Seven

 

Unbeknownst to Margareta or Penelope, the nuns had commissioned a stone plaque to mark Sir Godfrey's grave. The stonemason brought it on his pony cart and the nuns decided to make it into a solemn celebration of the knight's deeds. Penelope and Melitta walked at the head of the procession, followed by most of the priory's residents, who had traded their white robes for mourning black. The pony cart brought up the rear, kicking up a great deal of dust that spurred Margareta to hurry to the front, where she could walk at Penelope's side, ostensibly to offer the widow support.

Penelope walked with her spine straight and her head held high. Her eyes were dry, and though her gown was as black as those worn by the nuns, her face was unshadowed.

Either there was little love between Sir Godfrey and Penelope, or her sorrow ran so deep she could not bear to show it on the surface, Margareta mused. She watched Penelope through the drawn-out erection ceremony, as the knight's monument was carried from the cart to its final resting place over his grave and a great number of prayers were uttered for his soul, but Margareta could not decide the truth of her friend's heart.

She had no chance to ask her during the sombre funeral feast in the priory's great hall, where the silence was broken by Melitta's insistent wail that it was time for her meal, too.

Penelope excused herself and Margareta followed her back to her chambers. The widow and her daughter slept in one of the priory's guest apartments, large, airy rooms with windows facing the sea. Penelope had set up her loom before one of the windows, where the light was brightest, though she had not yet started to make cloth.

Penelope took her accustomed position on the bed, propped up by pillows, as she fed Melitta. Margareta had seen the other woman feed the infant many times, but it still made her hungry for something she could not yet have. Not the milk – there were goats and cows aplenty on the island, and she could send down to the kitchens for fresh milk any time she wanted. No, she wanted a child like Melitta. To beget a child, she would need a husband, though, and would the child be enough to keep her from mourning if she lost her husband?

"You think me heartless, don't you?" Penelope said suddenly. She laughed softly. "No, I am not using magic to read your thoughts. I can see it in your eyes. You think because I do not cry for Godfrey, that I am not prostrate with grief at his passing, that I could not have loved him."

Margareta shook her head, but Penelope had turned her gaze on the baby at her breast.

"You're wrong, you know. He was a good, kind man, and I did love him. Perhaps not as much as he loved me, but then he was passionate in ways that I am not. And it killed him. He believed we were in danger, and he acted recklessly. Without thought. Anyone who'd paused for even a moment's reflection would have seen that the brigands were not interested in me. What was one waddling pregnant woman, when what they really wanted were the novices. Young maidens who were already prepared to serve. I've seen so many such women in the slave markets at home. Maidens fetch a higher price, though they do not remain maidens for long. Too many men believe dipping their wick in one can work miracles, and it's too late for the girls when the men discover what they were told is wrong. The brigands and slave sellers probably spread such rumours themselves, so that they can command a higher price for the girls they capture."

But there were no brigands on Beacon Isle, Margareta knew. Her father would have driven such ruffians off the island in a heartbeat, if he did not choose to hang them. She willed Penelope to read her mind and finally tell her what had happened the night her husband died.

Penelope looked up and her gaze met Margareta's. "I will tell you," she said slowly. "I know you think your rank protects you from the fate awaiting any common-born maiden the slavers capture, but you are wrong in that, too. Without a strong male protector or a powerful enchantress at your side, you are merely property in their eyes – and you can be bought and sold."

And on that chilling note, Penelope began her tale.