“They are huge, tall as beech trees and wider than oaks. I think a mighty king had them put up, for some great victory.”
“Or queen,” put in Maggie quickly, and he stifled his grin.
“Or queen,” he agreed. “I do not know where that place is,” he went on, indicating another picture. He knew very well it was London, with the river Thames and the White Tower of the Norman Kings, but he wanted to encourage talk between them. “There are well drawn, do you think?”
“I do,” she replied at once, “and I think that great keep shown is the Tower of London. Have you visited there?”
“I sailed into port but did not leave the docks past Queenhithe. Now I think on it, I could see the tower, it rises above everything.” Part of Conrad wanted to snatch his new wife into his arms and roll her onto the couch, but she had been rigid with tension when they entered the wagon and only now was she less wary. Come, he longed to say, I have been married before. I shall do you no harm. But they talked so she might trust him, and he could wait. He had been married before.
She stared determinedly at a painting of trees. “That reminds me of our woods round Little Yeaton.”
“I believe they show forests in France,” Conrad lied. He did not want her thinking of her old home, or her brother. I shall do all I can for the lad on Saint Nicholas’s feast day, so, let him stay outside this wagon this sunset and tonight. He laid a hand on her arm, glad she did not flinch or sigh. He waited until she looked at him.
“We do nothing you do not want, Maggie-Margaret,” he said quietly, and watched a soft flush creep over her face.
“Is there a lantern here, for later?” she murmured.
“Yes, and mead and cups, even some bread we can toast by candle-flame.”
She smiled and touched her stomach, taking a step closer. “We ate well, just now, though I cannot say what we feasted on. Did you do that as a boy, roast bread by candle-light?”
“Whenever I could,” he admitted. “As a page I was always hungry.”
“I always tried to steal sips of ale my mother made, while she was stirring it,” Maggie answered, and her flush deepened. “You said there was mead?”
Liquid courage. “Sit on the couch and let me serve you,” Conrad said, straight-faced, fussing with the cups and flask until she settled. “We shall drink a wassail together.”
She started, then, and exclaimed, “I have dreamed we did that!”
“So have I,” Conrad admitted, relieved and heartened now he knew their time together would go well. It will be all right. We shall be all right.
• ♥ •
The late afternoon and evening became like another dream to Maggie. She and Conrad dipped their bread in their cups of mead and ate them, sometimes feeding each other. They sat on the couch with their backs to one wall of the wagon and their bare feet straight out on the soft woollen coverlet.
“I think we are taking your father’s bed from him,” Conrad observed, and she chuckled, stroking the deep red cover. The couch was indeed the size of a great bed and as comfortable.
Later, she and Conrad lay together, still clothed, and tested the linen-covered pillows for their heads. The test became kisses and she rolled on top of him, and he on her.
Later still, when Conrad lit the lantern she admired her new husband’s nude, shapely body and was happy to welcome him back into their bed.
Her bridal night was happy and she was well content.
The next morning, however, brought very different news.
• ♥ •
She wanted to stretch and kiss her new husband slowly down the length of his spine. Instead, Maggie cracked her eyes a little more open and concentrated on what Earl John had just told her.
“Michael is in sanctuary in Beverley? Is that certain?”
“The Minster of Beverley is famous at giving sanctuary, if folk seeking it reach the Frithstool.” Sitting up beside her on the couch, Conrad patted the coverlets more snugly about her shoulders and rubbed at his jaw. For a dark man he had only light stubble, she thought smugly, then tried afresh to focus on this astonishing news.
“Frithstool?” She had never heart of such a thing.
“A stone chair, the chair of sanctuary,” Conrad explained, with a small, endearing yawn behind one hand. Attend, Maggie! This is about your brother.
“If true, then Michael is safe?” She wanted to be sure of that.
“Indeed, so, my daughter.” Earl John, bright in scarlet and gold and jaunty as a young bullfinch, bobbed over the wagon floor and tapped on a painting of a tall church and graveyard, one Maggie thought was well done at showing the height of its bell tower and yew tree. “He and his friend can remain in sanctuary for thirty days.”
