The Marsh King's Daughter (4 page)

The horse wandered its own track through the marsh, finally halting with drooping head and trembling legs. Nicholas slid from its back, fell to the ground and lay unmoving for a moment. He was desperate to close his eyes and sleep, but knew that if he did, he would not awaken. Warmth was what he needed, and food and shelter.

Forcing himself to rise, he gazed at the bleak, mist-shrouded scenery. To his right he could hear the distant bleating of sheep, which suggested the likelihood of a shepherd's hut and perhaps even a shepherd. The alternative was to think that he was going to die of exposure and become jus1 another bleached skeleton on the fenland wilderness.

If he was to find people, then first he had to hide the chest. Too many questions would be asked, and the answers, or lack of them, would be his downfall. He had not survived this far only to be cast in prison and executed for theft.

Grasping the pony's tough black mane, he dragged himself across its withers and urged it with heels, hands and voice to make another effort. With great unwillingness, its head came up and it began a desultory plod. At this pace they covered perhaps another half-mile before the pony stopped again and, this time, despite all Nicholas's persuasion, refused to move. Nicholas dismounted again, and his legs almost gave way. The tussocky grass beneath his feet was suddenly the most inviting bed he had ever seen - and his last if he lay down on it.

He set his teeth and braced his muscles. But it was the effort of his will rather than his body that unstrapped the chest and eased it down the pony's flank to the ground. The weight nearly felled him, and he knew that carrying the thing further than a few yards was impossible. It could perhaps be dragged, but not for any distance.

He began casting around for a hiding place. His father, during sword practice, had been wont to say that Nicholas never knew when he was beaten, that he was unable to accept defeat with grace. It had been intended as a criticism, but Nicholas had always taken a perverse pride in his sire's exasperation.

Now, because of that lack of grace, he removed the pony's bridle with fumbling red hands and painstakingly strapped it around the coffer. Winding the reins around his fists, he started to haul it towards a small stand of stunted alder and willow trees surrounding a small mere.

A root, rising from the poor soil like a swollen vein, tripped his faltering steps and sent him sprawling full length. He lay stunned, exhaustion screaming in every limb. A leaden weight settled across his eyelids.

'Do you yield at last then?' his father demanded, a grin parting his golden beard as he pointed a sword at Nicholas's throat.

Nicholas swallowed. The tip of the blade swallowed with him. His father's smile was that of a skull. 'Do you, boy, do you?'

'No!' Nicholas's eyes snapped open and he scrambled to his feet, his heart thundering. 'God's bones,' he muttered and rubbed his hands over his face. With a shuddering breath he collected his wits and looked down at the place where he had tumbled. The root belonged to an ancient crab apple tree that leaned against a neighbouring alder like a drunkard clinging to a companion. Where the two trees met, they formed a low arch leading to a natural chamber filled with brambles and dead white grass. A wild pig might force its way through, or a fox slide around the perimeter, but neither had done so this year at least.

Grunting with effort, Nicholas pushed and pulled the painted coffer through the arch and into the midst of the bramble thicket beyond so that no glimmer of blue or gold would reveal the secret to a passer-by. The thorns scratched his hands and drew tiny beads of blood, but he was too cold to feel the pain. He concealed the entrance with more sheaves of dead grass plucked from the surroundings and secured them with several dead branches. Then, wiping his hands and smearing the blood, he stood back to consider the effect.

It would do. To the casual observer there was nothing to see but a windblown thicket of trees winding back from the poolside, and he would be back on the morrow to claim his prize. He glanced around, to make sure of his bearings, and then began to walk towards the sound of bleating.

It was hard to place one foot in front of the other for his legs would no longer obey the command of his will. He tried counting his paces, but he was so cold, so exhausted, that his mind refused to keep a tally.

'Ready to give up yet, boy?'

'Not while there's breath in my body,' he gasped through his teeth.

'Won't be long then,' said his father's spectre cheerfully. His garments were as wet as Nicholas's own and he wore a shimmering necklace of seaweed. There was a huge, sea-washed wound in his side. 'Listen, they are tolling your death knell.'

In the distance Nicholas thought he heard a church bell, as loud and real as his father's voice.

Then he thought nothing at all as his legs gave way and the ground rose up to welcome him in the dark grave of its embrace.

'Child, you do naught but harm by this wayward behaviour.'

Mother Hillary, Abbess of St Catherine's-in-the-Marsh, sighed wearily and folded her gnarled hands on the trestle before her. At her back, the open shutters admitted misty October light to her private chamber. A grey cat, the abbey's prize mouser, was coiled around the heavy candelabra on the table.

Miriel bit her lip. A trace of defiance lingered in her honey-brown eyes. 'I did not mean to cross Sister Euphemia. I was angry and the words came out by themselves.' Which was only half true. There was no doubt in Miriel's mind that Sister Euphemia was a carping hag whom no one with half a wit would have put in charge of the novices, but that was where the opinion should have remained - in her mind, not blurted out in front of the other five horrified but delighted young oblates.

'No, child, the words came out by your will. You have to take the responsibility.' Mother Hillary bestowed a stern glance. 'You must learn to curb your anger and submit to the rule.'

Miriel lowered her gaze from the Abbess's severe expression and stared at the handsome tiled floor. Asking why was not advisable. In the five months since arriving at St Catherine's, she had learned that questioning the rule led to harsh bread and water penances, supervised with relish by Sister Euphemia, who was so padded with flesh that it was obvious she had never done a penance in her life. 'Yes, Mother Hillary,' she murmured, with a detectable lack of grace.

