The Marsh King's Daughter (27 page)

Miriel swallowed and nodded. His reassurance fell on stony ground. The closer they came to their destination, the more nervous she was growing.

Robert withdrew his hand and clicked the cob onwards. Within quarter of a mile he entered a courtyard behind a large cruck-frame house and drew rein. A servant ran out to take the horse. Robert lifted Miriel down from the saddle as if she weighed no more than a feather and planted a cold kiss on her lips. Grasping her hand, he led her towards the main dwelling, much as the groom had led the cob to its stall.

The door was open, shedding a path of torchlight through the gloaming. Robert swept her up in his arms and carried her across the threshold. 'Mine, now,' he said triumphantly as he kicked the door shut. 'All mine.'

Miriel felt a qualm at the possessive note underlying the pleasure in his voice. The inevitable duty of the bedchamber loomed and she felt sick.

Food and wine had been left out for them - a dainty supper of cold spiced chicken served with an onion frumenty and beans tossed in oil and vinegar. There was a honey curd tart and a dish of fig and apple compote. In a bucket of cold well water stood a stone costrel filled with wine. Miriel looked at the delectable fare, at the care which had been taken, and knew that she would be unable to do justice to either.

'I'm afraid I'm not hungry,' she said with an apologetic little smile.

'But you must be. You hardly ate a morsel at the other table before we left.' Robert picked up a sliver of the spiced chicken, bit off half and popped the rest in her mouth. 'It's delicious,' he said.

Miriel thought she would choke. The delicate aroma bounced off her palate and filled her mouth and nose. Swallowing was going to be impossible when it was all she could do not to retch.

Robert drew the costrel from the bucket and filled two goblets. 'To us,' he toasted her, taking a robust swallow.

She watched the powerful ripples of his throat as he drank, and filling her mouth, somehow managed to gulp down both wine and chicken.

Lowering his cup, he looked at her. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing.' She tried to smile, but her body was slowly freezing with fear.

'That's a lie.' He put his wine on the table and took her in his arms. 'You're trembling like a leaf, sweetheart. Surely you are not afraid.'

She looked up into the eyes of a lion. Strong, vital, ferocious. It was too late now. By her own words and actions she had walked into his den, pretending to be a lioness when she was no more than a terrified ewe.

'I am virgin still,' she whispered, her throat so tight that it was almost impossible to talk. 'Gerbert never took his full marital rites.'

His eyes narrowed, but not with displeasure. A sensual smile curved his lips. He looked her slowly up and down. 'You are innocent then.'

Miriel raised her chin. 'I know what to expect of my duty,' she said with defensive hauteur, but that only made him smile the more.

He stroked her cheek. 'Oh,' he said softly. 'I do not think that you do.'

Miriel winced and tried without success to ease her position in the saddle. It was the second day of their journey, and she and Robert had been on the road since dawn, hoping to arrive in Lincoln before nightfall.

The movement of the horse and the bump of the saddle caused an almost unbearable friction against the tender space between her legs. There was a dull ache in her lower back, and cramping pains in the muscles of her upper thighs. Her new husband was a large and vigorous man in every sense of the word and took his pleasure at a full, determined and prolonged gallop - once at night and once on waking.

She glanced at him sidelong. He rode easily beside her, the sun sparkling on his wiry golden hair and beard, a good-natured smile curving his mouth. He had said that she would grow accustomed to the act in time, that it wasn't a matter of duty, but of love and respect, and that despite what the Church said, it was there to be enjoyed.

Miriel had never taken much notice of what the Church said anyway, but from her own experience and observation had come to the conclusion that the deed was more necessary and pleasurable to men, and that women received by far the worst of the bargain. The promised pleasure was elusive. There was the fear of pregnancy, of childbirth, and once an infant was born, the burden of caring for it, of having a being dependent on you, and being dependent yourself. Miriel bit her lip and frowned. If Robert continued to lie with her so frequently, it would not be long before she found herself in that situation. He was not going to be satisfied with the means that had contented Gerbert - or only as a small part of his sexual diet. Robert needed to possess and, to him, possession meant penetration.

