Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(50)

We shuttled out of the way as two boys struggled to heave the ravaged carcass of an enormous boar onto the stained wooden block.

“Pork pies for supper tonight, lads,” a servant with a face like a bulldog called. Noticing Rachel, he leered. “You wantin’ a taste, Jewess? Oh, I forget. Already had you some, didn’t you? That delicious stew I brought up for you and the maidservants last week.”

He guffawed, elbowing his partner in the side.

Rachel blanched. But like a true lady, only raised her chin and moved steadily across a covered breezeway connecting the kitchens to the main part of the castle.

“He did that on purpose?” I asked, lips stiff in anger. “Put pork in your soup?”

“Yes,” she said. “One of them brought a stew up to feed the queen’s servants after Her Grace went to dine privately with the king. I was hungry and they claimed ’twas beef. I should have known better. After I’d eaten a few bites, the boy crowed and told me to enjoy my Jewish hell, as I’d just eaten swine.”

Collum growled behind me and turned back toward the smirking kitchen boy. Rachel laid a hand on his arm.

“Please, Master Collum,” she said. “There is no need. It is far from the worst insult I’ve borne.”

“But how could they do that to you?” Phoebe complained.

“’Tis but the way of things.” Rachel shrugged as she led us up a dingy staircase to an elegant landing. Another, broader flight led down to the decorated entry hall.

“Master Collum,” Rachel said. “If you and Mistress Phoebe will kindly go down to the Great Hall, we shall meet you there. They are serving breakfast, and by the king’s decree all are welcome today. Last eve, I asked permission only for Mistress Hope to attend me in the queen’s chambers.”

I could see Collum gearing up to argue, but after a glance at Rachel’s face he nodded.

“For God’s sake, be careful this time,” he hissed, his hand gripping my arm in warning as Phoebe headed reluctantly down the steps. “While you’re inside, Phoebe and I will ask around about this Babcock. See what we can find out. You do the same, but don’t take any unnecessary chances. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” I jerked out of his grip. “I’m not an idiot.”

He stared down at me, eyes impenetrable as they searched my face. “I know that,” he said. “It’s just . . .”

Turning my back on him, I stomped after Rachel, grumbling under my breath. I guess I wasn’t quite over being pissed at him after all.

When I caught up with her at the door to the queen’s chamber, I forced my jaw to unclench, then let out a long breath as I tried to focus on Doug’s instructions of how to glide like a proper lady.

I suppose I’d expected a palatial chamber, with the queen perched atop a gilded throne. This was Eleanor of Aquitaine, after all. As Henry II proclaimed about himself, in my mom’s favorite movie—or, well, the actor Peter O’Toole, who was playing him had proclaimed—“He married out of love, a woman out of legend.”

But when we entered the low doorway, and I stared at the faces packed into the stifling, tapestry-lined chamber, I hoped—prayed—that my mother would just pop out of the crowd and we could go all home.

Even in winter, the room was sweltering. Three enormous copper braziers radiated heat upward in undulating waves. The chamber was packed with women, their long gowns like a jewel-toned flower garden. I bobbed on my tiptoes, scanning the room.

Nope. Not here.

I swallowed back the pang of disappointment. It wasn’t like I’d really expected it to be that simple. And yet the back of my throat burned.

Rachel frowned. “Are you all right, mistress?”

I nodded, unable to speak as we were motioned to a far corner. Blinking hard, I focused on the room.

A few bored lute players plinked in the opposite corner, and a steady stream of black-clothed clerks toted armloads of documents for the queen’s signature. Rachel and I stood against the wall. As small groups split and re-merged, I caught partial glimpses of a very pregnant woman seated behind a desk, feather quill in hand.

Everyone was standing, except the queen and a child-size nun seated on a nearby stool. Despite my frustration, I gasped.

“It’s her.” I grabbed Rachel’s arm. “Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

Rachel smiled indulgently. “Yes. Our new queen is a rare woman indeed,” Rachel whispered. “And next to her is Sister Hectare, the queen’s closest companion aside from Amaria, her former nurse.” Rachel’s eyes went soft as she watched the tiny nun. “Sister Hectare is a wise and kind woman.”

Hectare was the oldest person I’d ever seen. Rheumy eyes, a veined nose like a toucan’s beak, and wrinkled-parchment skin that draped from her face and neck like swags of melted wax. She looked as though she might keel over dead at any second. And yet, as Eleanor met with this guest or that, she often leaned in to consult with the old woman.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a tall, black-robed figure, a priest, enter and approach the queen. The genial chatter died away as he glided serenely forward to bow before the desk.





Chapter 24


“SO KIND OF YOU TO FINALLY JOIN US, THOMAS.” The queen’s voice was throaty and rich as she spoke in the imperious French of the nobility. “Sister Hectare, isn’t it thoughtful of Thomas to take time out of his very busy day to answer a summons from his queen?”