Kitabı oku: «The Passionate Pilgrim», sayfa 4

Chapter Four

The lessons of life had shouldered their way into Merielle’s twenty-one years with more urgency than was usual in one so young, but she had had to learn them fast. One of them was that, although it was acceptable to show anger, being a useful manly emotion, tears, tiredness and temperament were womanly and weak and not for the manager of a business. The rules were hard to stick to for one whose emotions lay naturally so close to the surface, and twenty yards was barely enough distance for her to squeeze back the threatening tears of anger that welled up behind her eyes.

As if he understood, Sir Rhyan proceeded slowly along the verge and then, hidden by a rider who crossed their path, handed back her reins. “Ready?” he said.

She took a deep breath, straightened and nodded, refusing to look at him. The extent of Sir Rhyan’s party was far greater than she had imagined from his casual reference to men-at-arms and guests, making anything more than cursory introductions out of the question in that quickly fading light. For which Merielle was much relieved; anything more demanding would have exposed her as inarticulate as well as stunningly beautiful, not a mixture to do her justice. She caught the names of Wykeham and Yeaveley and nodded briefly to each man without the customary smile, and if it seemed strange to them that Mistress St Martin and Sir Rhyan had only just thought to acknowledge each other after a whole day in the same party, they showed no surprise, nor did they comment.

Two miles farther on, he had said, though no more than that, and Merielle would have entered the gates of Hades rather than ask him where they were bound. She would have whispered to Allene—who was looking particularly smug—but for the fact that her own leather purse-strap was now threaded through the cob’s bridle, its ends in Sir Rhyan’s great fist. Another humiliation. No chance to lag behind.

The dwindling light and her self-absorption joined forces in concealing from her any indication of where she was going or how she reached her destination that evening. Slipping through her bleary senses were acres of wood and parkland, a rising moon, a certain peace after the clamour of the Canterbury crowd, the satin stillness of a lake, drawbridges, greetings and lanterns, welcoming hands and yapping hounds, the smell of roasting meat. Before she could throw off the light rug that covered her legs or protest that she could manage, she was lifted down as orders were given to her grooms.

“They’ll be well tended, mistress. Good stables. Warm lodgings and food. We’ll have your panniers sent in as soon as they’re off. This is Sir Walter Nessey, the castellan. He and his lady will attend to your needs; you have only to ask.”

The castellan bowed, his elegant figure etched sharply in the light of torches that billowed smoke into the blackening sky. “You are most welcome, lady. Your rooms are prepared.” His manner was efficient.

Through arches and over drawbridges they had clattered, across a large compound within walls with water beyond them, another cluster of buildings ahead. Rooms prepared? To have asked where they were at this point would have sounded ludicrous.

The great stone porch led them into a hall of massive dimensions where trestles had been arranged for supper, those on the dais at the far end covered with blazing white cloths on which silver salt cellars and glass goblets twinkled in the light from wall sconces and from the raftered ceiling. Around the dais, fabric lined the walls with muted colours which Merielle knew would come to life in the daylight. Clearly this was no ordinary guesthouse. A castellan? It was a castle, then?

She came to a halt so suddenly that Allene nearly knocked her over. “Sir Rhyan! I need to speak to you,” she hissed as he whirled around to face her. “Now, if you please. Over here.”

He followed her to one side of the mystified group, excusing himself to Sir Walter. “Look,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

She flared, instantly set alight by his placating manner. “You do not know what I’m thinking, Sir Rhyan, nor will you ever know. This place is a castle, is it not? The king’s. How dare you bring me here? Are you entirely devoid of diplomacy, for pity’s sake?”

He shook his head, lifting darkly angled brows. “The king’s not here, mistress. I would not have brought you here if he was. You think he would see some form of reconciliation in our being here together, I know, but this is purely a gathering of his craftsmen to see what can be done to renovate the place, that’s all. If Sir Adam had been here in my stead, he would have called here, too, on the way to Winchester.”

“Where are we?”

