The Brat(23)
Author: Lynsay Sands

"You cannot make me." The girl tried to tug free once more, but Murie had a firm hold on her arm.

"Godart?" Murie said as she started around the room for the third time. "Am I right in assuming that you are one of Balan’s soldiers?"

"Aye," the man answered. Then he added, "We take turns manning the walls and guarding the castle, or doing the labor that needs doing around here. This week is my week for labor."

"I fear today is your day to be a guard," Murie countered.

"Please stand by the door and ensure Juliana does not leave. She will not exit this room until I say so, and I will not say so until she has done what I have asked of her."

The man nodded, and Murie released Juliana. The child hesitated the briefest moment, probably torn between kicking her again and fleeing. In the end, she chose fleeing and made a rush for the door, but Go-dart was immediately in front of it, between her and freedom. Juliana didn’t slow; she charged him in a bull-like fashion, crashing into his legs and proceeding to kick and strike out at him with her small fists.

Murie winced and sent him an apologetic glance, but the man just smiled and shook his head. He wore boots and leather leggings, and apparently this was enough to protect him, for he truly did not seem to be suffering any pain. He simply stood there, immovable, allowing the girl to wear herself out. Having just jogged across the bailey up the stairs and around the room several times, it did not take the child long to give up. Apparently, seeing how ineffective her attack was, she then tried to squeeze her way around him to reach the door handle. Godart let her, but was leaning against the door so it did her little good. After tugging uselessly for several minutes, she turned to glare around the room.

"Your brother said that I may handle the matter of your kicking me in greeting," Murie said, drawing the girl’s gaze. "I would prefer to be friends with you and even proper sisters. However, if he does not feel I handled it effectively, he shall surely punish you himself and no doubt much more harshly than I would, and then you would no doubt blame me and never be willing to be friends with me.

"I am sure he will think helping Cecily and I clean this room is punishment enough," she added quietly. "And that way, perhaps we could talk, and you could get to know me better and decide if you might wish to be friends."

The girl hesitated, scowling. "I do not want to be friends. And once you get to know me, you will not wish to be friends either."

"Oh, that is where you are wrong," Murie assured her, moving to collect the linens from where she’d set them earlier. "I already quite like you." A glance to the side showed the girl looking uncertain.

"Why?"Juliana asked suspiciously.

"Because you remind me of myself at your age." This comment made the girl’s eyes widen in complete and utter disbelief.

Before any doubt could be voiced, Murie announced, "I too was orphaned at the age often."

That made the girl pause, so Murie continued: "My mother fell ill with the red plague."

"The smallpox?" Juliana asked uncertainly.

"Aye." Murie carried the linens to the bed. "The servants were afraid of contracting it and neglected her terribly. When my father found out, he took over her care; trying to get her to eat, cleaning her sores and bathing her to try to bring down her fevers. He stayed with her night and day, neither eating nor sleeping himself so that, by the time she died, he was sick as well and too weak and exhausted to fight the illness himself. He went very quickly."

"My father nursed my mother as well," Juliana said quietly, automatically taking the end of the linen Murie handed her. "She had childbed fever, though, and I do not think men get that."

"Nay," Murie agreed.

"But you went to court," Juliana pointed out, her eyes narrowing. "And the king is said to have spoiled you."

"Aye, I was sent to court to live with my godfather the king. And aye, ’tis said that he spoiled me. However, the truth is, the king was always terribly busy and had very little time for me," Murie assured her. It was true. While the king had spoiled her and his own children when at court, until the plague hit, Edward had very rarely been there. Usually he’d been mounting some campaign or other in Scotland or France. Murie could count on the fingers of one hand how many times she’d seen him during her first five years at court.

"What of the queen?" Habbie asked, reminding Murie that the men were still present. She didn’t mind, however; the stable master had asked the question, but his gaze was on Juliana, trying to gauge how she was reacting to the news.

"The queen was very busy too," Murie said quietly. "And then, she already had children of her own to tend, and between that and state business she had little enough time for another child. I was pretty much on my own at court except for my friend Emilie."

