she needs it badly. You will see to it.”
Burnell wanted him to discipline her? How was he to do that?
Burnell continued, “Aye, I am important. You are important, though less important than I am. I am the king’s representative, so close to the king I am nearly as fitted to him as his own clothes, nay, even closer, for I share his deepest secrets, stitch and form his many ideas. Ah, this is not right, Garron.”
Garron nodded. “Aye, she needs discipline, she needs a lesson in humility. I wonder what I will do to her?” He stared a moment at his mug. Here he was drinking simply because Burnell was drinking. He was an ass. He had a traitor to discover. He looked toward Sir Lyle, who was in close conversation with Solan, the man with the belly pains. What were they talking about?
Garron left Robert Burnell to brood over his ale, and strode out of the great hall. He poured several buckets of well water over his head to clear all that excellent ale out of his brain before he went to look for her. Tupper told him the mistress was in the weaving hut. Mistress? It was amazing. He was beginning to believe she was a witch.
Miggins stood in the doorway of the weaving hut, her arms crossed over her scrawny chest. “Ye wish to see Merry, my lord?”
He nodded. “You came out here quickly. To protect her from me, I wonder?”
Miggins scratched her head. Garron wondered what lived amongst those scrawny braids. “There is no need, for Merry is a warrior.”
Garron was beginning to think those words would haunt him to the grave. “Tupper said she was within.”
“Aye, she is, trying to fix the spindle on one of the looms.” Miggins crossed her arms over her sunken bosom. “Ye’ll not hurt her, my lord.”
“You believe me angry at your little pigeon, Miggins?”
The old woman didn’t move. She tried to stare him down. She scratched her armpit, then yanked on her old gown. He looked past her to see Merry sitting on the straw floor, her face shiny with sweat because it was so hot in this small, airless room, trying to fix the spindle that looked ancient and far beyond repair to him.
“My little Merry is near to screaming blasphemy to the heavens, or mayhap drinking more ale than she should”—she gave him the eye—“but then how could she when you and the chancellor swilled it all down your gullets, sots, the both of you, and here there is a traitor to find. Oh aye, I have eyes in my head, I see everything.” She pressed her fingers to her temples and stared at him. “I see a man whose loins are heavy with lust, a man who better not relieve his lust on the priest’s sweet bastard.”
He lifted Miggins under her armpits and set her away from him. She weighed nothing at all. He hated it. “Go eat some more dinner,” he told her, “and stop looking at my loins,” and he walked into the room, past three women sewing, none of them looking at him.
Merry was on her hands and knees fiddling with a wooden bar that obviously should attach to something, what that was, he had no idea. He laid his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“Come,” he said.
She jerked up, hit her head on the wooden bar, and yelped. She sat on her bottom and frowned up at him. “What, you have come to tell me the earth will end in two hours and you wish me to fetch you more ale so you may be unconscious when the final hour strikes?”
He eyed her. “You said quite a lot there, most of it insulting. If doomsday arrives, you may be certain my sword and I will attack it and drive it into the sea. Now, keep your mouth shut and come with me.”
“You are so sodden with ale you fell on your face in the mud, didn’t you? Just look at you—what have you done?”
“There isn’t any mud yet, but by the looks of the clouds, it might begin at any moment. I poured water over my head.”
“Good. You need sharp wits to deal with me,” and the witch gave him a full-bodied sneer.
“Have Miggins fetch Borran, he should be the one to fix the loom.”
“Borran asked me to look at it. He claims he is flummoxed.” She got slowly to her feet, dusted her hands on her skirts, placed her hands on her hips, and gave him another sneer. “Are you really so insulted, my lord?”
“Nay, but the chancellor is. He believes you need discipline and I am to see to it.”
“Discipline? What does that mean? I did not insult the chancellor—” She frowned. “Mayhap I could have selected more mealymouthed words. Shall I apologize to him? Mayhap he won’t remember since he is so drunk. It is disgraceful.”
“The chancellor was right. He many times is. You are sorely in need of discipline,” and he nodded to the other women, all of them busily sewing, weaving, and listening. “Come,” he said, and held out his hand to her.
21
Discipline,” he repeated, savoring the word, not looking down at her as he strode through the inner bailey, pulling her behind him. “It has an interesting sound to it, does it not?”