“Leeds,” he said. “Leeds Castle. We’re still in Kent.”

“Queen Isabella’s place?”

“It was. She died last August, remember. It’s now the king’s. He’s sent his men to meet here, and I brought two of them from Canterbury.”

“Those two?”

“Yes. William Wykeham and Henry Yeaveley, John Kenton, too. I’m not involved, mistress, I assure you. I escort them to Sir Adam, that’s all, once they’re finished here. You’ll not be disturbed in any way.”

“You’re sure about the king?”

“I swear it. He’s at Windsor, I believe. Trust me.”

The sincerity of his plea found no foothold. “I do, sir. I trust you to find a way of humiliating me at every opportunity.” It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest that she might be accommodated in the queen’s own room to complete the affront, but that would have gone over his head, so she held it back.

As it transpired, her cynicism was prophetic, for the room to which the castellan led her beyond a narrow, hollow-sounding passageway had been used by the late Queen Isabella until last year. He apologised for its old-fashioned shabbiness, believing her words to Sir Rhyan in the great hall to have been a complaint, if her demeanour was anything to go by. It was, he told her, awaiting renovation like the rest of the gloriette.

“Gloriette?” Merielle said, liking the sound of the word.

He knuckled his nose with his fist as if being caught out by the word’s newness. “The keep, mistress. This is the keep, but the Spanish Queen Eleanor used her own term for it. Sounds prettier, and it’s rarely used for defence nowadays. The old queen loved it. Look here.”

He walked over to the deep window recess lined by stone seats cut into the thickness of the wall, and opened the heavy iron-studded wooden shutters. He stood to one side, looking out.

A cool spring breeze came across an expanse of water that stretched further than Merielle could see, even in the moonlight, filling her nostrils with the indistinct scent of bluebells. Beneath the window, the wall of the keep dropped sheer into the water.

“That’s why she loved it,” Sir Walter said. “Water all round and glorious parkland beyond. Good hunting out there.”

“Water all round the keep?”

“All round the castle, mistress. We’re surrounded by it. Like being on a ship without the rocking; you’ll be able to see it properly tomorrow.” He laughed, closing the shutters.

The bustle from the doorway made any response unnecessary; here were her two panniers dragged in by two red-faced lads muttering suggestions as to their contents. Sir Rhyan and the castellan’s wife waited to enter, watching like eagles and communicating to Merielle an impression that her presence here was an event of some importance to them, which she immediately brushed aside as being absurd.

Lady Alicia was as apologetic as her husband about the threadbare elegance, looking around her at the plain wall-hangings whose folds had faded to a paler rose. “It’ll all have to be redone,” she said. “And a new set for this.” She nodded at the great bed.

Merielle glanced only briefly at the structure that dominated the room, too tired to donate much interest or to catch the quick frown that passed from the castellan to his wife.

Redirecting her concern, Lady Alicia pointed out the fire crackling in a stone fireplace set into the outer wall, its white plaster hood rising like a conical hat up to the ceiling. “To take the chill off,” she said. “Water and towels—” she indicated a silver ewer and basins, a pile of linen folded on the pine chest “—and I’ll have food sent up to you straight away. Or would you rather eat in the hall?”

“No, I thank you, my lady,” said Merielle. “It’s been a long day. Please excuse us, if you will. I shall be asleep within the hour.”

The castellan’s wife was round and as plump as a wren, the top of her white starched wimple reaching only to her husband’s chest, her smile squeaking the linen against her cheeks. A woman in her position, Merielle thought, who could dress in the fashions of thirty years ago would have little idea how to begin refurbishing a room fit for the king’s Flemish wife, Phillipa. Even through her exhaustion, she could see that much.

Sir Rhyan began a move to leave Merielle alone. “So,” he said, “if there is anything else you need, you have only to—”

“Ahem!” Sir William nudged his wife.