Murie commented when Juliana remained silent, "Gatty seems very nice."

"Aye… but she has her own children, too, and everyone here is always busy. Frederick is my friend," Juliana added quietly, as Murie folded the edge of bed linen under the straw-stuffed mattress and then imitating the action herself.

"And what do you and Frederick do to have fun?" Murie asked, moving to the foot of the bed to tuck in a corner. The girl began to talk, and Murie glanced toward the men and nodded silently. After a hesitation, they nodded back and reluctantly left the room. A glance toward Cecily showed she’d paused and leaned against her broom to watch and listen as well, but now she shook her head and returned to sweeping up the rushes.

Murie turned her attention back to her new sister, smiling faintly as the child revealed some of the pranks she and Frederick had got up to. It seemed obvious the girl was intelligent and really very tenderhearted under all the anger bubbling on the surface, and she could have wept for Juliana; but she didn’t. Instead, she vowed to ensure Juliana felt loved and valued as she’d never felt herself since the death of her parents.

****

"I hope Murie had Cook make something for us to eat. I am famished," Osgoode said as he and Balan mounted the steps to the keep.

"I am sure she did. She must be hungry as well," Balan answered, running a hand through his hair. He too was hungry. He was also a tad weary. The week of worry at Reynard had taken its toll. Balan had spent many sleepless nights watching over his new wife as she struggled, her feverish body fighting to rid itself of poison. He’d tried to comfort her when she wept for her parents, to soothe her when she cried out and fled from demons in her dreams, and had even had entire conversations with her about things she liked or disliked, though she didn’t appear to remember any of it when she woke up.

During that time, Balan had learned that his wife was as tenderhearted as he’d suspected, was more intelligent than he’d realized and that she’d somehow managed to make a huge space for herself in his heart. He’d believed they might deal well together, else he would never have married her, but now he found himself wishing for more than "dealing well." He wanted her to love him. Balan did not necessarily want to love her in return, for that was a messy female emotion and a sticky web in which he would rather not find himself caught. But he did wish for her to love him. He simply didn’t know how to achieve that.

"If she has," Osgoode said dryly, distracting him from his thoughts, "I bet it is something with fish in it." Balan gave a harsh laugh, knowing there was little question. Anselm had already told them the men had not managed any hunting at all while he was gone. Not that he’d expected it. The great hall was quiet and empty when they entered. Balan remembered a day when just the opposite would have been the case, when the walls seemed to ring with chatter and laughter as people bustled in and out about their business. However, the plague had changed all that. He sincerely hoped to see the day when it was happy again, and with Murie’s help hoped that day was not too far off.

The two cousins headed for the door leading to the kitchens in the hopes of finding food, but paused when the door opened and Clement stuck his head out.

"Oh. You’re back," he said as he spotted them. "Good. I’ve roasted some fish over the fire as your wife said you’d both be hungry."

"Where is my wife?" Balan asked, then frowned when the man disappeared back into the kitchen. He took another step toward the door, but paused when it opened again and Clement stepped out with three trenchers stacked on top of each other, each full offish.

"Her ladyship is up preparing your bedchamber for the night," Clement answered, shoving the trenchers at them. "You might want to let her know the food’s ready before it gets cold. I’ve to clean the kitchen."

The moment Balan took the trenchers, Clement turned and marched away.

"He grows surlier with each passing day," Osgoode said, taking one of the trenchers.

Balan shrugged. "He is doing the best he can with little in the way of supplies, and everyone is groaning at the results."

"Aye." Osgoode wrinkled his nose at the fish on his trencher and turned to move toward the trestle tables. He paused to ask,

"Are you taking that up to Murie?"

"Aye. Did you wish to join us?"