'Your life would be much easier if you would only try.' The nun leaned forward to emphasise her point. Although she was approaching her seventieth winter, her light blue eyes were sharp and clear. 'You came to us in the spring, Miriel, and we welcomed you with open arms. Now autumn is upon us and you have scarce progressed at all. You fidget at prayers when your mind should be upon Our Lord; you shout in the cloister and disturb the other sisters with your worldliness. You say that you "do not mean" these things, that you will strive to improve, but I have seen little evidence in your attitude.'

Miriel gazed at the painted clay tiles. They bore the armorial device of the Earls of Lincoln in red and white slip. It was easier to look at them than meet Mother Hillary's incisive gaze, for Miriel knew that once again she had failed the senior nun's expectations.

Despite her hatred of convent life, Miriel liked and respected the Abbess. Mother Hillary was strict, but generally fair, and behind the stern facade lay a softening of kindness. If all the others had been cast in her mould, Miriel might have been more tractable, but greedy sows like Sister Euphemia only fuelled her rebellion. Miriel always left the Abbess's chamber with a boosted determination to rise above the petty niggles of daily routine, but the mood and her patience never lasted beyond a few days of Euphemia's persecution.

'Well, daughter, have you nothing to say?'

Miriel continued to gnaw her lip. The problem was that she had too much to say and all of it stoppered up inside her, churning and fermenting.

Mother Hillary sighed again. 'What am I going to do with you, child? If you cannot fit into our community, then you must leave it. I know that you came to us without vocation, but I had hoped that one would grow.'

Miriel raised her head at the word 'leave', and a spark lit in her brown eyes.

The Abbess was not slow to see it. She pursed her lips and shook her head. 'I have my duty to God and I am not prepared to relinquish you so soon. Your family has entrusted me with your welfare and I must do my best for all concerned.'

Her family had also entrusted Mother Abbess with a considerable amount of silver in payment of her dowry to Christ, Miriel thought cynically. St Catherine's would not be prepared to relinquish that too soon either. Strict and fair Mother Hillary might be, but she was also a woman of shrewd business sense.

'Then take me away from Sister Euphemia,' Miriel said. 'We are each a thorn in the other's side.'

Mother Hillary arched her thin, silvery brows. 'Sister Euphemia has charge of all the novices. It is her duty to ensure that they learn obedience to the rules of our house.'

'Then she appears to be failing,' Miriel retorted with a toss of her head, then compressed her lips as the Abbess's brows remained aloft and the blue eyes grew cold.

'Do you answer me with your quick tongue also?'

Miriel clenched her fists in the coarse cloth of her habit. The pressure of tears gathered at the back of her eyes. 'No, mother, I did not mean . . .'

'No, you did not mean,' said the Abbess, emphasising each word to make her point. 'And that in turn makes your life meaningless, does it not?'

Miriel said nothing because Mother Hillary was right. Her life was meaningless and only the fight gave her some faded sense of being alive.

The nun clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. 'I doubt that shutting you in a cell to contemplate the error of your ways on rations of bread and water for a month will make the slightest morsel of difference. Your spirit will break before it bends and I have no wish to see that happen.'

'Nor I, mother.' Miriel's voice was tight. She sniffed hard and swallowed.

The cat woke, stretched, and curled up again. Abbess Hillary reached to stroke the rich blue-grey fur and a rumbling purr filled the chamber.

'For the good of both yourself and St Catherine's, I will grant you a month's leave from Sister Euphemia's care. But' - she raised and wagged an admonishing forefinger as Miriel's expression blazed on the instant from despair to utter joy - 'you will still sit with the other novices for the services in church and receive instruction as appropriate.'

Well, that was a penance, but at least it was bearable. 'Yes, mother, thank you!'

The Abbess's lips twitched, then with effort straightened. 'At the end of the month we will review your position. Despite your reluctance, your family harbour firm hopes that you will make your life with us.'

'They do not want me back, that much is true,' Miriel said with contempt. 'They would have to arrange a marriage for me and that would mean yet more expense. If I stayed at home, there would be no peace. I hate my stepfather and he hates me. That's why he put me here.'

Mother Hillary looked at her thoughtfully. Having negotiated the terms of the girl's entry into St Catherine's with Nigel Fuller, she could imagine the friction between the two . . . indeed, more than friction on the man's part. She had recognised, even if he did not, the violence of suppressed lust. The girl irked his loins as much as his temper.

'I did try to be dutiful.' Miriel's voice was filled with grievance. 'But he wouldn't let me near the workshops, let alone inside, and I wasn't allowed to meet with any of the other traders and merchants.'

'And you did all this before?'

Miriel nodded. 'My grandfather treated me as his apprentice. He took me everywhere with him and taught me all he knew. I went to the great summer fair at Boston with him, and twice to Flanders. I watched him haggle the price of fleeces with wool merchants, I kept tallies for him, and mingled with his clients and customers.' Her breathing grew swift with passion.

'So it is the power you miss, child?'

Miriel shook her head. 'It is being powerless,' she said. 'It is being told that to help the business prosper I must bridle my tongue and stay at home like a good and modest daughter, not "gad about playing the hoyden". I should know my proper place.' She made an abrupt gesture of disgust.

'A proper place,' Mother Hillary murmured and her lips twitched again as if at some inner amusement. 'I have always wondered about that myself.' She scratched the cat between the ears and the purring rose to a crescendo.