But for Christin, it was different.
No protection and no armor meant she was soaked through to the skin. As the knights dried off, she sat as close to the brazier as she could get, removing her cloak and gloves, wringing out the skirts of her traveling dress and hoping the heat would dry it somewhat. She was shivering, and her teeth were chattering, and she was quite certain that her lips were blue, so she kept her head down so no one would notice. Peter handed her a cup of hot wine, but she kept her head down as she accepted it so he wouldn’t see her face.
The food began to come. Stewed beef, an onion tart, a pottage of cabbage and turnips, plus bread and butter and stewed fruit. It was a veritable feast and the knights sat down, taking the flat trenchers provided and filling them from the bowls of steaming food.
Christin sat on the end, next to the brazier still, and remained quiet as the men served themselves. She was so determined not to be a bother that all of the food except for the bread was gone before the men realized she had absolutely nothing. Chagrinned, it was Alexander who rose from his seat and went to the kitchens, demanding more food for the lady since she had been cheated out of a meal by four hungry men.
Christin could hear him in the kitchens, barking.
“What is he doing?” she hissed at Peter. “He does not need to go through so much trouble.”
“Let him,” Bric said from across the table, mouth full. “If you give him a free rein long enough, he may very well end up confiscating this entire inn just for you.”
His pale blue eyes twinkled as he said it, leading Christin to believe that he was jesting with her for the most part, but given Alexander’s reputation, there was probably some truth to it.
“That is truly not necessary,” she said. “I did not mean for him to go to the trouble. I could have easily gone to the kitchens myself.”
Bric shook his head, shoving more food into his mouth. “Do you not know when a man is being polite to you?”
Christin looked at Peter, who simply lifted his shoulders. “I fear that she does not,” he said, answering Bric. “She has fostered in the finest homes, trained with the finest teachers, but she is the kind of woman who would rather do for herself. Chivalry does not mean very much to her.”
“That is every man’s dream,” Bric snorted. “Every man dreams of a woman who does not make demands of him. Lady Christin, you should fetch the best husband in all of England with that attitude. In fact, if I thought your father would not grind me into mincemeat, I might offer for you myself.”
Christin flushed a dull red, embarrassed by such talk even though she knew he was teasing her. “And what would you do with me?” she asked. “Keep me locked up at Narborough? I do not suppose you would let me continue serving The Marshal.”
Bric looked at her as if she had gone mad. “Never,” he declared. “The woman I marry will know her place and that will be to make me happy. And anything else I can think of.”
He exaggerated his heavy Irish accent, which made it both humorous and threatening. As he chuckled at his own wittiness, Christin went along with his joke.
“Then God help the woman you marry if that is as much as you think of her,” she said. “Women have minds and opinions, you know. They do very well for themselves.”
Bric pointed his knife at her as he chewed. “You are an exception,” he said. “But, then again, you are a de Lohr. The entire family is full of exceptional people. But women, for the most part, are cattle. They want to be herded, fed, kept warm and safe. Once in a while, they do something useful.”
He and Kevin laughed in agreement. Even Peter grinned until Christin pinched him. “Ouch!” he yelled, rubbing his arm as he looked at her. “What was that for?”
“For concurring with them,” she said, lifting an eyebrow in a gesture that looked very much like her mother. “You think more of women than they do – right?”
Peter made a face at her but didn’t answer, fearful of another pinch. He continued eating as Alexander returned to their table with two serving wenches in tow. The women had two big trenchers full of food and both of them ended up in front of Christin.
Her eyes widened.
“That is a great deal of food,” she said, looking to Alexander. “Truly, my lord… you did not need to go to the trouble, but I am most appreciative.”
Alexander eyed her a moment before digging into his own food. “It is the least I can do for the woman who saved my life,” he said. Then, he looked at the others. “There are three rooms on the top floor and I have confiscated all of them. One is for the lady and the other two are for us. Peter, you and I shall share a chamber because I do not wish to be kept up all night by Bric’s snoring. And if you snore, I shall throw you out of the window.”
Peter snorted in reply, shoveling food into his mouth just like they all were. Even Christin began to eat the stewed beef and carrots boiled in vinegar and cinnamon, but she was still so cold and so wet that she shivered the entire time. The hot food helped but with her wet clothing, even the heat from the brazier against her amounted to little more than hot, damp clothing. She was just drinking the last of her hot wine when she heard Alexander’s voice.
“Peter,” he said quietly. “Look at your sister.”
Christin’s head shot up, looking at her brother with wide eyes, wondering why on earth Alexander should say such a thing. Even Peter looked at her curiously, his mouth still full of food.
“Why?” he finally asked.
Alexander set down the cup in his hand. Those dark eyes were fixed on Christin as he stood up and came around the table. She was looking at him with great curiosity, and perhaps even some fear, when he reached out and lifted her left arm by the wrist.
“Feel her clothing,” he said. “The woman is soaked to the skin and none of us has noticed.”
Peter looked at Christin in horror, touching her sleeve and even her skirts. Alexander was absolutely correct; she was soaked.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. “You are going to catch your death.”
Christin looked at him, at the others, contritely. “It is nothing of concern, truly,” she said. “I am sitting by the fire. I will dry out.”
Peter didn’t believe that for a moment. “You are going to get sick and Mother will blame me. You really should have told me, Cissy.”
He started to get up so he could tend to her, but Alexander shoved him down by the shoulder.
“Sit and finish your meal,” he said. “I am finished already. I will see to our martyr.”
With that, he crooked a finger at Christin, motioning for her to come with him. She was on her feet in an instant, grabbing her satchel and her wet cloak as she followed Alexander from the alcove and into the common room beyond. She trailed behind the man as he moved through the inn, towards the stairs that led to the upper floors, snapping orders to the serving wenches as he went. He ordered a bath and more food to be taken up to the lady’s chamber.
Although Christin wasn’t one to let men that she didn’t know take charge of her, Alexander was different. It wasn’t as if she had any choice; he was leading and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
But it was more than that.
She’d been in awe of the man from the moment she met him and, if she was being perfectly honest with herself, she was flattered that he would take the time to assist her. He made her heart flutter, just a little, and speaking to the man made her feel the least bit jittery. Completely out of character for the normally confident young woman who had never met a man yet who intimidated or interested her.