“Oh, lord, yes.” Lady Alicia opened a small door on one wall and shot through like a rabbit with a flash of white. “Here,” she called. The room was smaller but every bit as comfortable, with two low beds along the walls and a log fire in the corner that filled the air with the scent of burning applewood. “The old queen used to bathe in here, but I thought you’d like your ladies close by.”

“You are most kind,” Merielle told her. “We shall only be here a day—”

“Yes, right then.” Sir William sprang into action, herding his wife out and leaving Merielle to the accompaniment of profuse goodnights.

But Sir Rhyan hovered, holding the door ajar. “Better than a hayloft at Harrietsham?” he asked with one eyebrow ascending.

“Better?” Merielle said with contempt. “In what way better? It’s the company I’ve found myself in that concerns me most. What did you have in mind as better, pray?”

He smiled as he made to leave, poking his head round the door to say, “The security, mistress, what else?”

Lacking the energy to sustain her misgivings, Merielle, Allene and Bess were bound to admit that this was indeed better in every way than having to suffer the discomforts that Harrietsham had offered, particularly over the Sabbath on which no one would travel except those in dire need.

The queen’s chamber was large by any standards, high-ceilinged with carved wooden beams and rafters painted once in bright colours, but now faded. The bed which had concerned Lady Alicia was the largest Merielle had ever seen, giving new meaning to the arranged marriages the royals had to suffer in the name of peace. It was raised on a platform high enough to provide a low seat on three sides during the daytime, the whole expanse draped with a heavy figured silk which Merielle recognised as being of Italian origin, probably from Lucca, its padded edges extending well over the floor of polished wood. Like the coverlet, the back-cloth, long curtains and suspended canopy were of the same faded and threadbare gold-coloured fabric, used yet again on the cushions that dimpled the bed and lined the window-seat. Faded pink and gold warmed the room with rosy colours in the light from candles and fire.

Allene folded down the coverlet to expose fur and white linen, more from curiosity than efficiency. “Sure you want to sleep by yourself, love?” she said, puffing and clambering off backwards.

“Just give me my supper and tuck me in,” said Merielle. “Bess, go and find the kitchen…er…no, on second thoughts, don’t.”

It would have been pointless to make a fuss, but the idea of sleeping in the queen’s bed, any queen, past or present, did not appeal to Merielle in the slightest. In the circumstances, she thought, pushing her feet towards the patch where the warming-pan had been, this was just about the most insensitive thing he could have done, not even her usual tolerance exempting him from blame. Her logic also being at a low ebb, she fell asleep well before she had sought a way to give him the slightest credit for this exquisite comfort.

Warmly wrapped in a fur rug pulled from the bed, Merielle sat in the deep window-seat, her eyes feasting upon the scene beyond the shutters. Allene took up one of her bare feet and pushed a fur slipper on to it, fretting at the cool air that had been allowed in so soon.

“Just imagine, no glass! A queen’s chamber without glass. You’d think she’d have had it put in by now, wouldn’t you? What did she do in winter, d’ye think?”

Sunlight poured into every corner, bouncing off the satin water on to the walls and flooding over the bed-hangings, washing them with a rinse of new gold. Across the lake, birds chased each other in daring swoops, held in the air, then tippling backwards in a celebration of freedom that seemed to emphasise Merielle’s enforced security. Slopes of green that the darkness had hidden slid beneath willows at the water’s edge, holding a team of ducks that dared each other to take the first plunge. Farther along, swans ruffled their feather-beds and made wedges of white at each graceful launch. As far as she could see, woodland bordered the green, but rock was the castle’s pedestal. A breeze sent a dark patch racing towards her and she blinked as it found the window.

Allene was shaking out a sideless surcoat edged with soft grey squirrel fur. “It may be after Easter,” she said, brushing a hand over the crumpled blue velvet, “but there’s still a chill in the air these mornings. And if we’re not going anywhere, you may as well wear your best. Come on, lass. It’ll be time for Mass before you’re ready, and your hair not done yet.”

