The Marsh King's Daughter (29 page)
Miriel stood in her Lincoln weaving shed and watched the three Flemings at work. Jan and Willelm were brothers. Gerda was Jan's wife, a heavy-boned woman with blonde plaits and a laugh not unlike the screech of a magpie. All three were excellent weavers and eager to please. In their native Antwerp, competition was fierce and there was never enough wool for the looms. At home their trade was dependent on imported fleeces and yarn from
The sound of cheerful voices calling to each other in Flemish rose above the hubbub of the clacking loom shuttles where broadcloths in blue, red and green stripe were being produced at a rate that Miriel could scarcely believe.
Walter, the apprentice, was occupied in warping up another loom with yarn ready for weaving. His expression was morose, and he made no attempt to join in with the Flemings' banter.
'No news of Ham, Walter?' Miriel asked sympathetically. She came to stand at his side.
His fingers grew clumsy beneath her scrutiny. 'No, mistress. They say that like as not he fell in the Witham, and because it had been raining the river was in spate. Poor old sod didn't stand a chance.' He bared his teeth. 'I should ha' walked home with him that night. Stupid bugger couldn't see the nose in front of his face, and he was well gilded too.'
Miriel laid her hand gently on the youth's narrow shoulder. 'It is no one's fault,' she said firmly. 'I have arranged to have masses said for the safety of his soul wherever it might be.' She had also sent a pouch of silver to Ham's wife and would continue to do so at regular intervals, but that was between the woman and herself. Prudence made her circumspect. After the fuss that Robert had raised about keeping Ham on at the weaving shed, she had decided that for the sake of domestic harmony, a little reticence on the matter would not go amiss. Despite Robert's generosity towards herself, the trait did not extend as far as his business dealings, where his fist was tightly gripped around the neck of his purse and he was utterly ruthless.
'But you think he is dead, mistress, don't you?'
'I think it likely, but there is no use in brooding. Look, we are growing short of green yarn. Leave the loom and go over to the dyehouse to see if Master Jack's got any.'
'Yes, mistress.' Walter rose with alacrity and almost ran out of the door - as if he were trying to outrun his thoughts. Miriel sighed, and with a shake of her head took his place to finish the task. She could imagine how he had sat here brooding, his hands busy but his mind free to wander.
It was pointless to speculate about Ham's disappearance. The old fool had drunk one too many cups of ale and paid with his life. She did not doubt that he was dead. He was too well known in the community not to be discovered, and too lacking in eyesight to get very far. He had doted on his wife and would not have left her worrying and wondering.
Robert had been taciturn on the subject, but generous enough not to remark that it was for the best, and Miriel had been glad at his restraint. On the few occasions that they had quarrelled, Miriel had found herself struggling, faced by a player of great skill and subtlety. Robert neither blustered nor raged; indeed, he seldom raised his voice. He got his way by a mingling of fact-twisting, bullying, cajolery and what seemed at the time like plain reasoning. Somehow he always made the cause of the argument her fault, and even if she did gain her way, it was still as if he had won.
Eyes narrowed in concentration, she brought the russet-coloured thread round and up, securing it through the notches in the heddle, then round and up again. Her back ached and she felt a flooding sensation in her loins. This morning, as she rose from bed, her flux had started, and she had gone in search of linen pads with a feeling of relief. For all Robert's industry beneath the sheets and between her legs, she was not yet with child. Robert had shrugged at the news. 'What God wills will be,' he had said, and patted her shoulder. It was an unusual statement for her husband to make, since his philosophy was God helped those who helped themselves.
At least she wouldn't have to deal with his demands while her flux ran its course. Although her body had grown a little more accustomed to the vigour of his lovemaking, it was still a discomfort that she endured as a marital duty. The other side of the coin were his kisses, hugs and cuddles, which she actively enjoyed. It was comfortable to sit with him before the fire, her head on his shoulder, while he stroked her like a cat and they talked of the day's doings.
She finished warping the loom and Walter returned bearing a pannier full of green yarn. Robert followed him into the shed, a new cap of Lincoln weave set aslant on his tawny mane, a peacock feather waving jauntily at the autumn day. He was stocky, carrying just a little too much weight about the jowls and midriff, but in motion he had the graceful tread of a man much lighter.
The Flemings ceased their chatter to rise and bow. Smiling, he waved them back to work, and came to greet Miriel.
'Sweetheart.' He kissed her cheeks and then her lips. 'We've a guest tonight. I've promised him a fine supper and excellent conversation.'
