At The King's Command by Susan Wiggs Page A

strange,beautiful chamber that had once belonged to the wife of Lord Wimberleigh.
    What had the first baroness been like? Had he loved her, hated her, regarded her with cool indifference?
    Had she been responsible for making Stephen into a cold, angry man, or had he always been that way?
    Juliana decided to find out. In the cool morning breeze through the open window, she called Jillie and then waited, absently petting Pavlo’s long, sleek head and listening to the manor come to life—the call of the goose girl, the sound of shutters being opened, the scolding of chickens, voices from the bakehouse. A few moments later, Jillie came into the room, balancing a salver between her arm and hip.
    “Ah, you’re awake, then,” she said briskly, thumping the tray down on a spindly gaming table. “Good morrow, milady. Hungry?”
    “Always,” Juliana admitted, throwing back the counterpane. During her years with the gypsies, she had often gone to sleep with hunger gnawing at her belly. Begging, pilfering and poaching had their limits.
    Jillie rummaged in the carved chest at the foot of the bed and emerged with a long wrinkled robe of finely woven wool. As Juliana put her hands through the gaping armholes, the scent of lavender and bergamot rose from the garment.
    “Uneven dye job,” Jillie muttered, shaking out the folds. “Me da does better work—when he can get it.”
    “Is there no work for a dyer, then?” Juliana peered at the thin brown liquid in the cup.
    “Time was, he had the vats in the dying shed bubbling day and night—year ’round. But the trades have been moving to the cities—to Bath, to Salisbury and even London town.”
    Juliana took a sip. Small ale. Hardly her favorite for breaking her fast. She bit into the bread. The flour had been coarse ground and was mealy; her teeth crunched down on a hard piece of chaff. She was going to have to make some changes around here.
    With elaborate casualness she said to Jillie, “Didn’t the former baroness patronize local tradesmen?” She crumbled the bread crust between her fingers. “Dyers, millers and such?”
    “No.” Jillie looked down at her large red hands. “The lady Margaret never seemed to…to think of such things.”
    Margaret. Her name was Margaret . “I see. What sorts of things did she think of?”
    “Don’t know, rightly. Fashion things, music, needlework, mayhap gaming in the hall.”
    “And her husband.” Juliana hated herself for wanting to know. “Did she think of him?”
    Jillie slapped her hands on her thighs. “Blind me, but I forgot to draw your water, milady. I’ll be back in a trice.” Moving with surprising swiftness, she left the chamber. When she returned with a ewer of warm water for washing, she seemed disinclined to speak.
    Juliana did not press her. She had not a single friend in this place, and she was loath to test the loyalty of her only prospect.
    Jillie helped her dress in a pale peach-colored bodice and gown. “Nance was up late tucking this to fit you, taking up the hem.” She stepped back to survey her mistress. “’Tis a good fit.”
    Juliana heard the flatness in her tone. “But?” she prompted.
    “Ah, listen to me. ’Tis not my place to judge my betters—”
    “Jillie.” Juliana spoke the name carefully. “You must always speak your mind to me.” It felt strange inviting intimacy with a servant. Yet in her present circumstances, she had sore need of an ally.
    “The color’s wrong, milady,” Jillie blurted out. “You’ve a fine rich mass of hair and roses in your lips and cheeks. ’Tis the jewel tones you’ll favor, not this pale washed-out stuff.”
    “Then dye my gowns,” Juliana said simply.
    Jillie’s jaw dropped. “Truly?”
    “Truly. Tell your father I’ll gladly pay his price.”
    “Ah, milady, you’re—”
    A loud clanking sound rattled through the open window. Juliana hurried over, followed by Jillie. In the courtyard below, on the gravel drive, rolled a sturdy cart laden