It was not that he’d kissed me that distressed me so much as how I’d responded. Oh, sweet Mother Mary, with every fiber of my being I’d answered his Christmas kiss with a wantonness that shocked me.
Frozen in the moment, the movement around me didn’t register until the swirl of skirts and flicker of hands could no longer be ignored. Already the kiss was forgotten and the dance had resumed. After all, what else did one do beneath mistletoe? It was custom. First Saskia and Captain Stoyan, then Iris and Blanche, Tobias and Louisa also kissed, cheeks, mouths, fingers, as they moved around and beneath the greenery.
I wandered unsteadily back to my stool, to the twins who both sought my lap as soon as I sat down, Karel winning, Betje taking second place by my side.
In a daze, my thoughts and flesh afire, I watched the dancing, refusing to look at Sir Leander, even though I knew exactly where he was in the hall and with whom he chose to dance and for how long.
Tobias staggered over, looking as if he wished to say something, but, as he drew closer, he changed his mind and led the twins away instead.
“Last dance before bed,” I called, grateful for the distraction.
“Not till we’ve had frumenty!” cried Karel as Tobias swept him into his arms and spun him around. Finding his feet again, Karel planted his hands on his hips and stared at me, waiting for a reply, determined not to miss any of the fruity pudding he loved.
“Very well,” I agreed, “but then straight to the nursery.”
Leaning back against the wall, I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair. It had come completely loose and fell over my shoulders, forming tangled tendrils around my face. I tried to make it neater. It was a lost cause. Addle-headed, I left my hair undone and sighed again.
“Are you all right, Mistress Sheldrake?”
It was Westel. Standing next to me, on the other side of Betje, who’d fled the dance, he passed me a fresh cup of wassail. I blinked and gratefully took it, swallowing it too quickly. I spluttered and wiped my mouth, aware again of my lips, of Sir Leander’s. I saw the flash of his dark green doublet out of the corner of my eye.
“Shall I get you some water?” Westel pushed Betje aside gently and knelt down. Our eyes were level. He had such a sweet face. No wrong could come from someone who looked like that, could it? He didn’t steal kisses, call me whore, retract it, and then confuse me with his ways.
“I’m fine,” I said slowly. “Just very warm.” I fanned myself with my hand. “Thank you for the drink.”
“Thank you, Mistress Sheldrake.”
Betje tried to grab my attention. Karel ran over, a bowl of frumenty in his hand.
“Are you all right, Anneke?” he said between swallows.
“I think it’s time for you two to go to bed,” I said.
They began to argue, but hearing me, Louisa came at once. “Come on,” she said softly. “It’s well past bedtime. Bring the frumenty with you. Tomorrow’s St. Stephen’s Day and you want to be awake early to receive your gifts, don’t you?”
The reminder of the presents we would exchange was enough to still any arguments the twins were ready to muster. With hugs and kisses, bows and goodbyes, they bid us all good night.
Once they’d left the hall and the dancing resumed, I turned my attention to Westel again.
“For what do you thank me, Westel? The way I see it, I owe you a great deal. Life has been very different since you arrived at Holcroft House. The success of the ale, the quantity we produce, is in large part due to your hard work.”
Squatting, his elbows on his thighs, his fingers pointing toward the floor, Westel considered his response. For all that he appeared open, Westel was a closed book to me. Aware of my thoughts, he flashed a grin. “Aye, and for that I’ll reap my own rewards. But you’ve been so kind to me. You’ve not only given me a job, but you’ve welcomed me into your family and given me a home.” He looked around the room. “I don’t recall ever experiencing merrymaking like this. Christmas past was spent in prayer, in cloisters, and then tending the poor.”
“I don’t imagine you would have spent the day this way where you came from. It must feel strange . . . wrong?”
“Not wrong. Not exactly.” Westel gazed at the floor. “It’s not what I’m accustomed to, that’s all.”
Interpreting that as another thanks, I patted the back of his hand where it dangled above the floor. “You’re very welcome.” I smiled. “I hope you’re with us for a long time, and that you will always enjoy the fruits of your labor.”
“Oh, I intend to, Mistress Sheldrake. Always. No matter how hard or long I’ve to work.”
There was something in his tone that gave me pause, but then he flashed that smile. I nodded and returned it. “May God bless you!” I lifted my cup toward him, inviting him to touch it with his own.
Our cups clicked and for a fleeting second, I saw something in his eyes that reminded me of the icicles that formed over the lintel to the shop. I shrugged the notion off and, in companionable silence, Westel and I watched the dancing.
Little did I know as the music played, the floor thrummed, and my mind settled into a comfortable haze, that this would be the last time I would know real happiness.
Twenty-Four
Holcroft House
St. Stephen’s Day
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
Tipping his comb so the wattle beneath was exposed, the rooster stood atop the stone wall and crowed as I crossed the yard. Wrapping my shawl tightly and striding quickly, my breath was a stream of pearlescence against the coming dawn. The ground crunched, each footstep loud in the still air. As I neared the coop, the soft clucks of the chickens disturbed the peace, followed by snuffling pigs who began to trail my path, searching for something edible where my heel cracked the white mantle of snow. I missed the hounds’ enthusiastic welcome, but assumed Adam must have risen early to walk them.
Pushing open the brewery door and inhaling the rich malty scent that clung to the place the way woodsmoke does clothes, I lit the candles, stoked the kiln, and, as I did every time a brew was ready to be barreled, sang the ale to life.
Lowering my arm into the cold mixture, I sucked the air in through my teeth. Before long, I’d shucked off my tiredness and relished the way the liquid caressed my flesh, adhered to my arm, covering me in a protective layer. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I fancied the fluid grew warm with each verse. Out the window, the sky slowly transformed, the gray swallowed by a whispering palette of rosy pinks and soft yellows before a band of gold fired the horizon. Lost in reverie as I sang, my mind drifted back to last night and the moment Sir Leander kissed me.
It had been so unexpected, and yet, as his lips touched mine, it was as if I too had been sung into life.
A sweet feeling blossomed in my core, my song deepening as I relived the sensations summoned from my body. I remembered the taste of cloves and wine upon his warm, firm lips, his liquid tongue . . . Oh dear Lord, his tongue . . . The scent of pine, the comforting odor of velvet, and something that I couldn’t identify, something that belonged just to him clinging to his doublet. I recalled the silky feel of his hair sweeping my cheek as we closed the distance between us and, earlier, as we moved across the floor, united in our dance in a way that we could never be in life. A tremble shook me. Shutting my eyes, I allowed one arm to drift in the now-tepid ale, while the other tightened around my middle, imagining that it was Sir Leander holding me once more.