“At Mass, my lady. We didn’t think it right to disturb you. Would you care to join them?”
“No.”
Annie’s smile didn’t falter. “Very well. Could I bring you something to break your fast?”
Isabel was about to refuse, then thought better of it. She hadn’t eaten much the previous evening. “Bread and ale would be fine.”
“My lady, Cook has made a fine porridge this morn. Perhaps you’d care for some?”
Isabel hesitated. A hot meal for breakfast. But no, Bolton might be down any moment, and she didn’t want to see his face or remember anything of her wedding night.
“Another time. Just the bread. I’ll eat it outside.” When the girl turned to leave, Isabel called, “Wait.” She gritted her teeth, wishing she could stop her cheeks from reddening. “Where would I find the garderobe?”
Annie nodded, appearing not the least bit embarrassed. Isabel was embarrassed enough for the both of them.
“My lady, wasn’t there a chamber pot in your…”
Her voice withered away beneath Isabel’s narrowed gaze.
Isabel suddenly found herself spouting words she had not meant to say. “Bolton and I are not comfortable with one another, especially since the wedding night was…incomplete.”
Annie’s eyes went wide and she stuttered over her words. “F-forgive me, my lady. I understand. Just follow me down this corridor.”
Minutes later, Isabel paced before the fire, her eyes going constantly to the stairs. The idea had come to her so suddenly, she hadn’t even had time to think it through. But it was perfect. Bolton’s household would know that he could not even bed his wife. She almost wished she could see his face when he heard the rumors. And if she brought his wrath down on her, all the better reason to defend herself.
10
Annie returned from the kitchens, carrying a stuffed leather wallet and a drinking horn. Isabel accepted them without comment, then stood awkwardly as the maid gave her a quick curtsy. In the corridor Annie had come from, two dairymaids stood whispering and giggling. Isabel crushed a dim feeling of panic.
“Anything you need, my lady, just send for me,” Annie said. “Perhaps a cloak? The wind is chilled this day.”
Isabel shook her head and escaped through the double doors. Mass had ended in the chapel and people streamed out, talking and laughing. One by one they caught sight of her. An eerie calm spread across the crowd like ripples in a pond. Isabel felt their coldness envelope her, and she told herself she didn’t care. Soon they’d know that their master was not truly a man. A real man would have taken her and sealed their union. Deep in her soul, she wondered who she was trying to convince, them—or herself.
She narrowed her eyes at them all, walked down the stairs, and headed across the inner ward. The crowd parted as if they didn’t want to touch her. Even the children clutched their mothers’ aprons in fear. The tension in Isabel’s stomach rose to nausea. She was taller than all but a few of the men, and she had forgotten how strangers looked upon her as if she were an unnatural monster.
She entered the dim stables, relieved to be away from the glaring men and women. The horses gladly accepted her pats on the nose and words of greetings. She found the one she wanted to ride and began to saddle it.
“M-milady?” croaked a husky young voice from directly behind her.
Isabel looked over her shoulder at a stable boy, barely up to her waist in height, holding his cap in his hand and staring open-mouthed at her. He was trembling.
“That horse is his lordship’s.”
“Then that makes it mine, doesn’t it?”
She hadn’t meant her voice to sound so cold. The boy stumbled back a pace, about to shred his cap in agitation. How did one talk to children who were frightened to death? He fled before she could find the words.
Isabel turned back to the horse. Misery was strangling her. When she heard a deep cough behind her, she whirled around, hand on her empty hip.
An older man dressed in rough woolen work clothes stood at the entrance to the stall. “Milady, begging yer pardon, but I been told ye’re not to have a horse this day.”
Panic rose higher in her throat, making her words clipped and angry. “And who are you?”
“Baxter, milady, the marshal of the horses.” He finally dropped his gaze. “Forgive me, but I have me orders.”
She advanced on him but he didn’t retreat. “And who gave these orders?”
“Lord Bolton, milady.”
