MAKING PLANS
Laughter, soft and bright, spread out around the sunlit colonnade. Rubina sat in the shadow of a column and focused hard on her sewing.
Out in the sunshine, in the gap between the columns, five ladies played a game of quoits. They giggled and the ring as the quoits hit or missed the pole and landed, resounding, on tile, reverberated.
The noise grated on Rubina's bruised heart.
I'm being silly. Why do I care what he thinks about me? I should just forget him.
She blinked, not wanting to cry. It was ridiculous! She barely knew him! She couldn't forget that incident in the woods a few months back, and how he had come to stray into her thoughts at odd times since then. Seeing him on the tournament site had sent a thrill of shock through her. As well as something else – that intangible sensation that trembled through her whenever she saw him. She gave a sigh in brisk self-reproach.
She should be as sensible as she was years ago. She should forget all about him and focus on her distant cousin, or at least on Alexander, son of the Duke of Inverglenn. He was much more suitable.
“Come on, Ettie! You can throw better than that,” someone called out on the flagstones opposite.
Laughter followed, sweet and tremulous. Rubina looked at her sewing, feeling uncomfortable.
It wasn't just her own discomfort that preyed on her mind, but the whole court seemed plunged in an air of restless flux. There was talk of war with England everywhere. Her own parents discussed it in hushed tones, though they tried not to mention if in her earshot.
It was just tales, her mother had said once when she questioned her.
All the same, she thought sadly, the whole place was out of sorts. The sound of laughter from the courtyard sat ill, she reckoned, in this place of turmoil.
“A fine day,” a gentle voice commented beside her. Rubina jumped, pricking her finger. She put it in her mouth, tasting blood, and sucked. She'd forgotten she wasn't alone.
“Marguerite. You startled me.”
“Sorry, my dear,” Marguerite said, her soft face crinkled with concern. “What's amiss?”
Rubina shook her head and replied in a small voice. “Nothing.”
“It's something, though,” her companion insisted gently.
Rubina said nothing. Focused on the linen she held, plying her needle to make small flowers on the tapestry. She was making a panel for an altar cloth, thinking to donate it to the abbey.
“Imagine if you could go anywhere,” her companion said. “Where would you go?”
The change of subject surprised Rubina. She frowned. “I don't know,” she said after a long while. She didn't know a lot of different countries. France, mayhap – she had aunts and cousins there. England was closer, but inaccessible now. The court was full of talk of war. “Mayhap France,” she supplied thoughtfully.
Marguerite smiled. “Well, me too. Of course,” she added with a little smile. Rubina grinned. Marguerite was the daughter of a French envoy and a Scottish thane's daughter.
“Why do you ask?” she inquired, curious. The day was warm and she leaned back against the pillar, closing her eyes as the sun warmed her face. It was almost summertime now and the sun baked down.
“Well, if one is free to make one's future as one sees fit, why stop at one country?”
Rubina laughed softly. She was right. Like Rubina, Marguerite's parents had placed no strictures on her choice. Unlike Rubina, Marguerite was the youngest of five daughters and three sons, and so her parents had no reason to dictate her choices – their need of heirs and allies was readily satisfied.
“You're right,” she said.
The thought of her future led her, in an indirect way, to Sir Gray. No, Sir Camden. She had found out his name yesterday at the lists. Well, it mattered not. Whatever his name, he was denied her. First, because despite her parents' gesture, she would never humiliate them by choosing as unwisely as all that, and, second, because she was sure he had no interest in her.
I might as well move on.
“I want to flee to France,” Marguerite was saying. “On the arm of some handsome knight. It doesn't have to be Marc, of course – I'll be generous and leave him for another – but adventure, Rubina!” she sighed. “I crave adventure.”
Rubina grinned. Her friend had the dramatic French temperament. She herself was more reserved. More tedious.
“Well, you are adventurous,” she said, smiling kindly. “And I'm sure your wishes will come true. There must be many dashing Frenchmen at the court?”
Marguerite rolled her eyes and grinned. “There's one there.”
Rubina followed her gaze. She noticed two men walking in the colonnade on the opposite side to the ladies. They were coming closer. One was a tall man with heavy-lidded blue eyes that marked him out as the Frenchman. The other was a fair-haired Scottish knight.
“They're coming over. Oh....” Marguerite flushed and fanned herself. “No. Wait. Act naturally.”
