Page 45 of Claiming the Tower
Bess snorted, then considered. “Does he get angry? Is he permitted to be angry, to show it?”
“Yes, and yes. At least in certain ways. He is permitted to take out his visible aggressions in sport, for example. No one will actually ask him what he is angry about. That’s not the done thing. But he can be ferocious. Then he sort of sets his shoulders— I’ve watched him do it from the seating— and says three sentences that indicate the topic at hand. Then there’s further coded conversation later. Gentlemanly, and at least he has the outlet. And the space for, I don’t know, a drink and a cigar and a conversation that’s nominally private.”
“Nominally?” Bess leaned back.
“People so reliably forget about the staff. Especially in the non-magical circles, where they can’t enforce a lack of eavesdropping with suitable charms.” Hereswith flicked her fingers. “Here, for example, as long as the door’s closed.” Hereswith shrugged. “I don’t know what it’s like to be able to be angry. To let that show. To not have consequences from the anger that get in the way.”
“You’re going to be thinking about that for a while now, aren’t you?” Bess leaned forward again. “Should I apologise?”
“No, don’t.” Hereswith shook her head. “Yes, I’ll be thinking about it. I think it’s necessary thinking. But not, perhaps, tonight. Come read to me?”
“Of course.” Bess stood up, clearing the dishes onto the cart and pushing it out into the hall for the staff to tidy in the morning. “It would be easier, I suppose, to be an Anglo-Saxon. I feel like they had fewer restraints on showing their anger.”
“Still unfair to the women. I can quote you chapter and verse.” Hereswith yawned. “Though not tonight.”
“Bed. Time for historical anger— and I don’t know, contemplation of future anger— to come.” Bess put one hand on her back, guiding her off to bed.
Chapter 30
August 23rd at Verdant Court
“I’m glad you asked me.” Bess’s fingers brushed against the dress laid out on the bed. “Oil first, then the petticoats and corset, then the rest?”
“That is the usual order, yes.” Hereswith’s voice quivered, just once, and Bess turned to look at her better. Or rather, to look at her reflection in the mirror. They were in Hereswith’s bedroom, and Hereswith was standing a few feet from her dressing table.
“Ah, love.” The word slipped out before Bess entirely thought better of it, but Hereswith’s eyes widened. “I am glad you asked me to help you dress. I am glad you have asked me to be there.” In an hour, there would be a grand procession to the portal. It would include Hereswith’s father in a basket chair and two hired men to help get it and him to the portal safely. They’d be accompanied by Hereswith’s brothers, their wives, a niece and nephew, and Marcus and William.
Now, though, was for the dressing and the preparation. Bess silently went to the dressing table, picking up the lotion Hereswith had acquired. A particular arrangement with an alchemist Magistra Ventry had recommended, apparently, not the usual sort of thing at all. It had a scent to it not like Hereswith’s usual herbal one. “What’s in this? It smells good, but not what I’m used to.”
It was apparently exactly the right distraction. Hereswith answered by launching into what was obviously an extended passage in Anglo-Saxon. It was something Hereswith obviously knew by heart, but that did not actually narrow down the source a great deal. It might have been some bit from Beowulf, it might have been some poem.
This was a new intimacy, but a particular one. Hereswith had, she said, applied a layer of lotion to herself after bathing. But a second layer, on any bit of skin that wouldn’t have three layers of clothing over it, would also be a good idea. Bess began at her face, smoothing the lotion over her cheeks, her ears, the nape of her neck, up into her hairline, then slowly working down. The chemise was loose enough she could smooth the scented ointment easily. Any other time, she might have dared letting her hand slip down, to the curve of the breast, but not today.
Hereswith held still, as Bess continued, down her arms, attentively tending to each finger. Then she bent to do the same to each foot, up each ankle, to above the knee and the edge of the drawers. When Bess emerged again, Hereswith held out a hand to help her up. “You’re thorough.”
“Always, for you. You get my best. Stockings and then the corset.” That was the usual way of things, and even if Bess wasn’t ordinarily the one helping Hereswith dress, she’d helped her undress enough. The silk slid smoothly up her legs, feeling a hair like armour. The dressmaker had been precise about the lacing of the corset, a fan method. Each pair of holes, left and right, had its own lace, and each lace was apparently imbued with different enchantments and charms. They crossed at the back and then were pulled together around at the front.
Bess preferred fan lacing herself. It made it much easier to get a corset on and off on her own. This was an application she had not previously considered. Now, she made sure all the laces were lying neatly, bringing them to Hereswith’s front, for her to tighten as she wished. “What was that you were reciting? You know my Anglo-Saxon’s not good enough yet.”
“The Nine Herbs charm. That’s what’s in the lotion. Nine herbs, bound together for protection. I really don’t think that venom is the greatest of the risks tonight, but I am particularly well protected against that.”
“It seems a curiously specific worry for the Anglo-Saxons, as well.” Bess admitted that, while she waited for Hereswith to adjust the corset. Once that was done, Bess reached to tuck the ends of the laces so they’d lie neatly, then brought the first of the petticoats.
“Blanch suggested it, as she said, an idiom I am familiar with.” Hereswith shrugged, as the second petticoat went on. Only two today, but with a charm to help keep the skirts full instead of adding more weight. Then came the corset cover, and then the pockets around the waist. Hereswith glanced at herself in the mirror, then said, “The gown?”
“The gown.” This was larger, and Bess took a moment to figure out how to arrange it. It was partly a vast sweep of silk, with a luminous green like the sheen of a peacock, or the glimmer on a raven’s black. The bodice had a base of the same, but with a triangular yoke, dipping down to below the waist, of black velvet embroidered in the green.
As Bess worked, settling the dress and doing up the fastenings, she began murmuring to herself, though hers was in English. “And, thus her deathless head adorn’d, a heav’nly veil she hurls on her white shoulders, wrought by Her that rules in housewif’ries, who wove it full of antique works, of most divine device; And this with goodly clasps of gold she fasten’d to her breast.”
“Am I Hera, then?” Hereswith’s voice was amused, and Bess circled back to the front to smile at her. “Chapman’s translation of the Iliad, yes?”
“Hera, arming herself for seduction.” Bess shrugged once. “There are not so many things to quote about a woman going to a challenge of this kind. I did actually check at the library a fortnight ago.”
That made Hereswith laugh, and relax a little more. “We should have talked about it then. I had too. There’s rather little. Or to be precise, there’s a great deal of vague nonsense about the process of a Challenge. The papers usually have a report of what everyone is wearing, and I do not think I will cause a scandal there. Or much comment, actually, which was more or less my goal.”
“You look stunning,” Bess said firmly. “On the other hand, I suppose I should find you stunning, and hope you are not going off to use your more physical charms on someone else. Not before I can enjoy them with you, at least.”
Bess was about to turn away, but Hereswith lifted her fingers. “Would that make you jealous, then? Not that I have any desire to do such a thing.”
