“Madame, nothing, save that grey twilight follows a red sunset. Let us not waste words on each other. I am not what you believe; you may not have been what you seem.”
She saw the elder woman’s face redden, her nostrils dilate, her mouth grow pinched and thin.
“Enough. I will leave you to my kitchen wench. She will bring you your food, and you can vent your sauciness on her; she will know how to answer properly to suit the colour of your gown.”
The dame tried to outstare Isoult, but her eyelids flickered, nor did the flush die out of her face till she had relocked the door upon this strolling jade.
In the hall she found Fulk throwing some brushwood on the hot ashes of the night’s fire. An instant flash of Margaret Ferrers’ eyes showed her jealous, doubting temper. She strove to become mistress of herself again—the cold woman whose heart had chastened itself through many years of dread and suspense and perilous pride.
Fulk looked round sharply, challenging her:
“Well, mother?”
She made an effort to put the heat of malice out of her mouth, and in the main she succeeded.
“I have little that needs saying. Trust a woman to see through a woman. We must feed the jade till the swainmote meets.”
“Who is she?”