The Marsh King's Daughter (41 page)

Miriel rubbed her hands together and tucked them beneath her cloak where her palms encountered the swell of her belly. Last week she had felt the first delicate fluttering as the baby quickened within her. Since then she had been torn between wonder and panic, not to say indignation at the way the growing infant had taken over her body and her life. She was still being sick, although less than in the early months, and often was so tired that it was an effort to rise from her bed. The more she was told to rest, however, the less inclined she was to do so. She would not let her life be ruled by the dictates of others, and that included her unborn child. Besides, keeping busy prevented her from thinking about its father.

She went to the bales of cloth that had been piled up ready for transport to the fulling mill. The wool would be beaten in water and fuller's earth to thicken it before being stretched upon tenter hooks and then napped with teasels to give a soft finish. The cloth fetched a high price on the home market, especially the woad-blue. Nicholas had a tunic of that colour, woven and fulled in her workshops. If she closed her eyes she could see him wearing it, and even the diamond pattern on the braid at his corded brown throat. If she closed her eyes she could imagine the feel of him, the taste . . . With a sharp hiss of exasperation, she turned from the bales. Once dreaming had been a haven. Now she was not so sure.

The apprentice arrived from the fulling mill to take the bales of cloth and she made herself concentrate on the practical details and instructions. As he was leaving with his two laden pack ponies, Robert returned from visiting a customer. Above his beard, his face was weather-chapped and the age seams had deepened from etched lines to deep carvings between mouth and nose. But today his eyes held a gleam.

'Cold as a witch's tits out there,' he announced, his breath clouding the air. Removing his sheepskin mittens, he took the cup of hot cider that she handed to him and sipped with relish.

Miriel eyed him suspiciously. Of late his moods had been strange. The circumstances of her pregnancy had taken their toll on him, no matter that he professed to have forgiven and put it all in the past. The heavier lines in his flesh and the sudden flashes of temper were both a result. Good humour had been less forthcoming.

'How have you fared?' she asked out of duty, not really wanting to know.

He shrugged. 'Well enough. I've more negotiating to do yet.' He took another drink of the cider and rolled it appreciatively round his cheeks. Then he swallowed and fixed her with a predatory stare. 'I heard some amusing news though.'

Miriel arched her brows in question and knew from the look on his face that she probably did not want to hear it.

Robert glanced round at the busily occupied weavers and lowered his voice. 'Nicholas de Caen has married his leman, that red-haired whore.'

'And you think it amusing?' Miriel heard herself say in a voice filled with distaste, while inside her heart gave a great jolt of jealous pain.

'In the way that I think the antics of a madman amusing, aye.' He paused for effect, rubbing his beard. 'She is with child too, you know. About as many months as yourself, according to Master Wudecoc'

Miriel turned away. 'I know that I have wronged you,' she said, her tone pitched even lower than his, 'but I had hoped you would be more merciful.'

'Merciful?' Robert gave her a look of quizzical surprise. 'Sweetheart, the thought never crossed my mind that you would not want to know.'

'Do not play me for a fool; surely it must have.'

'I swear it did not.' His voice rose with indignant innocence. 'I thought it would help you realise how much better off you are without him.'

Miriel clenched her fists. 'You are just tearing open old wounds,' she said with a glance at the weavers whose heads were bent diligently over their looms. 'How will they heal if you keep grinding salt into them?'

'Better open and salted than left to fester,' he muttered.

Miriel faced him, shaking her head. 'You are wrong. Every time you speak of Nicholas de Caen you make them worse. I do not understand why you don't find someone else to transport your wool. Ignore the fact that Nicholas even exists.'

He looked at her belly and she flushed. 'I can scarcely do that, sweetheart,' he said softly, 'and, as I have told you, his ships are the best I can hire. While I have no intention of dealing with him in person, I can come to amicable agreements with his agents.'

'Then do as you must, but do not bring your "news" home to me,' Miriel snapped.

Robert shrugged. 'As you wish,' he said, sucking the hot cider through his teeth, his look petulant.

Miriel turned to one of the looms and watched the weaver expertly change sheds and twine the shuttle through, creating a pattern of scarlet twill. Her eyes were burning and her heart ached so hard that she thought it might burst from longing and grief.

Most ships clung to inshore waters during the winter months, and although journeys were made across the high seas, they were of necessity, and the captains put a higher price on their hiring.

In Boston, Nicholas celebrated the Christmas season in port with Magdalene.

He had only himself to please, no family to be scandalised that his wife had once been a whore. Those who did not know would never have guessed. Except for their bed where she sported with the simple joy of a peasant, Magdalene conducted herself like a lady. He did not love her with the gut-wrenching pain that he loved Miriel, but he was fond of her and his affection was nurtured by the passage of days spent in her company and the shared wonder of the new life growing inside her.

'You did not have to wed me, you know that,' Magdalene murmured. They were sitting on a bench, sharing a cup of mead in the house that Nicholas had rented from an absent wine merchant. The firelight warmed them in undertones of gold and shadow. Her head upon Nicholas's shoulder, Magdalene's unbound hair was molten with the reflection of the flames.

