“In English Remy, please. She should hear what we say.” Jisella was shocked that her future husband had an understanding of fairness. Unusual in a man and, so she’d been lead to believe, unheard of in a Norman. His expression was blank, however. He spoke as if he recited rules from a book, not because they were his own opinions. Remy repeated in English, “I didn’t know who she was.” “You didn’t ask,” she chirped. “What else could I expect from a Norman?” Remy paced the great hall, leaving wet footprints across the flagstones. “And…And…” he yelled, shaking his finger at her, “she is a witch!” He pulled on the waist of his chausses, jerking them down to show his thigh. It was fortunate, thought Jisella, that Mother Superior had stayed only a moment. Renard de Robynet had commanded her to leave the hall and the old shrew put up no argument. She never moved her feet with much alacrity, but today she did, especially when this young man quietly and casually threatened to put a sword to her throat for not guarding his future bride sufficiently.
