The Marsh King's Daughter (25 page)

'I should not have let you come,' Robert murmured in her ear.

'The decision was mine to make, not yours.' Miriel lit a candle with shaking hands and then knelt beside the bier to pray.

Robert crossed himself and knelt with her. 'He had his faults, but he was a good man and my friend,' he said.

'He deserved to die in his bed, not in so vile a lash ion.'

Miriel bowed her head over her steepled fingers. Beside her she could feel Robert Willoughby's presence like the touch of a heavy hand. 'My wits are scattered to the four winds. What did I say to you about my stepfather? I remember not a word.'

'That he was responsible for the attack and that it was a long story.' She bit her lip. 'Are you not going to speak?'

Miriel looked at him sidelong, at the forceful, craggy features, the strong carved lines and hard stare of a man accustomed to obtaining his way. And just now she was in no case to resist him. 'Do I have your word that you will not go to the sheriff?'

'No, you do not.' His voice barely carried through the space between them, but it was full of indignation and anger. 'My kin by marriage, a senior townsman, lies murdered. You could be dead too, and yet you ask me not to speak out?'

'Then I will say nothing. I will say that I do not remember.'

He made a sound in his throat, got up, walked away.

Miriel tried to pray. The candle shadow rippled like waves over Gerbert's waxen features. It was her fault he was dead, but all the remorse and guilt in the world would not bring him back.

'Very well, I swear that whatever you say will not go beyond these walls.' Robert Willoughby returned to her side. His brows were drawn into a deep frown and he was obviously unhappy with the decision.

Miriel hesitated, trying to assess him, but neither eyes nor mind would focus. She gave a deep sigh and a small gesture of capitulation. 'My stepfather is Nigel of Lincoln, a weaver and fuller, although not a master one as my grandfather Edward was. We hated each other; we argued all the time and he used to beat me. As a young girl my mother bore me out of wedlock to a travelling player and Nigel thought me tainted. So I . . .' She paused, and looked down. There was no need to tell him everything. 'So I ran away, and Gerbert took me in.' A fold of Gerbert's tunic was hanging over the edge of the bier and she rubbed it between her fingers, taking comfort in the feel of the prickly green wool. 'The rest you know, Master Willoughby. Gerbert was a good husband and he knew my past. There was never any question of me duping a foolish old man. Indeed, his eyes were more open than mine.' Miriel shook her head. 'I did not set out to ruin Nigel's business, but I will not deny that there was pleasure in doing so . . . until now.'

'So your stepfather, Nigel of Lincoln, is the man responsible for this,' Robert said, his eyes narrowing.

Miriel fought a new surge of nausea. 'His intention was to put an end to a business that was taking customers from him. He did not realise until he saw me that I was the one responsible, and then he was overcome with a madness of rage - it was ever in his nature.'

There was silence for a while, broken only by the soft voice of the chanting priest before the altar as the bells rang out the hour of prime and daylight gathered at the windows.

'And if the sheriff comes to hear these things, you will be dragged down with your stepfather,' Robert said, eyeing her shrewdly. 'Folk will hear how Gerbert's wife is in truth a runaway daughter with a poor reputation.'

Miriel bowed her head. 'I would not want that to happen for my sake, or for Gerbert's memory. People would pity him for a duped old fool, and disdain me for a self-seeking hussy, and both are far from the truth.'

'And what is truth, since it changes according to each individual's perception?'

She did not know whether the arch of his brows was genuine or sarcastic, nor did she really care. 'Then make of it what you will,' she said wearily. 'I have no more strength for explanations.'

'One question.' He balanced his chin on his steepled palms. 'How came you by the means to play the wealthy widow if you were a runaway?'

She looked at him. 'I took money.'

Robert returned her look, his eyebrows remaining aloft, Miriel coloured. 'It was owing to me. Every woman has a dowry.' Let him assume that she had robbed her family's coffers. It was an obvious move to have made, and it kept the rest of her past hidden.

His mouth corners twitched. He folded his smile within his praying hands and bowed his head. In short order, the humour creases departed eyes and lips, leaving his countenance intent and still, like a predator considering its prey.

The Empress was a large nef with a dragonhead prow and the sleek lines of her Viking ancestors. She rode at anchor on Boston's river quay with the Pandora and a small cog, the Grace-Dieu, newly returned from Flanders. English wool had been the cog's outward export; finished cloth her homeward cargo together with a chest of rare spices and a set of exquisite silver-gilt goblets for Nicholas's client.

Since the sea battle off Sandwich and the execution of Eustace the Monk, Hubert de Burgh had been as good as his word. Lucrative business had come Nicholas's way - so lucrative that he had been able to furnish himself with two more ships. The large nef with her speed and elegance was frequently commissioned by de Burgh as a courier vessel. Nicholas had navigated her up the Scottish coast bearing emissaries, had crossed to Scandinavia and down to the Low Countries. With the proceeds he had commissioned Rohan to begin a fourth cog of the same dimensions as the Pandora.

Now, Nicholas stood on the quayside watching the crew unload the Grace-Dieu.