The pensive young woman stepped down into the room and let the rug fall away. Allene had seen her mistress’s body almost as many times as Merielle herself, yet never did she tire of admiring the faultless skin, the slender waist and hips like ripe pears, the superb breasts, high and full, the long limbs and shoulders now mantled with wave after wave of thick black hair cascading down her back.

Reaching up, Merielle scooped it into her hands and twisted it. “Here, stick it into a caul. As you say, we’re not going anywhere.” Hands on head, she was totally unaware of the picture she created.

“The pink cote-hardie, or the yellow one?”

“Neither. The figured pale grey. It’s loose and comfy.”

“I see. And you’re not going to give ’em an eyeful with the fitted ones. Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

To become a temporary recluse would have been both discourteous and tedious, and Merielle had already prepared herself for the civilities which would be expected of her while she was in their company. But that would not be for long; there was some exploring to do and the silver-grey semi-fitted cote-hardie with its long bodice and sleeves was infinitely less noticeable than pink or gold.

But the result, whether she willed it or not, was enough to turn every head in the small crowded chapel. The blue-grey ensemble, girdled with a silver and enamelled chain around her hips and covered with a fur-lined mantle of pale-blue velvety fustian may have concealed many of the curves, but not the graceful bearing and long neck, or the mass of glossy hair piled into the silver pearl-studded net and the flimsiest of white veils.

She had not meant to be late, but the priest’s intonations relieved her of any muted debate about where she should stand; she sidled into a space at the side of one of the men to whom she had been introduced at Harrietsham. He smiled and made room for Bess and Allene and, at the first opportunity, turned to speak to Merielle in a whisper.

“Rested?” he said. He was tall and large-framed with the leathery skin of one used to all weathers, his eyes sharply observant, his mouth wide and ready to smile.

She nodded, returning his smile with her eyes, aware that some kind of explanation for her former reticence would eventually emerge. “Thank you, Master…?”

“Henry Yeaveley.” He smiled again and nodded towards the figure of Sir Rhyan Lombard who stood a short distance away. “It’s all right. Lovers’ quarrels never last very long, you know.”

A further exchange of words was impossible, and Merielle’s desire to have the remark explained made her participation in the Mass an effort of supreme concentration. Even when the priest’s familiar words found a niche in her thoughts, her eyes were busily assessing the texture of a certain head of dark hair, compact ears and breadth of back beneath a mulberry hood. Lovers’ quarrel? Had he told them that they were lovers, then? Or was that Master Henry Yeaveley’s interpretation of events? She must do her best to correct the mistake.

As though Sir Rhyan had guessed her intentions, he joined her at the altar rail, kneeling by her side and then remaining with her as she struggled to keep her mind about its business. But the Mass, usually so meaningful, was an ordeal. It should not have mattered that the place was so dowdy, that the altar was bare of the usual colourful tryptych or that a chill from the bare walls lent a clammy odour that the incense could not disguise, but she blamed these factors for her preoccupation, then gave in entirely to a similar critical appraisal of the man at her side.

He wore the same tailored tunic as yesterday but, over this, a loose mulberry-coloured cote-hardie which almost reached his knees, loosely belted over narrow hips with wide loose sleeves cut away at the elbows. Yesterday’s leather riding-boots were now replaced by pointed leather-soled hose that clung to his long legs, showing the hardened muscles of an expert horseman, and Merielle’s quick upward glance showed her that he had had time to shave, for his square jaw was smooth, his mouth unsmiling.

He caught the glance, but to his quick greeting Merielle merely inclined her head. Despite her efforts, she could not fault his appearance.

Taking the most convenient excuse to escape his company after Mass, she responded to a greeting from one who plainly expected her to remember him. He was pleasant-faced and in his early thirties, though already balding, perhaps a few years younger than Master Yeaveley. Master Wykeham’s courtesy was impeccable.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you, mistress, since I heard that you were to be with us, that I own a tapestry made in your late husband’s workshop. A St Martin tapestry, no less.” Spreading his hands apart to the width of a platter, he smiled, ruefully. “Alas, it is only so big. The only one I could afford at the time.”

