O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,227

of Good Queen Bess had reason to be aggrieved, that one was Julia. No one was buying her garlands, the rent was due, and Christmas but a few days hence. Yet she had not a farthing to her name.

So, this was all the reward she’d earned for denouncing that murderer Walter de Glanville, was it? To be cast out of her home and her village, deprived of status and possessions? Walter had ruined her, but her revenge had been too public, and when her father had learned of the affair, he couldn’t bear to look at her.

Then insult had been added to injury. The wagon in which she’d fled to London, in the hope of finding employment, had been held up on Hampstead Heath. Her baggage and hanging pocket had been stolen. Were it not for the fact that she’d sewn some gold chains and pearls into her petticoats, she would have arrived in the metropolis with nothing.

“Are those garlands the only thing you’re selling, wench?”

Glancing up, she saw a pair of youths smirking down at her. She knew instantly what they meant—but selling her body was the last thing she’d ever do. Walter de Glanville had bedded her, she’d lost the child that she’d conceived, and the pain in her soul was so intense, she’d sworn no man would ever trespass beneath her skirts again.

“What price is the holly with the red ribbon? Are your lips as red, I wonder?”

She got to her feet. It felt safer, being able to deal with customers eye-to-eye. Even if it did expose more of her chilled body to the merciless midwinter wind.

“Thruppence, Sir. And the mistletoe posies are but tuppence.”

Curse it. She shouldn’t have mentioned mistletoe. Both young men were leering at her now.

“Mistress—is it suppertime yet?” Hal, the orphaned boy who lived with her, bounced cheerfully around the corner. He shot the two “customers” a winning smile.

Damn the boy. She knew that smile—if they refused to buy any of her festive greenery, he’d be helping himself to their purses. She shot him a warning frown.

“Come now, Mistress. The lad wants his supper. We’ll buy a hot pie for both of you, in exchange for a few minutes’ privacy with you.”

“Nay.” She let her anger show, and Hal was beside her instantly, his little frame stretched to its tallest, fists clenched in front of him.

The shorter of the dashing young blades laughed mirthlessly. “Come, Nick—we’re wasting our time on this hag. Let’s be gone.”

The other fellow—Nick—rested his foot on the edge of her basket. “Aye. ’Tis too cold to dispute with a bawdy bitch. Blessings of the season, Mistress.”

He tipped the basket over, and both youths strode off, laughing uproariously.

“I’ll set the constables on them, I will!” growled Hal.

Wearily, Julia set about plucking her beribboned decorations out of the gutter. Everything must be washed and dried now, or she’d never be able to sell it. Could she get the filthy marks out of the silk ribbon? She’d had to cut up her only decent gown to make the ribbons, and she’d almost run out of the cloth.

“Nay, Hal, let’s not get into any trouble. You know we can’t stand up to such as they. Now, help me with this.”

“But you were a great lady, and your blood is as good as theirs.” Hal was fuming, although any who didn’t know him would find it hard to tell. Both his eyebrows had been singed off in the house fire that had killed the rest of his family. His emotions were hard to read from his expression unless one knew him as well as she did.

She should never have taken the street urchin under her wing when she had naught to offer him, but the truth was that she’d have liked a child of her own. She’d been so proud when she’d found herself with child by Walter de Glanville—and she’d expected him to marry her. But she’d lost the babe before Walter had time to seek her hand. The cur had then turned his attention to Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne. Julia had risked her life—albeit unknowingly—to win him back.

Her father had been furious about the clandestine affair. He hadn’t forgiven her when she’d informed the authorities that Walter was a closet Catholic. Father had shown her no mercy when he found out she’d been unwittingly involved in a murder plot. She hadn’t even regained his favor when she’d saved the neck of Clemence’s true love, the irksome Hector de Glanville. A forgiving act, considering