During their frank discussion over a year ago, Alice had advised Miriel that placing a wad of sheep's wool soaked in vinegar high in the birth passage would help to prevent conception, but Miriel did not think she could bear a substance as caustic as vinegar anywhere near her tender membranes just now.

Yet she was fond of Robert. He was affable and generous; he gave her love and support. When he kissed her and held her close she felt safe and cherished. He liked his own way as much as she, but even in disagreement he was good-humoured. She could not imagine him ever striking her as Nigel had done. She had a good bargain; she should be grateful.

He caught her looking at him, and raised his brows in a smiling question. Miriel shook her head. 'I was just counting my blessings,' she said, with a touch of irony detectable to herself because of her thoughts, but Robert took it at face value.

'As many as my own, I hope.' He reached across the space between their mounts to touch her hands. From his perch on her horse's withers, Will growled and bared his teeth.

'I see I brought home a rival,' Robert said jovially, although the crinkle to his eye corners was slightly contrived. Miriel received the distinct impression that while the gift of the dog had been a good idea at the time, it had been a means to an end and was rapidly outliving its usefulness. Robert preferred big dogs with big teeth that reflected his masculinity. Little snappy ones were game to be kicked. But of course he couldn't kick this one.

'Indeed you did,' Miriel laughed and ruffled the pup's absurdly enormous black ears. 'You'll have to think more carefully about what you bring me in the future, won't you?'

'Hah, so you still expect gifts?'

'But of course.' She looked at him through her lashes. Flirting with Robert was fun because it gained her his attention and made him receptive. The trick was to do it in the open and in public where there was no immediate recourse to a bed.

'What would you like?'

She looked at the sky as if in deep thought. 'A blue dress, a gold collar,' she reeled off. 'A set of drinking cups in green chalcedony, an embroidered pilgrim bag, some Flemish wall hangings, a gold ring for every finger, a—'

'Stop, stop, I yield!' Laughing, Robert threw up his hands.

Miriel grinned at him, sharing in the moment of humour, but then she sobered. 'But what I really want is to be content,' she said on a more wistful note.

'You mean you are not content at the moment?' Robert ceased laughing and his expression grew sharp with concern.

Mentally, Miriel cast a deep sigh. She should have seen the pit yawning at her feet. Robert might be affable and generous, but he expected praise and gratitude in return. 'I would not have you think that I am discontented with you,' she said quickly. 'I have never been happier in my life,' which was almost true, and not difficult given her past circumstances. 'I just meant that contentment seems so hard to come by that it is worth more than worldly goods. Sometimes it would be pleasant to sit and be still and want nothing more.'

He grunted and relaxed in the saddle, appearing mollified. 'You'd soon grow bored, lass. We are of the same kind, you and I. The day we want nothing more is the day we die.'

Miriel said nothing. It would be too difficult to explain to him the pleasure of retreating from tumult. He would not understand, and she did not believe that she could make him. They might be of the same kind, but not born from the same mould.

It was strange returning to the house of her birth, to the weaving sheds and wool store that had been her grandfather's pride and joy. Stranger still to find the place in dusty, demoralised disarray with only one weaver and a four-year apprentice remaining. Stocks of yarn were almost nil, and four of the six looms stood empty.

'The sheriff's escheators found you then, Mistress Miriel,' said Ham, the senior weaver. He had been in his prime during her grandfather's day. Now there was a milky growth covering one eye, which suggested one of the reasons for the decline in quality that the Italian merchant had complained about.

'Found me?' At the mention of the word 'sheriff, Miriel's heart began to thump. The image of Mathilda's crown and the bags of silver was so clear in her mind's eye that she had an irrational fear that others would see it too. What if Nicholas had been caught? What if he had told them everything and they were on her trail?