'A guest?' Miriel looked at him, not entirely delighted. The ache in her back was fierce and she knew from experience that it would grow worse. And some of Robert's merchant friends and clients could be tiresome.
'The ship's master,' Robert announced. 'He'd been escorting a cargo of spices upriver by barge, and I met him in the market place.'
Miriel relaxed slightly and smiled. She liked Martin Wudecoc, and it would not be so much of a chore to provide for him. 'I had best go to the market place myself then,' she said and, in a deft movement, unhooked Robert's purse from his belt.
His eyes widened and he puffed out his chest, before releasing his breath on a reluctant laugh. 'It's your cloth he carried to Flanders as well,' he pointed out.
'But you invited him, and I'm the one who has to see to this "fine supper",' Miriel retorted smartly, and swept out of the door.
Nicholas sat on the feather mattress in The Angel's loft room. A full pouch of silver had ensured that he had to share neither room nor bed with occupants other than of his choice.
'What is he like, this merchant who has asked you to dine?' enquired Magdalene, tucking the fresh linen sheet around her ample, freckled breasts. She had departed her regular employment at The Red Boar in Dover in favour of a journey to Lincoln with Nicholas.
'He's an important wool merchant. I'm contracted to carry his fleeces on Pandora's Daughter, so most of his dealings have been with Martin, but we meet now and again to negotiate and discuss business.' He left the bed where they had recently spent a pleasant hour's dalliance, and took a fresh linen shirt from his baggage.
Magdalene eyed the lean contours of his body with appreciation and tucked a silky strand of red hair behind her ear. 'Is he rich?'
Nicholas donned the shirt and regarded her with amusement. 'Very, and never late to settle his account.' He reached for his tunic. 'Unfortunately, his invitation did not run to a companion.'
Magdalene pouted. 'You just don't want me to meet someone who might take an interest.'
'Oh come now!' he laughed. 'You know my kind, and I know yours!'
She scowled at him for a moment, her frown almost too large for her brow, and then her lips twitched. She grabbed one of the bolsters and threw it at him.
Nicholas gave an exaggerated duck and wagged his finger at her. 'Hurling the bedclothes at me won't change matters, and besides, Robert Willoughby is a soundly married man.'
'Most of them are,' Magdalene retorted drily. 'You, my love, are an exception to my usual kind of customer.'
He snorted and latched his belt. 'I'll take that as a compliment. What I meant was that Willoughby is but recently married, and to a lass at least half his age, according to Martin. A woman of means, brains and beauty. The merchant is besotted by her. You could walk into the room clad in naught but your hair, and he would not notice.'
Magdalene considered this and sucked her index finger. 'Then you had best behave yourself,' she murmured. 'I would hate you to return to me a gelding for the sin of eyeing up someone else's property.'
'Small chance of that,' Nicholas replied confidently. 'I'm not one to fall for female charms, no matter how temptingly wrapped. Business arrangements are by far the best.'
Magdalene arched her brow as he leaned over the bed to kiss her lips. 'I do try to please,' she said, with a hint of sarcasm that he chose to ignore.
Most people rich enough to possess napery liked their table cloths to be of tightly woven white linen with embroidered borders. Miriel, however, had chosen Egyptian cotton. This too was tightly woven with an Arabic damask pattern, and instead of being white, it was dyed a soft apple-green. Draping the trestle in the main room it was a perfect foil for the silver-gilt goblets and platters, and a newly acquired aquamanile in the shape of a snarling lion. Brass lamps suspended from the rafters cast a soft glow over the table, and their light was augmented by more silver gilt in the form of a candelabra standing on the thick stone sill.
Miriel placed a bowl of ground spices on the table and stood back to admire the finished effect. Perfect. Although there had not been time to arrange numerous courses, she had done her best, and from what she knew of Martin Wudecoc, he did not stand on ceremony and his tastes were simple. A pottage of cauliflower and cheese served with wastel bread, a pork stew simmered with honey, mustard and cider, and a raisin curd tart should satisfy the heartiest appetite and still keep the palate stimulated.
Satisfied, Miriel went to change from her working gown into a sleek affair of forest-green silk, the sleeves tight to the wrist. Robert would have liked to see her in extravagant hanging sleeves as worn by the women of the nobility, but Miriel found them so impractical as to be useless. It had been bad enough wearing the wide sleeves of a nun's habit, let alone dealing with swaths of fabric that trailed on the floor.