Rubina bit back her smile. She couldn't help wanting to laugh. She hadn't reacted – it was Marguerite who was getting all flustered.
“My lady,” the Scottish knight said, bowing low. “Excuse us, but may we join you awhile? My lady,” he added, bowing in turn to Marguerite, who went pale. Rubina knew it was her equivalent of blushing and tried not to smile.
The men were, she supposed, trying to understand her friend's response, somewhat striking.
But neither of them is as handsome as him.
She felt a pang of wistfulness and forced it aside. Looked up at him, shading her eyes with her hand. “You may, sir,” she said, low-voiced.
The Frenchman bowed. “An honor to make your acquaintance, my ladies. I am Sir Ramon.”
He spoke in lowland Scots, which surprised both girls.
“Delighted,” Marguerite answered faintly. She spoke French. His brow went up, as did that of the Scotsman.
“My lady,” Ramon was saying. “I am astounded. You speak with the accent of my countrymen.”
Rubina grinned as Marguerite blushed.
“I am of your country, sir,” she explained. “At least by half. My father is D'anton Lemant...”
As she explained her parentage, Rubina found the Scottish knight was looking at her with a smile. She felt a brisk affront.
“Sir,” she said stiffly. “Have I done aught amusing?”
He raised a brow. “Not at all, my lady. I am honored to meet you, that is all. My companion was fortunate in his help.”
“Help?” Rubina was mystified.
“Indeed. I am told you assisted the physician...” he trailed off as Rubina felt her throat tense, and cleared it, heart thudding.
“Who is your companion?” she asked. Surely not him? He surely would scarce have mentioned me? He doesn't like me!
“Sir Camden.”
She stared. Then realized she was doing it and looked at her tapered fingers where they worked on tapestry-sewing. “Oh,” she said nonchalantly.
“Yes,” the man persisted. “He was a lucky fellow to have you to tend him.”
“I think that is impudent, Sir..?” she frowned.
“Sean, milady,” the man said briskly. “Remiss of me,” he added with a gentle frown.
“You offending the ladies again?” his Frenchman friend asked, teasingly.
“I am afraid so,” he said with a smile. “Allow me to introduce myself as Sean Watt,” he said to them both. “Son of the Baron Almswray.”
Rubina took note of the name as being someone she should probably remember for his impudence, if nothing else. As she thought it, she glanced sideways at Marguerite.
She was staring at the Scotsman with a rapt expression on her face. Rubina had to smile though she covered her lips. The man was handsome, she had to admit, with hair a shade of wheat just paler than his eyes, which were a rich brown the color of oak-wood, recently aged. His face was strong-jawed and he had a blunt, ready air about him that spoke of confidence.
All the same, he was not as handsome as Sir Camden.
She wet dry lips, composing a question.
“Sir Sean? Your companion is feeling better?” she ventured carefully.
Sean grinned. “Hard to say. If he was let out of there, he'd be assaulting half the garrison with his practice sword out here. I think he's raring to escape his confines.”
Rubina had to laugh. “I can imagine.”
Sean nodded. “It's a funny sight. But the good Father insists. He must stay there another day.”
“Quite so,” Rubina nodded.
“I think he will want to leave soon,” Sean added. “His father will recall him to the fort. Trouble's brewing,” he added, inclining his head in the direction of the road that would, ultimately, lead them all to England.
“I see,” Rubina nodded, understanding his drift. She felt her heart tense. If Sir Camden was being called home to help his father's warlike preparations, there was a chance she'd not see him again. If his father proved right, and it came to war..? He could die.
No. She couldn't let that happen. Not before she'd seen him again.
“I think he'll not disobey the good physician's request to remain inactive,” he added, laughing.
“Good,” Rubina said in a small voice. “He should be careful. That break will heal if left to itself. If he takes overmuch action, it'll fester. And then it may never heal.”
The man inclined his head gravely. “I shall tell him, milady. Thank you for your care.”
Rubina frowned. Of course I care, she wanted to say. She knew it was impossible to admit to it.
“Please do tell him,” she said instead.
Sean nodded. He looked at the sky. Pale blue, there were some clouds floating in it where before it had been clear. “Ramon?”
“Yes, Sean?”
“We should hurry, if we want to practice. It might rain.”
“It is clear, surely?” he said, pointing up at the sky.
“The weather changes fast here,” Sean grinned.
“Indeed,” Marguerite said quickly. “It is not France, sir.”
