“Then she hid herself in the castle and what … ? Waited until nearly dawn to try and slit your throat.” Anne look pointedly at the sleeve of his tunic. Though Hagan had washed and changed, the wound was bleeding again, despite Rosemary’s efforts. “Her aim wasn’t so good, though, was it?”
“You give me no credit, sister, for being able to disarm her.”
“And get yourself cut in the bargain.”
Bargain. The word held new meaning for Hagan, but he held his tongue. Anne guessed enough as it was. “Should you not be supervising the feast?” he asked. “We have many guests arriving.”
“Aye, but I have avoided the kitchen. The cook is fit to be tied. Because she was tricked by the little savior, she feels as if everyone is laughing at her. Oh, her mood is foul, Hagan. She has already boxed the ears of two boys who didn’t tend properly to the kitchen fires, and gave a tongue lashing to a scullery maid so fierce that the girl ran out of the keep in tears.” Anne sighed. “The steward is in a black mood because the wardrober has lost some valuable spices, and the wardrober insists they were stolen. Last week we ran out of salt, but fortunately a peddler came by. The gutters overflowed just before the revels, and the buttery roof is falling in. You should have stayed with Edward to fight the damned Scots,” she said. “ ’Twould have been easier and mayhaps safer.”
“Amen,” Hagan muttered under his breath.
Anne, her mission in telling him the problems of the castle accomplished, started out of the room.
“Wait. Send a seamstress and some of your clothes to Sorcha’s chamber.”
“My clothes?” Anne asked, her eyebrows lifting with new interest.
“Aye. They will have to be altered, but—”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Why not some of the servants’ tunics? Surely there is someone her size—”
“I will not have her wear russets when she can dress in silk.”
Anne’s eyes danced with a merry light. “You dress your little savior like a princess rather than the traitor she is.”
“She is a lady,” he said, as if that ended the subject, but Anne’s gaze darkened with interest.
“Aye, but she came here to kill you.” Anne’s smile turned curious. “What happened in this chamber, Hagan, that you would treat a traitor like royalty, hmmm?”
“She is a guest.”
“Oh, my mistake.” Anne made a great show of crossing the room and warming her palms on the fire, but her eyes never left the bed. “I thought she was the chosen one—ruler of all Wales—and that was why she took it upon herself to kill you.”
“She came to free her sister,” he growled, tired of his sister’s teasing.
Anne laughed at her brother’s vexation. “Am I to send some clothes to Leah’s chamber as well?”
“Aye.”
“What are you going to do with those women—the patient and the savior?” she asked.
Hagan reached for his sword. “I wish I knew.”
“Please, m’lady, be still,” the tiny seamstress said, keeping her eyes averted as she pinched another tuck in the scarlet tunic.
Sorcha frowned as she stared at the stack of gowns, bliauts, and tunics that had already been marked for altering: more clothes than she owned. Why would Hagan insist she have such a large wardrobe? The answer was clear. He intended to keep her here, and though she would be a prisoner, he would treat her as if she were a guest.
Her fists clenched in silent rebellion. She wanted to shove the poor girl away from her and run out of the castle. Her horse was still hidden in the forest … but she was guarded every second, and if she were to escape, she knew, she would have to trick the guards and deceive Hagan.
Her spirit warmed at the thought of playing Hagan of Erbyn for a fool. ’Twould serve him right.
“Now, please, m’lady, turn round,” the girl suggested, and Sorcha did as she was bid. She wondered what Hagan had in store for her. First there had been the bath with that twit of a maid, and now this seamstress. “If you could hold your hair up so,” the girl said, lifting Sorcha’s curls off her neck. Sorcha complied, inwardly seething.
“Almost done …” A needle pricked the back of Sorcha’s neck, and the seamstress gasped.
“What the devil?”
“Mother Mary preserve us! Sweet Jesus!” Stumbling backward, the girl dropped her sewing basket and fumbled with her fingers, making a hasty sign of the cross over her bosom.