The drag in her loins felt like someone sharpening a dull knife on her pelvic bones and there was a solid ache at the back of her eyes. She drank feverfew in wine to blunt the pain and changed her soiled linens, adding an extra layer of padding. Elfwen arranged a simple veil of cream silk over Miriel's tawny braids, and secured it with a circlet of hammered gold.
Miriel studied the result in her hand mirror. The dark circles beneath her eyes made them look sultry, as if she had just risen from the bed of a lover. There was nothing she could do about that; resorting to cosmetics would only compound the impression. She pinched her cheeks and compressed her lips to give them a little more colour, then put aside the mirror and went below to await Robert and their guest.
They arrived together a little before dusk, having met by chance outside the great cathedral near the top of the hill. Will barked loudly at the door, and Miriel looked up from the weaving accounts and tallys she had been studying. The sound of masculine voices raised in good-humoured conversation filled the entrance. She stuffed the tally sticks back into their calfskin bag and hastened to greet the men.
Robert strode forward, a jovial grin parting his beard. 'Smells good,' he said, planting two hearty kisses on her cheeks. Then he stepped to one side and indicated his guest. 'Wife, I want you to meet Nicholas de Caen, owner of Pandora's Daughter.'
Miriel felt as if she had swallowed a gallon of ice. She stared at their visitor and swayed where she stood. He carried more weight than had the gaunt-boned youth at St
Catherine's, and his skin was an outdoor tan-gold, seamed with a sailor's creases, but none the less, it was him, and there was nowhere to run.
He returned her look, shock widening his eyes too. And then they narrowed, and his lips developed a sardonic curve.
'Mistress Willoughby.' He inclined his head in irony that was obvious only to Miriel.
She swallowed and raised her fingertips to the tight lump in her throat. 'I thought... I was expecting Master Wudecoc,' she croaked.
'He is one of my captains,' Nicholas said pleasantly, 'currently at sea with a cargo of alabaster for
'Come, Miriel,' Robert chided, 'we don't want to stand in the passage all night, and I'm as hungry as a bear.'
Lowering her eyes and forcing her legs to move, although they felt as if they had been turned to wood, Miriel led them to the trestle she had earlier decorated with such satisfaction. She knew that she would be unable to eat a single morsel of the meal prepared.
Nicholas was gazing around the room, taking in every aspect, from the expensive stone chimney to the brightly painted shutters closing out the dusk. She could see his mind calculating and arriving at entirely the wrong conclusion. 'You have a very fine dwelling,' he said softly.
'It is my former family home,' Miriel answered, her cheeks blazing. 'I grew up here.'
'Indeed?' Nicholas raised the eyebrows of a vastly interested guest. 'And have you always lived here, Mistress Willoughby?'
'No,' Robert answered for her, waving an expansive hand. 'She was wedded to a good friend of mine in Nottingham, but after he died, we came to courtship and then marriage -and love her dearly I do.' He smiled benevolently at Miriel. 'Her kin that dwelt here died and, as sole heir, she inherited last year. We divide our time between here and Nottingham, don't we, my dear?'
Miriel smiled wanly. 'Yes, Robert.' Jesu, she thought, I sound like my mother. Her legs were shaking so badly with shock that it was a relief to sit down at the trestle and let Samuel pour wine into the silver-gilt cups.
'How many ships do you have, Master Nicholas?' she asked with a bright and brittle smile.
'Four for the nonce.' He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb. 'A fifth is due to join them soon, and I have a fleet of barges running from Boston up the Welland and Witham, carrying supplies inland.'
'You have made your fortune then.' She took a nervous gulp from her goblet and was shocked to find it down to the dregs already. Robert was giving her strange looks. Steady, she told herself, steady.
Nicholas's blue-green eyes were accusing. 'Against all the odds, yes,' he replied. 'I would have been in this position sooner, but some of my capital was stolen by a thief in the night.'
Miriel watched Samuel refill her goblet, and resisted the temptation to grab and down the Gascon wine in one gulp. 'How terrible,' she murmured.
He shrugged. 'I'll get even someday.'
Miriel clasped her hands and looked down at her empty platter, soon to be filled with cauliflower pottage. Please God let me wake up from this nightmare, she prayed. Not that she had any hope of God listening after the way she had treated him at St Catherine's.
Robert looked at Nicholas, respect in his eyes for a man after his own heart. 'Aye, so would I from anyone who trod on my toes,' he said. 'But at least it has not set you back too far.' A note of amiable envy entered his voice. 'I wish I had been as successful at your age.'
Nicholas smiled. 'I suppose that hardship breeds determination. I've been fending for myself a long time.'
