Rexanne Becnel Read Online Free Page B

plaits, woven with green ribbons and colored glass beads. She donned a pale green kirtle over her chemise and cinched it with a darker green girdle. Finally she slipped on short hose and work clogs.
    She was ready for her first full day as lady of Rosecliffe, save for one important item: her mother’s keys.
    Isolde took the brass ring from where she’d placed it in her trunk, and hefted the linked keys. Simple lengths of iron and brass, adorned with fanciful ends and geometric designs, they yet conferred a considerable power to her who kept possession of them. Keys to the still room and the spice cabinet. Keys to the cloth stores and the granary. To the wine stores.

    She tied the ring of keys onto her girdle and smiled at the beam of light slicing across the dim chamber. The others might be on their way to London and the coronation of the new king, but she was mistress of Rosecliffe, queen for now of her own castle, her own kingdom. By the time her parents returned they would hardly recognize the place, she intended to improve it that much.
    But idle dreaming would not see it done. So she snatched up her apron and headed for the door. The neglected fresco and crucifix in the chapel first. Then she would tackle the hall.
    If the servants thought to rest during their lord and lady’s absence, by midday they were swiftly dispossessed of that notion.
    Odo, the steward, retreated to the castle offices; Osborn fled to the stables. But for the others there was no escape. Her mother kept a good household, and Isolde could hardly improve on its cleanliness, its orderliness, or its organization. But its appearance … That was another matter entirely.
    She had several bolts of cloth hauled up from the storerooms. Red damask, green kersey. A fine striped linen. The head seamstress, Bewalda, protested. “But your mother thought to make bedhangings for her daughters’ weddings with this.”
    “Since there are no weddings presently planned, we will use it instead for new hangings in the hall,” Isolde announced.
    The older woman frowned. “What of this gold braid? ’Tis more like to adorn a fine new tunic for Lord Rand, or for your brother, the young lord.”
    “’Twill dress new screens behind the high table most handsomely,” Isolde countered.
    Bewalda scowled and muttered her disapproval. But Isolde was adamant, and in the end, the seamstress did as she was instructed. By evening Isolde was exhausted, as much by arguing with balky servants as by her actual labors. But she’d made progress. She took heart that the changes were under way.
    At supper she presided over a hall made quiet as much by its missing members as by the weariness of those remaining. Odo left the sanctity of his office only when hunger drove him out, and he approached her reluctantly. “You mother will not
like such an extravagance,” he muttered. “Do you know the cost of a full bolt of linen?”
    “I do. Would you like oysters?” she asked, signaling a page to offer the platter to him. “Oh, did I tell you? I had cook prepare almond cakes.”
    “Almond cakes?” Odo’s sour expression began to ease.
    “Almond cakes?” Osborn echoed from his place on her other hand. Even the silent Father Clemson perked up. “Almond cakes. Mmm.”
    Isolde waved one hand airily, relishing her role as beneficent lady of the castle. “Everyone has worked so hard. I thought they would welcome the treat—though almonds do come dear,” she added, with a sly glance at Odo.
    He cleared his throat. “Aye, they do. But such generosity sweetens everyone and increases the diligence of the servants. Almond cakes are a good investment,” he pronounced. “But not for every night.”
    Isolde grinned at him. “Every other night?”
    She tempted him sorely; she could see that. But responsibility won out over his sweet tooth. “Every third night. Plus on Sundays,” he conceded.
    “Very good,” she agreed. “Oh. I need extra candles for my chamber.”
    Osborn laughed