The Marsh King's Daughter (55 page)

Miriel wondered what had become of Mother Hillary. Had her elderly body failed her indomitable will and razor-bright mind? Or had she chosen to retire to the habit of an ordinary nun? Miriel could not imagine the latter and made a gentler prayer to the crucifix for Mother Hillary's soul.

The wind surged again and fresh droplets gleamed on the lime-wash. Miriel thought she heard voices and turned her head to the door. It was full dark and the meagre supper of pease pudding and rye bread long finished. In the three weeks that Miriel had been incarcerated at St Catherine's, the routine had never altered. Food at dusk, then dark solitude until morning mass.

Hearing the thump of the draw-bar, Miriel stood up and clutched the blanket edges together at her throat. The door swung open to reveal two nuns dishevelled by the force of the wind. There was one of her usual gaolers, a dour-faced crony of Euphemia's called Sister Ignatia. Accompanying her was Sister Adela, whom Miriel had last seen as a timid oblate six years ago. Now the white wimple of her noviciate had been replaced by the black one of a fully fledged nun. In her hand she carried a guttering lantern.

'You've a visitor in the guest house,' said Ignatia, her frown exposing her disapproval. She plucked a loose pin from her head covering and rammed it firmly home. 'Mother Abbess has sent us to fetch you.'

'A visitor?' Miriel stared at the women. Her heart began to thump as her first thought was of Nicholas.

'Your husband,' Ignatia said. 'And the only reason Mother Abbess has consented to send for you this late into the evening.' She pursed her lips, indicating that if she had been Abbess, spouse or not, the man would have waited until morning.

'My husband?' Miriel's heart continued to pound. 'What does he want?'

Ignatia sniffed. 'I suppose he will tell you that himself,' she said sourly. Plainly she did not know and was irritated by the fact.

Miriel thought about sitting down on her pallet, crossing her arms and declaring that she did not want to see him, but that would just be cutting off her nose to spite her face. Any respite from this chill, dank cell was welcome, even if it involved her husband. He could have decided that she had learned her lesson and come to take her back. Or perhaps he had news of Nicholas, of a successful attempt to kill him this time, and he was here to gloat. A cell might be preferable after all, she thought; but her curiosity was whetted and she had to know.

The nuns led her from her corrody dwelling and up the cart track towards the main abbey buildings and the guest house. Harsh wind buffeted the women and tore at their habits and wimples; raindrops slanted like heavy darning needles and the flame in the lantern whipped and guttered. Miriel considered running off into the dark and immediately decided against it. She was chilled to the bone already and, without decent food or clothing, would soon die of exposure or stumble into a bog.

With relief, the women entered the shelter of the cloister arches and turned along the garden wall near the nuns' cemetery. The moon glimmered through the flying clouds and a figure blocked their path, its arms outstretched as if it had just stepped off a crucifix. Adela screamed, then stuffed her fists against her mouth. Sister Ignatia, who was made of sterner stuff, did not cry out, but still took a back-step like a skittish horse, her rump swiping Miriel who had to clutch the wall for support.

Sister Ignatia recovered almost immediately and grabbed the lantern from Adela. The flickering glow shadowed the face of the apparition, giving it the visage of a skull. Wisps of grey hair floated from its pate and its eyes held a stare that managed to be unnervingly blank yet piercing at the same time.

Adela whimpered and clung to Miriel, who was gazing in appalled pity at the sight.

'Mother Hillary?' she ventured.

The head turned fractionally and, within the gaunt sockets, the eyes narrowed. 'Have you seen my cat?' she asked. 'I can't find him.'

Sister Ignatia rolled her eyes. 'She's escaped from the infirmary again,' she said with more than a hint of irritation as her fear receded. 'Here.' She returned the lantern to Adela. 'Take Mistress Willoughby to the guest house. I'll deal with this.' Approaching the old woman, she took each of her outspread arms in turn and briskly lowered them. 'Come now,' she said authoritatively. 'We'll find your cat. He won't be outside on a night like this, will he? Just you follow me.'