Samuel served the cauliflower pottage and the white wastel rolls. Somehow, Miriel forced her will beyond the fact that her stomach was sticking to her spine, and managed to swallow a passable amount whilst making polite conversation. Her worst nightmare had come true: Nicholas had found her. The only consolation was that the prospect of him doing so no longer hung over her like the sword of Damocles, and she could prepare to do battle. In a way, it was almost a relief.
'Are you married, Master Nicholas?' she enquired as the pottage was cleared away and the pork stew served.
Nicholas, who had shown no sign of nerves and scraped his dish clean, turned to her with a glint of sardonic amusement in his eyes. 'In truth I have no time for a wife,' he replied. 'The sea and my ships are all the women I need. It might have been different once, but the wench in question proved not to be all that she seemed.'
Heat burned Miriel's face. 'None of us are,' she retorted, and again caught Robert's questioning stare.
The ghastly evening dragged on. Will disgraced himself by taking an instant liking to Nicholas, begging at his feet and finally ending up in his lap, an expression of doggy delight on his little pointed face. Miriel could have kicked him.
Robert grimaced. 'The nearest he gets to affection for me is pissing in my boots.'
'I've known women similar,' Nicholas commented, making his host chuckle. 'The wrong sort, of course,' he added, and then inclined his head to Miriel who was scarlet with rage and mortification, her lips pursed in fair imitation of Sister Euphemia. 'I apologise if I am embarrassing you, mistress. When a man spends so much time at sea, in the company of other men, he tends to forget his manners in a gentler presence.'
'I am no tender flower to take offence so easily,' Miriel answered, but her tone was far from gracious. 'I could not run my weaving business successfully if I was offended by every snippet of foolish banter.'
Nicholas grinned, conceding her the point. 'I am glad you see matters in that light,' he said, and smoothly changed the conversation, asking Robert about his wool quotas.
Finally, as the candles burned low, Nicholas rose to take his leave, dusting white dog hairs from his dark woollen tunic. 'My thanks for the best meal I've eaten all year,' he said to Miriel at the door, 'and for an entertaining evening. I hope that we may share company again soon.'
Miriel forced a smile, her own hope precisely the opposite, and nodded her head as if agreeing with him. She left Robert shaking Nicholas's hand and wishing him well, and returned to the main room where Samuel and Elfwen were clearing the trestle. The pale green cloth was stained with gravy drips and crumbs. The candles on the sill were guttering. What had been perfect was destroyed. She had no doubt that he would seek retribution.
Robert came back into the room, rubbing his hands in the manner he used when pleased with life and himself.
'Well then,' he said as he tilted wine into a goblet, 'what did you think of our sea-captain?'
Miriel poured wine of her own and shrugged. It was safe to drink now, and she needed the oblivion.
'You have no opinion? That is unusual for you, my dear.'
'What is there to say?' Panic fluttered in her belly. What indeed? She imagined telling Robert the truth, and immediately cancelled the vision. Generous he might be, loving he might be, but understanding he was not.
Robert tilted his head to one side. 'I thought I detected a hint of hostility towards him earlier, and you're certainly on edge at the moment.' His voice ended on a questioning note.
Miriel cast hastily round for an answer. 'If I am, it is nothing to do with him,' she lied. 'I began my flux today and I'm out of sorts.'
'Ah yes,' he nodded, and scratched the side of his face in a covert sign of masculine embarrassment. A glint of disappointment filled his eyes too at the knowledge that for a week he would be unable to lie with her. 'But you still have no opinion?' he asked.
Miriel could have sown seeds of doubt in Robert's mind; she could have turned him against Nicholas and made sure that their door was barred to him in the future, but she found herself unable to pile a second treachery on top of the first. 'I think you have chosen a good man for the task,' she said.
'Yes. I thought at first he was too young, but he has scuppered my doubts.' He grinned at his own weak jest. Miriel responded with a dutiful smile. 'Forgive me if I retire,' she said. 'I'm weary.' It was not a lie; she felt utterly exhausted.
Robert made an open-handed gesture of dismissal, and sat down before the fire with the remains of the flagon.
Miriel climbed the stair and fell on to the bed. Her back was aching ferociously and she had a blinding headache. She craved the oblivion of sleep and knew with hopeless certainty that it would not come.
It was very late when Nicholas returned to The Angel. The cathedral bells had tolled the hour of matins and the city was dark and silent, all fires covered for the night, all the shutters barred. The landlord let him in with a heavy frown that was only lightened when Nicholas pressed a coin into his palm. By the sputtering light of a single rush dip, Nicholas skirted the trestles and made his way to the loft.
