Wings of the Storm by Susan Sizemore Read Free Book Online Page A

had sight in one eye at the moment; the other was swollen closed. His hobbling steps were slow, but he looked determined. No doubt he'd found another task needing his chatelaine's urgent atten-tion. To think she'd been worried about figuring out how to do the job. She'd scarcely had time to breathe in the five days since Stephan had left the holding.
    Bertram and the others were having a wonderful time finding things for her to give orders about. It seemed the inhabitants at Passfair had assumed their amiable young lord didn't mind living in squalor; young knights were supposed to have war and wenching rather than the state of the storerooms on their minds. His putting a proper chatelaine in charge was the same as giving notice to the peasants that times were changing.
    And they wanted the place to look nice for their new young mistress, as well. There was an eagerness about the serving women working on new linens in the bower, a cheerful willingness in the way two other women were beating the dust from the tapestry they'd carefully taken down and into the courtyard to air out. Knowing the lord of the manor was bringing home a bride made everything about the castle seem more purposeful and alive. Especially old Bertram. Old Bertram, who turned out to be fifty-two and quite spry.
    Jane sighed with tired fondness at his approach, then contemplated her injuries while waiting for his arrival. Her eye hurt worse than her hip, so she set-tled on cradling her swollen cheek with her palm. She rested the other hand on the cool stone of the freshly swept step where she was sitting. A puppy came up and licked it.
    The sky overhead was a brilliant blue, there was a hint of warmth in the air, and she was getting some satisfaction out of watching people scurrying around the courtyard doing her bidding. There was steamy smoke rising from the wash house. Rich, yeasty smells were drifting her way from both the brew house and the wide mouths of the ovens next to the kitchen. Of course, none of this made up for the physical discomfort of sitting around nursing a black eye and bruised bottom.
    Last night's fall down the tower steps was the dog's fault, of course. Melisande was simply too much the willful pet to put up with being kenneled with the common riffraff. Not a day had passed before she'd bitten the boy put in charge of the deer-hounds, escaped from the enclosure, and marched boldly into the hall, her puppies bounding happily after. Jane didn't have the heart to throw any of them out again.
    Melisande was Stephan's particular favorite, after all. So she'd named the puppies Nikki and Vince, and somehow the three canines all ended up in her bed. This did not help the bug problem, but she welcomed the company.
    Last night, while she'd been climbing the pitted old stone steps with a puppy in each arm, Melisande had affectionately butted the back of Jane's knees with her head. Hard. Jane was knocked off balance,

    tripped over her voluminous'skirts, and ended up tumbling head over heels all the way back down to the hall.
    Nikki and Vince were unhurt. She was lucky to sustain only some heavy bruising and the black eye. She hated to think what might have happened if she'd really been hurt. A broken bone in this era could be fatal. She didn't want to think about it. She rose care-fully and greeted Bertram instead.
    The old man's first words were, "The hall needs more servants, my lady."
    Jane tugged at the veil of her wimple. The gesture was becoming the substitute for her old habit of play-ing with her hair when she was puzzled. As far as she was concerned, the place was crawling with servants. What sort of project did Bertram have in mind? Rebuilding the hall completely by the time Stephan and his lady arrived?
    "Oh?" she asked, hoping her tone conveyed dignity along with healthy skepticism. Bertram was very con-cerned for her dignity and sense of status. He was very much in favor of her having both. She tried to live up to his standards.
    "You