The man grinned warmly and Sean smiled. Marguerite stared, round-eyed as both gentlemen looked at her. She seemed astonished and overwhelmed by the collective attention. Then she looked quickly down at her embroidery, cheeks coloring.
“Have a good practice,” she murmured. Rubina bit back a smile.
“Thank you, milady,” Sean said warmly. “We shall. Farewell, Lady Rubina.” He bowed to her and Marguerite, and both men walked off.
When they had gone, far out of earshot, somewhere in another part of the courtyard, Marguerite fanned herself with her hand, her big eyes round.
“Oh, my dear! Is he not handsome?”
Rubina laughed. “I suppose so,” she agreed.
“You suppose..!” Marguerite sounded horrified. She grinned. “You are so composed, my dear. So practical. I wish I was like that.” She turned back to her embroidery, her long, manicured fingers making easy work of fine neat handiwork.
Rubina smiled sadly. “It isn't that, really,” she said. That was not the only reason, in any case, why she had not responded to the handsome pair. They were handsome – Lady Joanna and Lady Wyldred were both looking at her enviously.
They just weren't as handsome as him.
Rubina heard Marguerite shift beside her, the rustle of her soft skirts betraying the movement. Her friend looked into her face pensively.
“My dear, you are troubled,” she said.
Rubina sniffed, not wanting to betray how sad she was. “I'm not,” she said in a small voice.
“Is it him?” her friend asked.
“Who?”
“The wounded knight,” she persisted gently. “I know how much you care about your charges.”
“It's not that...” Rubina began, and then nodded. Better if Marguerite thought that was why she worried. “Yes. Actually, you're right, my dear. I do worry.”
“Well?” Marguerite frowned. “You can go and see him, you know.”
Rubina nodded slowly. “I suppose I can. Father Murdoch would let me in.”
“Of course,” Marguerite insisted. She of all the ladies knew about Rubina's peculiar agreement with the old physician: Having discovered her nursing a wounded servant, the man had allowed her in to help him, whereas before the infirmary had been a strictly male world.
“I'll go after dinner,” Rubina decided, noting that the ladies were tiring of their game of quoits, the sunshine lengthening the shadows as evening fell.
“A fine plan, dear,” Marguerite nodded. “I would offer to come with you, if I thought they'd let me in. A certain man might be visiting his companion, which would...”
She was interrupted by Rubina's delighted laugh. “Oh, Marguerite! I do love your daring.”
Marguerite grinned shyly. “Well, I can't help it.”
They both laughed.
Rubina leaned back in the late afternoon sunshine, feeling a mix of relief and excitement flow through her. She might get to see him at least one last time. It was wonderful.
When she reached the infirmary, the shadows had lengthened, making the entrance to the place a dozen shifting shades of gray dusk, dancing fitfully with the light of a flame, flickering in a sconce.
“Father Murdoch?” Rubina called.
A face appeared in the hallway, and Rubina's heart fell. It was Brother Mathis. One of the monks the physician was training from his own healing knowledge, the man was sour-faced, solemn and a person who believed rules were rules. He also disapproved of the friendship between his superior and a woman.
“My lady?” he said, face stiff with disapproval. “The abbot has returned to our abbey. He left me on in his stead, for he had urgent matters to oversee. If I can take a message to him?”
Rubina shook her head. He radiated suspicion and mistrust of her. There was no way he was going to let her past the door. It wasn't even the old abbot she'd wished to visit! She licked dry lips hesitatingly.
“No, Brother Mathis. It's well. My message isn't urgent.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Rubina sighed. He was standing very pointedly in the doorway. She knew he'd never agree to let her in. She turned away.
She blinked, trying not to cry. She had no idea why she was so sad. It was foolish, probably. She had no reason to wish to see him so urgently. But then...
But what if he goes to his fortress-home? What if his father is readying to face the English and there's skirmishing? What if he's killed?
No, she was going to see him. She looked around the darkening courtyard, thinking hard. Her eye fell on something that gave off a soft glow, something reflecting the shielded flame's light. A white sheet.
Rubina went to lift it and felt her heart pound. It was good linen, not too thick and not too thin. It was, more or less, the same as that of a Benedictine robe.
She was going into the infirmary. Even if she had to go in as someone else.
Bundling the sheet hastily under her arm she went upstairs to her quarters to sew, think and plan, and then to act.