In the bed, Magdalene turned over and sat up. She had left a candle burning and in its glow her red hair shone like new copper.
'I thought you had abandoned me.' Her voice held a querulous note. 'I have been lying here listening to that damned bell ringing the hour and wondering where you were.'
Nicholas repressed the urge to snap at her. Tonight's happenings were none of her fault, and although their arrangement was one of business, still there was an undercurrent of care and concern. 'My client wanted to discuss shipping matters,' he said, extinguishing the rush dip and setting the holder on the coffer. 'I could hardly get up and walk away just for the lateness of the hour.' The lie and the slightly exasperated tone came easily. It was no concern of hers that he had been walking the streets of Lincoln for the past two hours, his mind a quicksand of conflicting thoughts and emotions.
Magdalene pouted at him, but more as an end to the protest than a continuing sulk, for she was essentially good-natured and solidly pragmatic. She flapped back the covers invitingly. 'Fortunately, I have been keeping the bed warm,' she purred.
The smell of her fragrance flowed out towards him in sensuous waves. The curves and hollows of her body beckoned, offering comfort, offering joyous, uncomplicated lust.
Tearing off his clothes in haste, Nicholas leaped into bed, pulled the covers over, and buried himself in her welcoming embrace.
When they had finished, and she curled up against him, murmuring sleepily, Nicholas lay awake, staring at the rafters. His body was sated, but his mind was far from a state of peace. Nor had he really expected the act of physical release to perform any alchemy. The spell was too deep for that.
He had found her, something he had dreamed of doing but never expected to happen. Gone was the nun with the haunted eyes, gone the drab 'widow' in that awful dress he had chosen for her. In their place was an elegant young woman, if not poised, then certainly accomplished and making as much of a success of her life as he had done of his. She had not looked ruthless, sitting there at the trestle struggling with her composure, but he had no doubt that she was. Robert Willoughby had said that she was the widow of a good friend. She must have wasted no time in finding a 'suitable' husband for protection the moment she had run from that alehouse in Nottingham. And on his death she had married one of the most influential wool merchants in the Middle Counties.
Jesu, she must be sweating now, Nicholas thought grimly. He could make things more than awkward for her if he so chose. And why not? She had stolen his money and the Empress's crown. But if he exposed her, then she would just as surely expose him and instead of being welcomed in the keeps and royal palaces of the realm, he would be hunted from boundary to boundary, coast to coast. In the end they would both hang.
He fell into a restless doze and half dreamed, half imagined that he and Miriel were prisoners, bound face to face on a muddy shore with ropes of gold. Out in the distance, beyond hearing, but trembling through their bodies was the muted thunder of the returning tide.
At dawn, Robert left Lincoln for the monasteries at Nocton and Thornholme in search of more wool contracts. Miriel was relieved to see him go. He would be spending at least two nights away, giving her the time she needed to restore her balance. She would have found it impossible to act the role of cheerful, smiling wife so soon after last night's happening.
Usually she would have faced the business of the day with relish, but all she felt was dread as she forced down a crust with a cup of buttermilk. Bare of all napery, the trestle was just a plain board of scrubbed oak. A deep notch scarred the edge. She could remember cutting it with her grandfather's knife as a mischievous five-year-old. The deed had been whim and curiosity, rebellion and daring. Whether it had been worth the whipping she received was debatable.
Impatiently, Miriel pushed aside the loaf, donned her cloak and picked up the bag of tallies she had been sorting the previous day.
'You be going to the workshop, mistress?' enquired Elfwen as she removed Miriel's cup and the uneaten bread from the trestle.
'Presently,' Miriel nodded stiffly. 'First I have some other business in the town.' 'I'll fetch my cloak.'
Miriel grimaced. The girl had taken to heart the general rule that a woman of means should have a maid to accompany her wherever she went. 'No, that won't be necessary.'
'But it won't take me a—'
'I said, it won't be necessary,' Miriel snapped, colour branding her cheeks. 'Give me leave to know when I do and do not need your attendance.'
Elfwen reddened too. The stiff curtsey she made had more than a hint of a flounce.
Miriel cast her eyes heavenwards. She had neither the patience to argue nor the slightest intention of yielding for the sake of Elfwen's notions of propriety. 'If I am sought, I will be in the workshops before the ringing of the prime bell,' she said haughtily and swept out. The dignity of her exit was somewhat marred by Will, who insisted on worrying at the hem of her cloak with ferocious growls until she was forced to pick him up and tuck him in the crook of her arm.