'You set your worth too low. I tied this knot out of duty and concern for you and the child, but I tied it for love as well, of my own free will.' He stroked her hair, admiring the way it slid over his fingers like precious metal turned to silk. 'My only fear was that you would refuse to take me.'

Magdalene raised her head to stare at him. 'If I hesitated, it was because I could not believe you had asked me. What man of your means would look to a brothel for a wife?'

He snorted. 'Enough men of my means visit the places. It is easy to breed loneliness and loveless power-matches out of wealth. I have seen it happen, I know the misery that grows.' He looked into the flames, his eyelids tense and narrow.

Magdalene watched him. 'You are thinking of her, aren't you?' she murmured.

He grimaced, knowing that to feign ignorance would not only be a waste of time but an insult to Magdalene. He had made her his wife and she had a right to pry. 'You know me too well,' he said ruefully.

'No,' she contradicted, 'for if I did, I would know the kernel of your thoughts and not just the shell you show to the world.'

'Is that what you want?' He ceased fire-gazing to look at her.

She gnawed her under lip and frowned. 'I do not know if I could bear what you had to say.'

He cupped her skull, bringing her mouth down to his, blocking the treachery of his wayward thoughts with the warm blessing of physical touch. 'You are my wife, and I love you,' he murmured. 'That is the kernel. Whatever happened in the past is naught but a husk.'

Magdalene was not to be so easily mollified and pulled away. 'If she came to you again, you would go with her,' she said with certainty.

Nicholas sighed. Her need for reassurance was palpable, and the words so hard to find, as much for himself as for Magdalene. 'I made the approach on the last occasion we were together,' he said at last. 'I thought . . .' He shook his head. 'I thought that I could change things, perhaps make her leave her husband and her life to come away with me.' Then he laughed bitterly. 'No, that's wrong. I didn't think at all, I just craved the way that some men crave wine so badly that they become its slave, and finally it kills them.'

'And you still have the craving.' Her voice was choked. 'I know you married me because I am with child, and because I ease your need a little. That is the kernel, whatever you might say.'

'Ah, sweetheart, no.' He smoothed her hair and caressed her hot, suspicious face. 'I married you for yourself. I swear on my soul.'

He felt a small shudder ripple through her frame. 'And her?' Magdalene demanded. 'What of her?'

He frowned, striving to find a reply that was honest without further unsettling Magdalene. 'Miriel's a part of me,' he said at last. 'She always will be because I owe her my life and she owes me a private debt of her own, but I swear to you that she will have no place in our future.'

Magdalene gave a knowing nod. 'Mayhap not, but you will think of her often, and I would be desiring the impossible if I asked your mind not to wander.' She tightened and lifted her jaw. 'I came to this marriage with my eyes open. I do not want ever to close them and look away.'

'I'll never give you reason.' Filled with tenderness, desire and a feeling of poignant sadness, he kissed her again. She pressed against him, her grip suddenly fierce with possession, and he matched his response to hers. Soon, by mutual consent, they abandoned the bench for the softness of a feather mattress and an urgency of need as hot as the fire.

Spring arrived with the joyousness of a tumbler, the wind cartwheeling the sky with blue and dragging ribbons of greenery and flowers through what had been a barren landscape. Sunlight sparkled on the sea, turning the grey waves a heavy, marbled green, dazzling their crests with silver lace. And men made ready to cross its wideness.

In Southampton, Nicholas was preparing his nef, the Empress, for a voyage to Normandy bearing officials from King Henry's court. He had made the crossing several times when the winter seas had been calm, but it was not his preferred time of year. Now that the season had turned, his enthusiasm was far greater.

Magdalene sat on a bench near the hold, watching the bustle as stores were laid in the hold and sails and equipment meticulously checked. The boisterous wind flattened her gown against her body, revealing her advanced state of pregnancy. She had enjoyed good health throughout the carrying. Her skin glowed and her eyes were luminous. A vast appetite had given her body the padded firmness of a new gambeson, and the graceful gait of nine months ago was now an awkward waddle. Nicholas had never loved her more. Cravings and memories still remained, but they had blurred a little at the edges. He had disciplined himself not to dwell on what had been, but to be content with what he had. Mostly he succeeded, and if he ever thought of Miriel, he was careful that Magdalene should not see the turn of his mind.

He took a brief respite from his endeavours and, sitting beside her, clasped her hand in his. The long, slim fingers had increased their girth too, and she had been forced to remove the vanity of her many gold rings before they had to be cut off.

'I'll buy you a new wedding ring in Normandy,' he promised. 'Big enough to fit your finger.'

Magdalene laughed. 'You had best measure it on the width of the ship's mast then!' Holding out her free hand, she waggled it and grimaced. 'The midwife says that once I've borne the babe, everything will become as it was, but I have my doubts.'

'You'll be beautiful whatever,' Nicholas said gallantly. She laughed again and gave him a little push. 'Flatterer!'