Miriel removed her blanket and threw it around the old woman's shoulders. She was shocked to feel their fragility, the knobs of bone uncushioned by anything more than a thin waxing of skin.

Ignatia led Hillary away to heartbreaking cries of 'Puss, puss, puss!'

'Poor lady,' Miriel said, her own plight forgotten. 'What happened to her?'

Adela shrugged. 'The cat died last summer and, about the same time, her memory began to fail. By the feast of Stephen she no longer knew her own name, only that she had a cat and that it was lost to her. Sister Euphemia was appointed our Abbess at Candlemas.' She flickered a sidelong glance at Miriel and began to walk. 'She is not as bad an abbess as she was a novice mistress,' she said nervously.

Miriel raised a scornful brow. 'I can imagine that she relishes the power. Mother Hillary would never have agreed to lock me up in that damp cell.' She remained where she was and Adela turned, the beginnings of panic in her expression.

'It is for your own good,' Adela said. 'You have a malady of the spirit and you can only be cured by solitary communication with God.'

'Is that what she told you?'

Adela ignored the question and swallowed. 'You're not going to run away, are you?'

Miriel smiled. 'Why? Are you afraid that you'll have to pursue me across the marshes in the dark? Or perhaps you fear Mother Euphemia's willow switch?'

'Please, Miriel, please don't.' There was a note of near hysteria in Adela's voice.

Miriel made a disgusted sound. 'You need not fret. How far do you think I would get in weather like this, and now not even a blanket to my name? There are different degrees of madness. Ask my husband; he knows.' She joined the young nun and began walking in the direction of the guest house. Just for a moment she had indeed been tempted to run, but it would have been on a road to nowhere. And she had to know why Robert had come.

He was waiting for her in the main room, his back to the hearth while he warmed himself. Euphemia sat in an upright box chair to one side of the fire. Sweat gleamed on her brow and each time the wind gusted, she clicked her rosary beads through her fingers in agitation. Miriel almost felt sorry for her - almost, but not quite.

Robert looked unwell. His bulky frame had not diminished, but his flesh was the colour of dough and lacked its customary robust hue. Beneath his eyes there were dark circles as if he had not slept well. But within the eyes themselves, there was fire.

'Where's Sister Ignatia?' demanded Euphemia.

Adela bowed her head in deference. 'She's taken Sister Hillary back to the infirmary. She was out wandering again.'

Euphemia clucked her tongue in irritation.

Robert said, 'Thank you for waiting with me, Mother Abbess. I am sure that you and the good sister have other duties to attend to. I will let you know when my business with my wife is finished.'

Euphemia glared a little at being so summarily dismissed, but did not puff up with indignation. Miriel could tell that she was only too glad to have an excuse to leave so that she could go and hide from the storm.

She swept from the room, bestowing on Miriel a basilisk stare. Adela followed her out as nervy as a fluttering sparrow, and Miriel was alone with her husband.

Crossing the room, she took the chair that the Abbess had vacated, and folded her hands in her lap. Outwardly her movements were controlled, but her fingers were clammy and her stomach churned. 'I scarcely think this is a social visit to see how I am faring,' she said.

Robert cleared his throat and Miriel realised suddenly that he was as edgy as she. 'I've missed you,' he said.

The fire spat and crackled. Miriel gazed into its deep orange heart until her eyes burned. 'I hope you do not expect me to return the compliment.'

He clenched his fists. 'Mayhap I was a trifle hard on you,' he growled, 'but you drove me to it.'

'My own fault, I know.' Miriel nodded sarcastically and turned her gaze to his, the images of fire distorting her vision. 'So why have you come? To see if I have learned my lesson? To tell me that in your generosity you will allow me to return?'

Robert flushed. 'I may have missed you, but not your waspish tongue.'

'Then why visit, when you know it is all you will receive?'

He drew a deep breath. 'I had come in the hopes of forging a truce,' he said.

Miriel almost laughed aloud. Even now he did not understand what he had done. 'And what are to be the terms of this "truce"?' she enquired sweetly. 'What do you want of me that you have not already taken and destroyed?'

