like most ladies. I just sell my labor now. That is what is different.” That reminded her that, among others, she sewed for Zander. A crimson veil. A gift for a lady. Perhaps he courted his future wife at the meals she did not attend now.
Suddenly, her nostalgia felt foolish and childish. Of course, he would be looking for a wife. The right marriage into an important family would change his life all for the better. He possessed enough beauty and strength to catch a good wife if he sought one, which of course he must do.
She pictured him gifting that veil to his lady, and perhaps helping her drape it over her head and fix it in place with a diadem. She could not see the woman’s face but Elinor assumed she was attractive enough for Zander’s purposes. More importantly, she had a rich dowry, to be certain. Zander would never be so stupid as to marry a poor woman.
“I must go back.” She scrambled to her feet and began throwing the laundry into the big basket.
“I will do that. Go into the river and wash. You will not have the chance again soon. I will turn my back and stand guard, so your modesty is not violated.”
Bathing would be heavenly. One could only do so much with rags and bowls of water. “You promise that you will not watch?”
“I promise, and I’ll make sure no one else does either.” To prove his point, he walked into the reeds.
She looked up and down the riverbank to make sure she would not be seen. Then she dropped her dress down her body and entered the water in her chemise, her laundry soap in hand. Once up to her thighs, she lifted the chemise’s hem and walked deeper until she submerged her lower body.
The water enlivened her with its cold contrast to the day’s heat. She made quick use of the soap on her body and hair, then plunged down to rinse her long locks.
She stood and climbed back out of the river and let her chemise drop. It stuck to her body and legs, but with the heat today it would dry soon. She pulled on her gown and reached for the basket.
“You will not carry it. I will tie it on my horse.” Zander spoke from the edge of the reeds. He looked different. Altered somehow. A compelling power came from him, engulfing her. She found it both frightening and wonderful.
She knew the reason for this change. He had lied. He had watched her in the river after all.
“I will carry it,” she said, annoyed that he had lied and uncomfortable because that trembling power wanted to move into her.
“No.”
“Someone will—”
“Will see a knight helping a woman with a burden too big for her.” He lifted the basket, then leaned down and kissed her lips. Fresh joy breezed through her again. “I will only take it as far as the forge. You can return alone if you want, with the basket on your hip.”
It was heavy, so she agreed and prayed no one who knew her father would notice them.
On the way here she had walked right through the little encampment where the whores plied their trade. Zander led his horse around it, which she thought very thoughtful of him. Those little tents made her think about herself, though, and him, and what had occurred. The beauty and magic, even the pleasure of that kiss, seemed far away already.
She looked at him. He smiled back. As they made their way along the river, she wondered if Zander had decided she had become a woman who could be bedded because she was available, while he courted the woman he really wanted.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Only the Scot might be trouble.” Angus offered the opinion while he sat near the tent’s entrance polishing Zander’s shield. “He’s quick and has a little trick where he feints to one side then quickly swings his sword up in an arc to come down the other side.”
Zander rested on his pallet, preparing his spirit for the competitions to come this afternoon. A strong body was not enough. One’s thoughts must be strong too.
He watched Angus handle the shield. Angus had ten years on Zander, but remained a squire. Had his skills been better, he would have earned his spurs. Most squires became knights, but not all did. Some like Angus spent their lives as squires.
As his name implied, Angus was of Scot blood. Lord Jean Fitzwarryn had fostered