'Sea was rough for June, but it troubled her not one whit,' said Martin Wudecoc who had captained her. 'We put in at Antwerp ahead of time.' He smiled, his teeth dazzling white against his sea-burnished skin. 'Home early too.' Inside his tunic, something bulged and wriggled. Grimacing, the sailor delved inside his neckline and out popped the fluffy head of a tiny black and white puppy. 'And all the cargo intact,' he said before his voice suddenly rose and squawked: 'Hell's bollocks, the little bugger's pissed on me!'

Nicholas laughed heartily. Then he shook his head. 'I've never understood why women like to keep such animals.'

'Hah, I've never understood women!' Martin answered, wiping his hand on his tunic. 'And here's Alyson to prove it!' He waved at a woman who was hurrying along the quayside, a basket over her arm.

Grinning, Nicholas watched Martin Wudecoc run to his wife, sweep her round on his arm, and kiss her soundly. That was what a homecoming should be, he thought. There was no one to greet him. Magdalene was in Dover, and of his own volition, he held slightly aloof. He was too busy building a reputation and fortune to go courting. The only time he gave it consideration was on occasions such as this when he paused for breath and saw other men fulfilled.

Hubert de Burgh had dropped hints about finding him a rich and titled wife, someone who would give him a claim on land as well as sea. Nicholas pretended to be deaf. Rich, aristocratic women usually possessed rich, aristocratic ways and a passel of difficult relatives. His ships were his mistresses, his lovers, his wives. And when he did have need of feminine company there was Magdalene.

His brief reflection was curtailed by the appearance of a bold, masculine figure, decked out in a tunic of expensive blue cloth. A furlined cloak flew from his shoulders, and the sun caught gleams in his thick fair hair.

Nicholas faced him and bowed courteously, but without deference. They were men of equal standing in their own professions. 'Master Willoughby,' he said. 'You are timely arrived.'

The wool merchant smiled, revealing strong, square teeth. 'And so is your vessel, Master de Caen.' He cast a pleased eye over the bustle on the small cog's deck. 'Did you obtain the items I requested?'

Nicholas gestured at a chest that had already been unloaded on' to the harbour side. 'The goblets and the spices are in there. The bolts of fabric you requested are being attended to.'

Willoughby
nodded. 'I'll look in a moment,' he said and stroked his beard. 'What about the other matter?'

Nicholas cupped his hands and shouted over to his captain. Martin left his wife and came over, the pup cradled in his large seaman's hands.

Willoughby
's eyes lit up, but narrowed slightly when Nicholas told him the price. 'For a dog!' he exclaimed. 'Jesu, pound for pound, these little beasts are more expensive than pepper!'

Nicholas shrugged. 'Dogs like these are in such great demand that they're hard to come by. Every woman wants one to tuck in her sleeve. There were four other buyers waiting for this one alone if I had not met the asking price. If you are not content...'

'Nay, nay, I'll take the thing and pay,' Willoughby said with a terse gesture. 'It's a gift for a lady, and if it advances my cause with her, then I'll be well repaid.'

Nicholas started to grin, but quickly wiped it off behind his hand as the merchant glared.

'Not that sort of a gift for that kind of service,' he said icily. 'I hope to make the lady my wife in due course.' He took the dog from Martin Wudecoc and bundled it up in a fold of his cloak.

Nicholas inclined his head. 'I hope she will be delighted.'

Willoughby
nodded stiffly to show that he had taken no lasting offence. 'You sail with the next cargo when?'

'Day after tomorrow, as soon as her hold's laden and the tide's in. We'll have your wool on the looms of Bruges by the end of the week.'

'That's why I use you,' Willoughby said. 'There are other captains I could hire at less cost, but none that I have found to be as swift and reliable.'

'It is a good partnership,' Nicholas agreed and shook the merchant's proffered hand.

Thoughtfully, he watched Robert Willoughby walk away, and began to breathe a little more easily. , 'I'm glad we're not his enemies,' muttered Martin.

'You felt it too?' Nicholas glanced at his captain.

'Aye, sir. A man of appetites that one, and not given to having them refused.'

'I hope his intended wife knows that,' Nicholas said wryly.

*

The effigy that lay upon Gerbert's tomb in St Mary's was fashioned of the finest alabaster from the quarries of Chellaston. Gerbert's hands were clasped in prayer on his breast and his feet rested on a stone carved in the shape of a wool sack. His face was altogether more lean and handsome than it had been in life, with a fashionable hairstyle, the ends flicked out, and a neatly trimmed beard.

Still, Miriel was pleased with the result. Even in death, he had dignity and standing in the community, and the quality of the effigy showed that his widow respected and honoured his memory.

Laying the bunch of freshly picked blue irises on the tomb, Miriel left the church and entered the sun-streaked graveyard. All around her a new summer was blossoming. The sunshine was still clear without the dust haze and somnolence of the later months, and it quickened in her blood.

The weaving business continued to prosper. She had taken on two new apprentices, and each day several women from the town came to spin wool on their drop spindles to provide yarn for the weavers.

Having inherited Gerbert's part of the trade, Robert Willoughby now managed all the wool-gathering. Although his business was mostly with Flanders, he reserved the best fleeces for Miriel and made sure that her looms never stood idle. Indeed, she thought with a mingling of gratitude and unease, he had been very good to her since Gerbert's death - always there if she was in need, but never intrusive. It would be so easy to drop her defences and depend on him.