Judging by his handsome, well-cut tunic, Merielle felt it was safe for her to suggest, “Then I think it’s time you paid us another visit, Master Wykeham, when next you’re in Canterbury. You are no doubt ready for a larger piece.”

His ready smile became a laugh. “Ah, a good salesman, I see. Well, we shall certainly be glad of your contribution to liven this place up a bit. Have you had a chance to look round yet? Of course, a new storey above this one is what this part needs most. More rooms, you know.” His lively commentary on the castle’s main requirements, broken by the single file of narrow passages and doorways, was kept up all the way to the hall where the castle’s inmates stood waiting to break their fast. His inclusion of herself in the working-party was, she supposed, part of his natural enthusiasm and civility, and so she attended with half an ear, using the other three halves to catch the voice of Sir Rhyan behind her.

The high table, again covered with white linen, glass and silver, was soon filled by those who had been at Mass in the chapel, a development which surprised Merielle for she had believed them to be of the castellan’s household.

Master Wykeham stayed by her side, happy to take up her query. “Ah, no, mistress. Like us, they are craftsmen in the king’s employ. Most of them have been here since Friday, but no one was allowed to use the queen’s room till you arrived.”

Again, his inclusion of herself amongst them puzzled her and she looked to see who was nearby to give a more balanced view of the business. But Sir Rhyan was edging his way purposefully along the table, past others with similar intentions. “My privilege, good sirs, as the lady’s official escort,” he was saying, good-naturedly wedging his way into the space at her side. And though they grinned and grumbled, they gave way at his persistence.

“There was really no need, Sir Rhyan,” Merielle whispered as the hall shuffled into silence for the chaplain’s grace. “With all these courteous men at hand.”

The ensuing clatter covered his reply. “Yes, I seem to have heard that before, and look where it got you. From now on, I shall be keeping you by me, whether you like it or not.”

She could not resist baiting him. “You think Sir Adam would prefer me in one piece, then, do you?” she said, not looking at him.

“I think, lady, that it doesn’t matter a damn what Sir Adam would prefer. He’s not getting you.”

No doubt he was provoking her for the sheer enjoyment it gave him, but for the life of her she could think of no answer to that, short of losing her composure. Moreover, she found it difficult to understand his meaning. Was he still determined to interfere in her plans, whatever they were?

Master Wykeham was more than happy to divert her attention, pointing along the table at those assembled on the king’s matters: William Hurley, John Sponlee, Henry Rutland, John Kenton and young Walton, Master Yeaveley’s assistant. “Yeaveley’s the king’s mason now, you know. Brilliant architect. He was made a freeman of London five years ago. Nothing he can’t tackle.”

“And you, Master Wykeham? Is that your craft, too?”

“Not in his league,” he said, modestly. “No one is. I have to make myself indispensable in other ways.”

Merielle did not doubt that he would. He had the knack already. “How?” she said.

“I’ve been in the king’s service, one way or another, since forty-seven. Started with the royal hounds. I’m surveyor of Windsor Castle and parks at the present time, in charge of building works in the Upper Ward. His grace wants me to take a look at this place, now it’s come into his hands, before we go on to Winchester.”

“To see my brother-in-law, Sir Adam Bedesbury? Good. I had no idea you were to come, too.” She allowed herself a convenient lapse of memory.

“And Master Kenton, the king’s painter. Sir Rhyan is borrowing him, I believe. Did he not tell you that, either?”

Hearing his name, Sir Rhyan leaned forward. “No, William. Not yet. We have some catching up to do.” The ambiguous words and the conspiratorial half-smiles spoke volumes, removing any doubt in Merielle’s mind that both Wykeham and Yeaveley had reached the same conclusion about her relationship with Sir Rhyan.

She would put a stop to it, here and now. “Master Wykeham, I must tell you…” she began.

