suddenly aware that Lady Anne's gaze had not left her since she entered.
'M'lady?' Master Raffaele prompted.
Anne jerked, then seemed to realize she should speak. 'Master Raffaele tells me that you are a good girl. You say your prayers each day?'
Elena glanced at Master Raffaele, unsure if this was a statement or a question. But Lady Anne did not wait for an answer.
'How old are you, my child?'
'Fifteen summers, m'lady.'
'So young,' Lady Anne sighed. 'And you are unwed? A maid still?'
Yes, m'lady.' Elena had uttered the words before she realized she was lying, well, half lying. After last night with Athan she could hardly call herself a maid any more, but it wasn't a lie that could matter to anyone except herself. She blushed at the memory. It had been the very first time she'd made love to him, to anyone. Surely no one had ever adored a man as fiercely as she loved Athan? She had not known that her body could give her such pleasure, but almost better than that moment of passion had been the warmth and comfort afterwards of lying in his arms under the stars and wanting him never to let her go. She was Athan's wife now, in all the ways that really mattered.
'But I hope to wed as soon as . . . when the priests return and the churches are opened again.'
'Of course you do, child. Every woman hopes to wed and why should you not? You're young and comely, such pretty red hair. I'm sure a husband can be found for you in time. But in the meantime, Master Raffaele tells me you want to work for me in the house. Good.'
There was something strange about Lady Anne's smile, as if she was forcing herself into a cheerfulness that she did not feel.
Your duties will not be onerous. After your labours in the fields, I doubt you will even think them work at all. And of course, we must find you a pretty kirtle to wear, one more suited to your new station. You'd like that, I dare say. But time enough for that, you must be hungry and thirsty after the threshing. Come and eat, we can discuss your duties when you are refreshed.'
Elena looked around her. The long table was bare save for a long band of half-finished gold stitch-work and a pair of small silver scissors such as might be used to cut threads. Lady Anne motioned to a large chest in the far corner of the chamber. It was covered with a white cloth on which had been placed a tiny wooden dish of salt, together with a pitcher, and a platter whose contents were protected by a wicker cover from buzzing flies. A low stool had been drawn up next to the chest.
Elena hesitated. She was ravenously hungry, but she couldn't understand why she was being offered food. Was this some kind of test of her table manners? She'd never eaten in the hall, but she knew from those who had waited at table here that the manor had a whole mountain of rules to be learned — not to scratch your head at the table; not to belch; not to dip your fingers too deep in the shared dish.
These were not rules observed by the men and women with whom she shared her midday bite or her supper. What if she made some dreadful mistake — would she be bundled out in disgrace?
She felt a hand take hold of her elbow and Master Raffaele guided her gently but firmly across the room and seated her on the stool. Flapping his hand to drive away several flies, he lifted the wicker cover to reveal a hunk of bread and slices of cold mutton. Raffaele poured a measure of ale into the beaker and set it beside the bread. Elena glanced up at him, on the verge of saying she wasn't hungry.
As if he knew what she was going to say, he shook his head and murmured in a low voice, 'You must at least taste each thing set before you or Lady Anne will take it as a great insult.'
'But if I do it wrong . . .' she whispered.
'Break the bread, dip it in the salt and bite a piece off. Then take a morsel or two of the mutton, and when you have swallowed it and your mouth is empty, drink from the beaker.' He smiled encouragingly. 'That's not difficult, is it?'