'I'm trying to be reasonable,' Robert said through gritted teeth.

'I know; it's all my fault again.' Miriel nodded, still smiling, although not with her eyes. 'In truth you have always had a reason for whatever action you have taken, be it a common business deal or murder in a dark alley.' She made a dismissive gesture. 'I am weary and I'd rather sleep in the chill of my prison than share a firelit room with you. Speak your piece and leave me alone.'

Robert eyed her narrowly. 'And wouldn't you rather have your freedom above all else? To do as you choose without interference from me? To have a papal dispensation to dissolve our marriage so that you can mate again where you please?'

Whatever Miriel had been expecting, it was not this and she was unable to maintain her air of frosty contempt. 'Jesu God, Robert,' she spat, 'first you dump me in this hellish place, and then you come to me in the middle of the night to offer freedom. Why?' She shook her head. 'I truly do think that you are the one who has lost your wits!'

Wintry humour filled his eyes. 'I promise you, sweetheart, I haven't. My wits have never been more sound.'

'Then what do you want in exchange?' There had to be a catch, Miriel thought. Something so momentous that it was insurmountable and the offer of freedom only a taunt.

He shrugged. 'I would like to say nothing, but, as you know, I believe that debts must be paid. What I want is . . .' He turned to the carved oak sideboard along the guest-chamber wall. On top of it stood a small travelling chest that Miriel had not previously noticed. Robert took a key from his pouch, unlocked the lid, and withdrew a purple silk bundle.

Miriel suppressed a gasp of dismay.

'I see you recognise it,' Robert said as he delicately unwrapped the silk. 'Although I do not suppose for one moment that you are going to claim it is yours.'

Miriel put her hand to her breast. 'It belonged to the Empress Mathilda, our King's great-grandmother,' she said with a slight tremble in her voice despite her efforts to keep it steady.

'Ah, I see. And you were just keeping it safe?' 'What are you going to do with it?'

Robert pursed his lips. 'I haven't decided yet.' He turned the crown in his hands and the sight made Miriel feel sick. It was almost as if his touch were defiling the diadem's beauty and mystique.

'I could melt it down,' he mused, 'but that would destroy most of its value. Or I could sell it to someone who collects such things, but that would leave me open to the threat of arrest and the gibbet if I was ever found out.' To her relief he returned the crown to its wrappings and placed it in the travelling chest. 'But most likely, sweetheart, I will return it to King Henry in exchange for power and influence. That would suit me best.'

It would indeed, she thought, but at what expense to the peaceful dreams of others? 'So what do you want of me?' she shrugged. 'Scarcely my permission.'

Robert turned from the casket and fixed her with a stare that was almost feverish. She recognised the gleam, for she had been a sufferer too. 'I want to know how you came by the piece, where you found it. There must be more.'

Miriel smiled wryly. She was right; the barrier was insurmountable. She could not give him what she did not have. 'Assuredly there must,' she said, 'but if anyone finds it now, it will be a miracle. The sands have shifted and thousands of tides have washed over the place since.'

'But you can show me.'

Miriel sighed. 'I didn't find the Empress's crown; Nicholas rescued it at the time the baggage train was swept away . . . and I stole it from him.'

'You're lying; you must know something.' Robert's upper lip curled back from his teeth.

'No more than anyone else who vainly probes the sand in hope.'

Robert pointed his finger at her. The veins were starting to bulge in his throat. 'When you wed Gerbert, you claimed to be a widow, but you were a widow of means. You had more to your name than that bauble over there.'

'Stolen from Nicholas again. If you want royal jewels from me, then your journey has been wasted.' She opened her hands, showing him in gesture that she had nothing, and saw from the expression on his face that he still did not believe her for he was in the grip of gold-greed.

'If you had stolen from him, he would not have become your lover,' he said angrily. 'I may sell fleeces but you are not going to pull the wool over my eyes this time. On the morrow, we'll go down to the shore and you will show me where to search. If I find what I'm looking for, you can have your freedom.'