“Who will feed them?” Maggie asked. At this, the man entering the wagon at the back of Earl John snorted.
Conrad pierced the newcomer with a glare. “The people of Beverley, as an act of charity?”
“It will be arranged,” said the earl, with a languid twirl of a hand. “With the right inducements.”
“Can it be Michael? Do you have proofs?” she persisted. How did Michael escape the outlaws? Is he injured? How did he track through the forests?
Abruptly, she became aware that Earl John was shaking her foot through the bedding.
“As I was saying,” he went on, “my cousin, here, has learned that Michael and a carpenter from High Yeaton fled the outlaws’ camp on horseback, outran their pursuit and entered sanctuary two days ago.”
Conrad shifted slightly on the bed and Maggie felt a blush rise in her face. We are still to dress and this wagon has become as busy as a village watering spring with gossips. Some of her resentment must have shown, for Conrad leaned forward, shielding her. “Who is this carpenter?” he asked.
What does that matter? I want to know of Michael!
“A man named Theobald,” answered the newcomer, speaking as if every word was wrenched from him like bad teeth.
Maggie closed her eyes a moment, considering Little Yeaton and the larger settlement of High Yeaton. When she was very small, her mother, Florence, had charmed a man’s warts in High Yeaton and the man, once cleared, had made her a doll in thanks. Had his name been Theobald?
Theo the elder, her memory whispered. His son, also Theobald, was a striking lad and a fine carpenter. Maggie smiled, remembering the man now, and recognizing how canny Conrad had been in asking after him. He has given me the means to ensure this report is true.
“What does he look like?” she asked, and held her breath as she waited for the reply.
“Ugly,” snapped back the newcomer.
“In what way?” countered Conrad. “Is he marred by the pox? Did he fall into the fire as a babe and so been blistered by burns? Is he tattooed?”
No, thought Maggie. Theobald has none of those things, but I will always remember my first sight of him.
“Marked by a cross, perhaps?” Conrad went on.
The newcomer, who was handsome, Maggie conceded, in a glossy, red-gold kind of way, puffed up like a robin preparing to defend its kingdom. “The cross is for crusaders, only.”
Earl John clearly thought it time to intervene. “My tetchy cousin told me that the young carpenter has very black hair, long and plaited down his back, with a single iron-grey streak of hair growing by his left temple.”
“That is Theobald,” Maggie agreed.
“And my cousin’s man also heard said Theobald talking to his companion in sanctuary, where he called him Michael. Michael the locksmith.”
Maggie brought a hand up to her mouth as the wagon swirled about her. She fought the rising sickness down as feeling and relief burst in on her. She heard Conrad grumble, “Teeth of Hell! that might have been more sweetly put,” then a creaking of boots and gear as the others finally trooped outside. Over her thundering heartbeat, Conrad said steadily, “Michael is safe now. Your father will send men to escort him and the carpenter out of sanctuary.”
His arms wound around he
r and she was settled onto his lap with them snug together on the great couch. “The treasure of Ormingham is safe, too,” he added, as if speaking of the everyday. “I shall leave men to guard the church, and that means so will your father and that cockerel Lord Gerald. To match me,” he added, when Maggie looked at him wonderingly.
She agreed, given the pride of knights, that such an outcome was likely. “I preferred your idea of keeping the treasure in the crypt and bringing out an empty, gaudy treasure-chest for church,” she added. “It is a good plan.”
“The priest here has sense. He will enact it.”
No doubt right down to a treasure-chest with cross-eyed angels. Maggie crossed herself at the impious thought, and Conrad misunderstood and hugged her tightly for an instant.
“All will be well. You will be reunited with Michael soon,” he promised, and kissed her forehead.
And why am I not giddily glad at that prospect?
“Your own brother?” she ventured, after a moment of basking in her husband’s company and inhaling his salt and leather scent.