Osgoode grinned. "I would not be so cruel. Enjoy your wife – I mean enjoy your meal with your wife," corrected, eyes twinkling. Chuckling, Balan turned and made his way to the stairs with the two trenchers. His parents’ private chambers had been above stairs ever since they added the second floor to the keep some twenty-five years ago. Balan had been too young to really remember what it had been like before, and had not taken over the master bedchamber upon returning to find his father dead and Gaynor in chaos. He’d taken one look at the ruined room and decided to make his way to the garrison to bunk with the men who had gone off to battle with him.

He couldn’t imagine that his wife would be able to make the room inhabitable in such a short time, but he was pleasantly surprised upon reaching the open door. The filthy rushes that had coated the bedroom floor had been removed and the floor swept clean, furs thrown down beside the bed and in front of the fire to make it more comfortable, presumably until fresh rushes could be gathered and strewn. Furs had also been hung over the rickety shutters at the windows. The smelly, molding, rotted curtains had been removed from the bed and fresh linens and furs now covered that as well.

A fire had been set in the fireplace. It wasn’t really needed at this time of year, but something sweet had been added to the wood to fill the room with a much more attractive scent than the overpowering and unpleasant stench Balan recalled from the last time he’d entered.

His gaze slid over the hard work done and to the two females in the room. Murie and Juliana. The little girl stood in front of the fireplace wearing a pale yellow gown that was a little big on her.

"Osgoode thought you were about the size of Lady Greyville’s daughter, and so we used her for sizing," Murie was explaining as she finished the fastenings of the gown. "’Tis obvious the girl is a bit bigger than you, but you shall grow into it quickly, and we can put temporary stitches in until you do."

Juliana was silent, her eyes wide as she touched the frock.

"And mayhap we can do something about your hair tomorrow," Murie suggested gently.

"I cut it myself," Julianna admitted, putting a self-conscious hand to her head.

"And you did a fine job," Murie assured her quickly. "But ’tis difficult to cut your own hair, and there are a couple of places where it could use evening out."

Juliana nodded and confessed, "I thought if I looked more like a boy, my father might like me better."

Balan felt his heart squeeze at these pain-filled words and silently cursed his father for neglecting his sister. In his pain, the man had cared little about the suffering he was causing his child. Balan had tried to reason with him, but – obstinate as ever – he’d just waved the words away and refused to discuss Juliana.

"Oh," Murie breathed, and Balan could feel her empathy for the child. She bowed her head and was silent a moment, then straightened and took the girl by the shoulders. Solemnly she said, "I am sure he liked you fine in his deepest heart, Juliana, but men have trouble expressing themselves sometimes."

"Nuh-uh." The child shook her head. "He showed anger well enough."

"Aye, well, that seems easy enough for all of them to show," Murie agreed dryly. She added, " ‘Tis the finer emotions they have trouble with."

"He hated me because I killed Momma," Juliana said, her eyes suddenly afraid. It seemed obvious to Balan she feared Murie would no longer like her once she knew this fact, or what the girl thought was fact, and he found himself squeezing his fingers around the trencher hard enough to crush the crusty, hollowed-out bread.

"You did not kill your mother, Juliana," Murie said in a firm voice. "She fell ill with a fever after giving birth to you. That was not your fault. It happens sometimes, and no one can say why –  else we could stop it. It could happen to me, and it would not be my child’s fault," she added, and Balan felt his eyes widen at the horrible suggestion. But she continued: "And I hope you would love and comfort my child for me in my stead, did that happen, not blame it for something it was not responsible for."

"Aye," Juliana promised solemnly.

"Good." Murie smiled at the girl and stepped back. "I think you look lovely in the dress. Howbeit, mayhap you should remove it until we can take it in and take up the hem. I would not see you trip and come to harm on the stairs."

Nodding, Juliana allowed her to undo and lift the gown clear.

"Will I still be able to play with Frederick in the dress?" the child asked worriedly as she put on her leggings and cotehardie.

"Well…" Murie paused and frowned, then suggested, "You could if you were to keep wearing your cotehardie during the day and then changed into the dress for sup."

"Oh!" Juliana grinned. "It would be like being a boy like Frederick during the day and a girl like you at night!" Murie laughed as she carefully folded the gown. "Aye, that it would."