Three French Hens by Lynsay Sands

here now. He will—”
    “Today they appoint the Lord of Misrule. All will be chaos all day. ’Sides, he will not bother with me—
you
. He will be drinking and carousing with Lord Menton. You can easily avoid him.”
    Brinna shook her head grimly. “I cannot.”
    “You must,” Joan hissed, grabbing her hand desperately and giving it a squeeze. “Just this one last time.”
    “But—”
    “You got me into this,” Joan said accusingly, her patience snapping, and Brinna’s eyes widened in amazement.
    “Me?”
    “Aye, you. If you hadn’t let Royce drag you off to the stables for a quick tumble like some cheap—” She snapped her mouth closed on the rest of what she was going to say and sighed.
    “How did you find out?” Brinna asked, her voice heavy with guilt.
    “What do you think Father wished to speak to me about?” she asked grimacing, then bit her lip miserably. “The wedding is tomorrow. I have to warn—” She snapped her mouth closed again and frowned, then turned away, took two steps, then turned back. “Please? Just this one last time. You will not be discovered. I promise. Truly, you know as well as I that ’twill be chaotic today.”
    “Not at Mass it won’t be.”
    Sensing that she was weakening, Joan pounced. “You shall leave late for Mass. That way, Father will be seated at the front with Lord and Lady Menton, and you and Lord Thurleah will be at the back of the chapel. Just don’t let Thurleah dawdle once Mass is over and it should be all right.”
    Brinna blew her breath out on a sigh, then nodded and continued to undress, wondering as she did why she had even hesitated. She wanted to do this. She was eager to spend any little moment of time with Royce that she could while she could.
    “Oh, good,” Joan said.
    Brinna whirled from closing the bedroom door to stare at Joan in amazement as she rushed toward her. Truly, she had not expected the other girl to be there yet. She had thought Joan would spend every last moment of freedom she had as far from this room as possible. Actually, she had rather hoped that Joan would. After the day she had had, Brinna could have used a few moments of peace and quiet.
    As per Joan’s instructions, Brinna had kept Royce waiting that morning, leaving him cooling his heels in the hall as she and Joan had paced nervously inside the roomuntil Joan had determined that enough time had passed so that Brinna and Royce would be late for Mass and end up seated far from Lord Laythem and the possibility of his noticing something amiss. And the girl had been right. Mass was already started when they reached the chapel. Royce ushered her to the nearest seat, as far from her “father” as Brinna could have wished, and they had sat silently through the Mass.
    Royce would have waited then to return to the great hall with the other Menton guests, but Brinna had exited the moment it was over, forcing him to follow or leave her without an escort. She had apologized prettily once they were out of the chapel, claiming a need for air with a suggestive smile that had made his eyes glow with the memory of the last time she had proclaimed a desire for air. Moments later Brinna had found herself locked in his arms in a handy alcove, being kissed silly. And so the day had gone, with Brinna spending half her time dodging Joan’s father and the other half locked in Royce’s arms in some handy secluded spot. The only chance she had had to relax was during the feast itself. She, along with everyone else, had cheered the crowning of the kitchen lad who usually manned the spit as the Lord of Misrule, then had helped Lord and Lady Menton and most of their younger guests in serving the servants while Joan’s father and another guest had taken on the role of minstrels and attempted to provide music for the celebrants.
    Once it was over, however, Brinna had again found herself dodging Lord Laythem and spending more and more time in dim corners and dark alcoves, her head growing