The Ward

Christhilde took a deep breath to calm herself and catch her wind. She had been moving and working ever since the Frenchmen had decided to settle in for a time. It had not been easy work either. Between the clearing of rooms and the moving of the items that the French had brought with them, even Lyse and Christhilde had found themselves forced to work hard to see everything done. And the French had not raised a finger to help. She was glad to know that the keep's men had more propriety than that though, in all honesty, it was little comfort in the end.

Even now as she stood in one of the few places that afforded cool air. She knew that she could not remain there long. The servants were already hurrying back to their own work and her little Sanctuary disturbed their movements. She let out a soft sigh and bowed her head. It was time for her to do something appropriately maidenly. That did not include standing and indulging in the singular chance to feel cool air caress her cheeks and bared neck. She needed to plate the mass of dark waves. It was only proper considering they did have visitors. Johannes would have been ashamed to see her with her hair flying loose and wild as it was. That thought brought a twinge of color to her cheeks which had her turning on her heel.

"Wench!"

The words resounded through the Great Hall and Christhilde couldn't help but flinch in sympathy for whatever woman was being summoned so harshly. She looked back over her shoulder to see that the owner of the voice was none other than Isore du Pondrell, the son of a French vicomte and the large companion of Adhémar Michiel de la Fontaine, Marquis of Sanral. And for some God only known reason, he was staring right at her. "Ah, come 'ere wench!" he summoned her. Her jaw dropped in unladylike shock as some of the servants and guardsmen around the hall murmured in outrage. The French noble frowned and looked around in confusion. "What?" he snapped, demanding an answer. "What? Has your lover given you so high of airs that such a word-"

"She's not a wench mon ami."

Christhilde clenched her jaw and raised her head high. She was not a wench and she had no lovers. She was insulted by the comment, but she couldn't feel outrage. Instead the young woman felt sick to her stomach at the implication. Did allowing her hair to fall down her back and around her body loose make her appear so wanton? She refused to allow that fact to shake her even as her skin paled visibly at the implications of the conversation around her. Not that she heard a single word that was passing between the two Frenchmen. Instead she stood, clenching her hands and trying to take deep breaths.

"Lady Christhilde?" one of the servants, an young blonde haired girl named Hedewigis, gently nudged Christhilde's side to draw her attention back to the two Frenchmen. Both were watching her, one thoughtfully and the other slack-jawed. Her cheeks flushed as she looked between the two men. She knew that she was probably as confused as Isore though her own demeanor was far more polite in this case. A part of her wanted to demand or to at least plead an explanation while another part dreaded knowing why the more dangerous of the two French nobles was looking at her with such a calculating eye.

"I was told that your name was Fabrisse," the words took her so by surprise that she did not have time to stop that gasp that escaped her lips. How could he know such a thing? After all, few in the castle even knew the truth of her origins. "And yet, given the circumstances of your leaving France I suppose that it should not be so surprising that you were given such a simple Germanic name." The gasp this time came from Lyse and Clos who were both standing behind her.

Christhilde forced herself to take a deep, slightly shaky breath before she could even consider answering Adhémar. "And, if I might ask my lord, who are you to make such claims? I am but the ward of my Lord Johannes who was kind enough to give me a home after my parents were taken from me to return home to God."

The snort that Adhémar produced shocked a few of the servant women behind him to cross themselves and likely pray for his soul and his time there. She couldn't blame the women. She had never heard of any good Christian being so perverse towards a statement such as what she had just made. "Then perhaps we should carry on this discussion in privacy," he amended. She felt her stomach clench and twist even as she took an involuntary step back which caused his eyebrow to arch in question.

"Have you no propriety my lord?" Clos demanded stepping forward and hiding Christhilde from Adhémar's view. Lyse stepped forward and hugged the girl she called sister from behind. The older girl turned and looked at her friend, panic evident in her eyes. Lyse pressed a finger to her lips as she took Hilde's hand. Both girls nodded in understanding and slipped out of the Great Hall as Clos continued to lecture the Frenchman about decency and appropriate behavior.