Kathryn watched as Helga slowly pushed aside her distaff, praying for a patience she had never been blessed with. The girl then began neatly piling the skeins next to her. Kathryn pressed her lips together; she knew better than to believe the girl wished to make herself useful, for she was well acquainted with her laziness. More than likely, Helga's supposed tidiness was meant to irritate.
It was all Kathryn could do to hold her tongue. Helga's grandfather had been the smithy at Ashbury even before Kathryn's father Sir Damien had been lord of the manor. The old man had passed on several years ago, and Helga, whose parents were also dead, had been brought into the keep to serve as ladies' maid. But she had done precious little in the way of serving the two ladies of the household; Kathryn and Elizabeth saw to the upkeep of their clothing and chambers, and Kathryn had quickly learned she could not speak freely before Helga. She suspected her of carrying tales to her uncle Richard—as if her uncle were not already eager enough to see his niece take the bite of the lash or the cuff of his hand.
Yet Kathryn could not dismiss the girl either, though Richard had turned matters of the household over to her. To do so would be tantamount to admitting defeat. Her uncle would glory in knowing he had provoked and bested her; Kathryn refused to give him the satisfaction.
But it also appeared Helga was not above using her womanly attributes to advance her position. The girl openly returned the admiring gazes of her uncle's knights; she laughed when a male hand trespassed boldly beneath her skirts. And of late, Helga hinted that she had oft shared Richard's bed. Kathryn had long since ceased to be shocked. Richard's wife had died in childbed long ago. Since that time, countless serving wenches had warmed his bed. If Helga were the latest, Kathryn feared the girl's insolence would know no bounds.
Helga continued with the task. The bodice of her rough woolen gown gaped open but the girl paid no heed. Kathryn lost her temper at last. "Make haste, girl," she snapped. "There are no knights here to ogle your charms and I would speak with my sister."
The girl withdrew at last, but not without bestowing on her mistress a triumphant smile. Kathryn ignored it, closed the heavy wooden door, and prepared to face her sister.
Elizabeth had pushed aside the loom. Kathryn turned and beheld her sister gazing at her with a slight smile curling her lovely mouth. Her sheer veil only enhanced the shining glory of her hair. Like the finest beams of the sun, the shimmering strands sparkled like a pale golden waterfall down her back. Her face was small and heart-shaped, her eyes the color of the sky on a warm spring day.
Seeing her sister thus, Kathryn felt a painful squeeze of her heart. Elizabeth deserved so much more than what she had—spending her days cloistered in this bower for fear of the outside world, a world filled with men who knew nothing but war and lust. If only their parents had lived, her sister would have wanted for nothing! There would have been a husband, and children Elizabeth could love and cherish.
But dreams were for naught. Dreams were for children. . . and fools. It was a lesson Kathryn had learned well—within months of the time she and Elizabeth were given over to their uncle's care. Richard was their father's bastard half-brother; King Stephen was so busy trying to restore order to his lawless kingdom he had little time for other affairs. He had wasted no time in granting all of Sir Damien's lands and holdings to Richard. There was little two young maids of fourteen and fifteen could do. Now, both women were subject to the whim and will of a man whose moods grew fouler with each passing day.
Kathryn's shoulders slumped. She was being foolish, she told herself bleakly, foolish and fanciful. It was possible their lot in life would have been little better had their father lived. Had Sir Damien chosen to marry either of them off, it would have been for one reason only—to unite lands and holdings. Not for love, Kathryn thought bitterly, never for love.
As women, they had little say in the matter. But at least Ashbury Keep would have been theirs...
Kathryn did not aspire to happiness. She aspired to freedom, to at least some measure of it, however small. She yearned to live her life as she willed— to make her own choices and decisions—and not beneath the domineering fist of her uncle.
Perhaps she could not gain all that she sought, but she was not like Elizabeth, content to gaze out at the world and never really be a part of it. But there was a tiny kernel of hope inside her. It was blighted hope, perhaps. But it was all she had.
And it was this which brought her to this moment.
Kathryn crossed to where her sister still sat upon a low-backed chair. She knew of no easy way to break the news to Elizabeth and so she simply came out with it. "Roderick has asked me to marry him," she said quietly.
Elizabeth stared at her numbly. "Marriage?" she echoed. Her lovely forehead pleated with a frown. "Surely you jest. Why, Uncle seized our dower lands long ago. Even if he approved, what would you bring to the marriage?"
"I would bring naught but myself." The subject of their dower lands still rankled; Kathryn cut her sister off more sharply than she intended, but Elizabeth didn't notice. She still looked rather stunned. Well, better that than tears. "Roderick is willing to take me as I am," she added quietly.
Elizabeth rose from her chair, an odd expression on her face. "Forgive me, sister. But I cannot see you a meek and servile wife."
Meek and servile? The thought made Kathryn smile, a smile that was all too rare these days. “In this I fear you are right," she admitted.
A hint of puzzled hurt crept into Elizabeth's beautiful blue eyes. "I do not understand," she murmured. "I do not understand why you should wish to marry Roderick. You do not love him, surely!"
It was more an accusation than a question. A trickle of shame crept through Kathryn. For all that Elizabeth was younger by only a year, she was remarkably naive. Many times, she saw only the goodness in life, for her heart was filled with hope and kindness.
Perhaps it was for the best, for Elizabeth had seen... what no woman should ever see.
Kathryn went to her and pulled her down on the cushions before the window. "Nay," she said quietly, "I do not love Roderick. I love no man." Nor, she added silently, will I ever. Since the death of her mother and father, she had known little of tenderness, save Elizabeth's. The world was a harsh one. It was a man's world, controlled by men. Their needs, their wants, their desires were all that mattered, and women were there only to fulfill those needs. In her heart Kathryn knew she had little choice but to tolerate the unfair treatment of her sex.
Yet her rebellious mind refused such passive acceptance.
Elizabeth's lips began to tremble. 'Then why? What will happen to me if you marry Roderick? He has a small fief of his own. No doubt you—you will leave here! I—I do not understand, Kathryn! Have I displeased you? Made you angry that you wish to quit this keep and be rid of me?" Her spiraling voice reflected her fears. "If you leave with Roderick, what will I do? I love Ashbury as much as you, but I could not stand it here without you, Kathryn! And Uncle refuses to let me take the veil!"
Kathryn's laugh was tinged with bitterness, but she sought to ease her sister's mind. "I do not seek
to leave here, Elizabeth, for this is our home. It does not matter that our bastard uncle calls himself lord and master," she said fiercely. "When Father died, King Stephen granted his lands and our wardship to Uncle, but he has done naught but seek more, always more. 'Tis men whose laws say that we as women cannot pay homage. Therefore it does little good for a woman to inherit! But in my mind, Ashbury is ours—yours and mine. And I make you a sacred vow here and now, Elizabeth. Someday Ashbury will be ours once again!"
Elizabeth gasped in horror. "How can you make such a vow? Especially one you cannot hope to keep!"
Kathryn leaped to her feet, her eyes blazing. "I cannot go on like this any longer. If the past four years under Richard's thumb have taught me nothing else, I have learned that 'tis the way of men to take what they want. In Uncle's eyes, we are no more than servants. He makes us beg for what little we have—what belongs to us. And 'tis for this reason that I would ally myself with Roderick."