A young squire held a basin of water between them; by the time another page had poured water over their fingers and patted them dry on the towel draped over his shoulder, her audience of one had switched his attention to his other side. She turned on Sir Rhyan instead, but he was ready for her.

“Not now,” he said, placing slices of meat on to their shared trencher of bread. “Too many ears. We’ll discuss it later.”

“What have you told them?” she insisted, glaring at him.

“That you’re a spitfire who needs taming. Here, eat that.”

She gasped. “And you told them that you would take the responsibility upon yourself, yes?”

“Correct. Go on, eat it. You’re being watched; don’t choke.”

His advice was appropriate. Merielle was never more close to choking than at that moment. She swallowed, hard. “Thank you for the early warning. I’m sure they’ll understand better when I give them my version of the story next.”

“I’ve told you, we’ll discuss it later, but if you’re so desperate for them to know that you run a thriving business with an unfortunate habit of breaking contracts, then go ahead and say it now. They’ll understand that all right. More? Look, here’s a dainty morsel. ” He held a piece of succulent partridge dripping with blackberry sauce on the point of his knife and watched patiently as she overcame her reluctance to take it. “Thank me and smile. Where are your manners?” he said.

“In a different book from yours, sir,” she replied, snappily, putting the food into her mouth and, with what began as a bold stare, refusing to accept his command. But the resolute expression in his eyes was too much for her, and for all she knew, the food might as well have been bread and water.

Not for a moment did she doubt his word. On the contrary, the picture fitted together perfectly: the complete lack of contact during the journey, the purse-thong through her bridle, the words later on in the hall. Of course they’d believe it. Who would not? Unwilling even to pretend an affability she did not feel towards him, she could at least show the others how biased was his opinion of her. With this purpose in mind, she joined in the conducted tour of the castle at the men’s insistence, walking with each of them in turn and discovering far more in common than she had expected. They were all craftsmen of one sort or another and enjoyed telling others about their work as much as listening and learning, discussing and estimating. The one possible exception was Master John Kenton, the king’s painter, who stayed too close to Sir Rhyan for Merielle’s comfort.

The keep was far too small for the present king’s needs, the rooms being arranged round an almost central courtyard, the queen’s own suite taking up the whole of one side. In the daylight, Merielle discovered that the only link between the main castle and the gloriette was a covered wooden bridge across the water, linking two islands together, but so intent were they on their discussions that none of them ventured out beyond the drawbridge into the surrounding parkland.

Sir Rhyan stayed to shadow Merielle, which afforded her the delight of being able to ignore him whilst enjoying the security his presence brought. She did not need it, of course, but it was there to be savoured, and to make a nonsense of his uncomplimentary epithet seemed easy enough in the company of such men as the glazier, Master Rutland. Like herself, he saw a need for more colour in the castle and, standing together in the open space of the castle bailey, he expressed his pleasure that she was to be involved in its renovation.

“Involved? Oh, no, I assure you, Master Rutland, I’m not in the least involved. I’m here under false pretences,” she laughed. “I leave for Winchester tomorrow. I believe you come, too, Master Kenton?” She turned to where he stood nearby.

The voice of William Hurley, master carpenter, called over to them, his ears pricking like a terrier’s. “Going tomorrow? Who? Mistress St Martin? Kenton? Nonsense, we’ll need at least another day. Can’t go clambering about on the Sabbath, now, can we?” He was a wiry energetic man whose mind seemed ceaselessly to advance from one ingenious solution to the next. He carried on two entirely different conversations at the same time because one set of thoughts was not enough for him, and here he was, bald and gnarled, solving the problem of time shortage. Make more of it.

William Wykeham strolled across to her. “Nay, mistress, you’ll need more time than this to decide—”

“Decide what, Master Wykeham? I don’t have to decide anything. I’m here on en route to Winchester, that’s all.” She shook her head, partly in amusement at their assumptions, partly in apology. “I can offer you my ideas for what they’re worth, but what decisions are made are no concern of mine. And I do have to leave tomorrow.”