'You being the heir to the house and the weaving sheds,' he said. 'If you were not found within a year and a day, it was all to go to the Earl of Lincoln.' He wiped his grizzled upper lip. 'There's been naught but grief since old Master Edward died, and that's the truth, God rest his soul.'

Miriel felt weak with relief. She was being hunted but to her own advantage and her secret was safe. 'I came because I heard that both my mother and stepfather had died,' she said with a swift glance at Robert, who was standing behind her and a little to one side, studying the shed with a thoughtful eye. 'God rest their souls too,' she added dutifully, and crossed herself.

Ham muttered the same and echoed her gesture. 'Are you here to stay then, mistress?' Hope filled his eyes until he reminded her of Will, pleading at the table for scraps of chicken.

'Not for the moment,' she said. 'We are bound for Boston to take ship for Flanders.' As his face fell, she felt a pang of compassion and added, 'But there is more demand for my cloth than I can supply. These looms will soon be busy again, I promise.'

The old weaver nodded but continued to look sombre. 'St Catherine's won't supply us with wool any more,' he said. 'They sell it all to some merchant in Nottingham.'

'Don't you worry about supplies of wool and yarn, Ham,' she said briskly, avoiding her husband's eye. The merchant had been Gerbert and when he died the contract had fallen into Robert's hands, but Robert was unaware of her connection with the nunnery. 'Obtaining good wool is not a problem. I can have these looms working again within the month.'

Ham wiped his mouth again. 'We ain't received a wage since Master Nigel was murdered,' he said.

Miriel tightened her lips. Behind her she could feel Robert's irritation. 'Come and see me on the morrow before we leave. The lad too.' She gestured at the apprentice.

'Thank you, mistress. I knew if you were found, you'd do right by us.'

'I value fairness,' she answered with a half-smile. 'Since it was never meted out to me, I am careful that others should receive it.'

Robert gave an impatient grunt and, leaving the shed, marched across the cobbled yard towards the house.

Ham bowed to Miriel as she turned to follow him. 'Me 'n' Walter never believed them stories spread about you, Mistress Miriel. We all knew that you and Master Nigel never saw eye to eye.'

'What stories?' It was perhaps better not to know, but Miriel was still drawn by a dreadful fascination to ask.

Ham shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. 'That you ran just as wild at that convent as you did here.' His weathered cheeks darkened and he fixed his eyes on the floor just beyond his scuffed shoes. 'That you fornicated with a guest under their roof and then eloped with him—'

'That is a vile lie!' Miriel's face flamed and she drew herself up. 'I did no such thing!'

'We said to ourselves that you didn't,' Ham said, still gazing at the floor. 'But then St Catherine's stopped sending us their wool and Master Nigel called you some terrible names.'

Miriel compressed her lips. 'What did my mother say?' Probably 'Yes, Nigel', she thought bitterly.

'Nothing, mistress.' Then Ham pinched the end of his nose and risked a glance at her. 'Well, no, that ain't true. Master Nigel drank too much and said in front of us all in the workshop that it was like mother like daughter, and Mistress Annet spoke up, saying that you weren't like her at all, because you had had the courage to run with your desire.'

'My mother said that?'

'Aye, mistress.'

Miriel swallowed and turned away, tears suddenly tightening in her throat. How little they had known of each other, how little they had understood, and now it was all too late.

In the house, Elfwen had built a fire and set a cauldron to simmer. The stones still gave off a musty smell and dust motes hung in the air, but at least a fire in the hearth had started the home's heart beating again.

Will circled the room, snuffling in the corners, investigating all the strange smells. Miriel's head was throbbing. All she wanted to do was lie down in a dark corner with a cold lavender compress across her brow.

Robert, however, had other ideas and, ignoring Elfwen as if she were an inanimate piece of furniture, took Miriel in his arms. 'I had no idea your family was wealthy enough to afford a house built of stone,' he teased.