“Richard will do what he pleases. He always does.” Conrad ran a finger lightly down her thigh, causing her to tingle all over. “Shall we rise and take in the eve of Saint Nicholas and our fasting rations of dried fish and pottage?”
Such bounty is rich for midwinter in a village. Our fasting days in Little Yeaton meant berry tisane and scraps of cold pease pudding. But she inclined her head and said nothing, and allowed Conrad to lift her off his knee. Perhaps managing a husband is not so hard.
She knew marriage had little to do with the kind of desperate, yearning gallantry celebrated by poets. At home in Little Yeaton—where I may never live again, she realized sharply—men and women had joined together for companionship and children, the holding and farming of lands and beasts. No doubt it was the same in the knightly classes, for all their courtly airs and favours.
Still, Maggie thought, as she hunted for her garments and passed Conrad any of his clothes that she found on the floor of the wagon, she and her unexpected mate had made a good beginning. “Husbands and wives should talk to one another, and never quarrel past bedtime,” her mother had often advised. So far, she and Conrad turned to each other, did not let their disputes turn cruel, and at night, their nights together were more.
So much more I wish every waking hour far away to sunset, so I might be within his arms again. Was it enough? “Please let him never resent me,” she whispered in her head to any saint or local spirit who might be listening, aware that she brought no property or treasure to the union. Once the dazzle and rush of their coupling became more ordinary, in the same way as basking in hot sunshine becomes commonplace in the summer, would they remain in fellowship? “Please let him never cast me aside,” she prayed. He was a knight, a steward. He could go on crusade or follow the royal court and its progress for years and leave her behind in some forgotten keep or manor. No one would think it wrong. No one would even question it.
“Coming?” Conrad asked now, breaking into her inner panic as he held out a warm, strong hand.
“I am, indeed.” She smiled at him and gripped his fingers, careful not to clasp too tight. I must beware of that. Men do not like clingy females.
They emerged into a day of heavy clouds and sullen skies, with a damp, bone-aching chill that set her chilblains itching. She hoped the whole was not an omen and a sign of troubles to come.
I hope Michael accepts my marriage, too, whenever we are reunited.
Chapter 14
Lord Gerald thrust out his tongue into the falling snow and swallowed a flake. That childish pursuit done, he continued to check over his finest saddle, to ensure all the stitching was whole. He could have been indoors for this, but the stable was blessedly quiet, save for him and the horses and an ailing cow at the end of the stable block.
It was the day after the feast of Saint Nicholas, and Earl John was only now speaking of moving on. The outlaws that everyone seemed to fear had not appeared and did not seem likely to enter Ormingham either, not with so many men staying in the castle.
Seated comfortably in the straw in the hay loft, Lord Gerald put the saddle aside and tracked the softly drifting snow. He was relieved that Petit was guarding the church, and unlikely to encounter Earl John’s natural daughter. John had enthusiasms, and at the moment, the girl had his attention and bounty—she and Sir Conrad, her new husband. I wonder how the steward of the northern highlands finds that sudden change? Granted the girl is pretty, but Conrad had been devoted to his first wife and his new one is, after all, half a peasant.
No matter. Earl John had insisted that the pair remain in his company, a point Lord Gerald suspected, from careful observation of the parties, that both Conrad and his odious brother Richard disliked.
Could any of these minor players be part of his future plans? He was the master of intrigue, of the long game. He had informants everywhere—witness the discovery one of them had made concerning the girl’s half-brother. He did not know yet how such a person might be useful, but he was the master. He would keep it in mind.
King Richard was still missing. At the royal court there were factions, which meant there were chances for ambitious men like him. He intended to seize them. He was the master.
Lord Gerald continued to watch the snow. Many years ago, he had skated on bone skates along the frozen streams of his home. Now, he preferred a different balancing act, involving men and proxies.
The other Richard was the key, he decided. Lord Richard and his brooding younger sibling had fought hard in combat and had not reconciled. When others had gawped at the spectacle of Earl John and Lady Margaret, scratching at each other like cats on a battlement, Gerald had studied Lord Richard’s every sneer.
Conrad for all his strength and power is too soft. He should have forced his brother at sword-point to swear fealty to his bride. The elder despises them, and soon his scorn will compel him into a malicious act. And who shall win, then?
Perhaps I can rouse the spoilt golden lord a little earlier. It will make an entertaining Christmas pageant, at least.
The master smiled, watching the snow.
• ♥ •
It had snowed all day and throughout the night, a night where Conrad had cleverly told Earl John that Maggie needed to stay close to the fire, because of the cold. They had been grudgingly allowed to remain in the main hall, and Conrad made a show of placing pallets beside the fire, but once the torches were doused, he had smuggled them into their former place near the wall.
“I like it here,” he told her, with a kiss. “It holds good memories, and besides, I have not forgotten other matters.”
He meant the assassin, Maggie knew, and she embraced him in gratitude, glad no others knew where they were and relieved not to be trapped in the solar with the rest of the “great ones”. Her father obviously shared the same distaste for he was back in his personal wagon.
Maggie missed the wagon and its world of pictures, and even more, its comfortable couch. But in the dark canopy of the hall where nothing could be seen save the glimmers of the fire, she and Conrad quietly made love beneath their cloaks and made the spot by the wall theirs.
Now it was morning, two days after the feast of Saint Nicholas, with no word from Michael, no sign of him, no whiff of the outlaws—and her father insisting she and Conrad remain.
“Sno, sno!” gurgled Peter, galloping to her to be swung up for hugs and kisses, “Sno!”
“It will still be there till after our breakfast, little man,” chuckled Conrad, gently ruffling the babe’s dark hair. “We can make a knight of snow.”
He is so good with him, Maggie thought, as her husband lifted Peter from her arms and whirled the lad about, to Peter’s shrieks of delight. He will be a wonderful father, while a darker fear whispered, Please do not leave me behind.
“No chance of any going anywhere today!” chortled Earl John, who seemed delighted by the prospect.
“Snow games after food!”
announced Lord William, after calling for porridge for all the hall. “A joust of snow-balls, women against men!”
This turned out to be ladies against knights, as the lower orders were firmly put to clearing snow in the bailey. Conrad was allowed to build a snowman with Peter but Maggie found herself shepherded to Lady Ygraine.
“Have you no gloves?” sniffed the lady, while alongside her, her own women silently showed off their bright mittens and belled coats for their lapdogs. “I suppose it hardly matters. Keep close to me and watch out for Earl John. He once dropped a basket’s worth of snow on my shoulders and quite spoiled my new head-dress.”
“Years ago, my lady,” called the earl, while her ladies pursed their lips in mock disapproval and Maggie wished she was like the heron, lazily flying overhead with scarcely a flap of wings and able to spot the whole countryside and who was in it. I have no news of Michael, and must play games instead of searching.
The snowball fight was hardly a fight at all. Squires gathered snow and made it into balls for Lady Ygraine, who dropped them underarm onto any who happened to cross her path. The other ladies fashioned a few tiny balls of snow and pelted them at the knights, who stood still for them to aim at.
“Ha, a hit!” cried Lord Richard, as a missile exploded over his shoulder in a cloud of sparkling mist. He seemed the most eager for the activity, weaving between the ladies and damsels, offering encouragement and praise and always, Maggie noted, showing his best profile.
Not one of the lords or squires allowed her a free hit, she realized, darting away from her in dashes of coloured cloaks, like kingfishers hunting on a river. They also had no qualms in lobbing snow at her, and she had to twist about several times to avoid being smacked in the face. Not caring enough to complain, Maggie turned to fashioning snowballs and passing them to the damsels.
Conrad meanwhile had handed a drooping Peter, tired from making his snow-knight, back to his mother. Kicking through snow, he carved a path toward her. Maggie waved a welcome, her hand falling abruptly when she saw Richard whisper to a lady-in-waiting. As if under a charm, the young woman nodded, plucked a pebble from the ground, encased it in snow and tossed it—at Conrad.
Sir Conrad and the Christmas Treasure Page 8