She found two further rooms on this floor, one of which appeared to have been used as a sitting room, but was still covered in a thick layer of dust. This, too, had a large tapestry which entirely covered the back wall and depicted a large wood, filled with beasts including stags and bears and wolves. The more you examined it, the more animals you spotted. Birds of the air, and even fish in the stream. Once it was dusted, Mathilde was sure it would be a pleasure to behold.
She opened the door next to it, and had no sooner spotted a long table for formal dining, when Prudence’s head bobbed up from where she was sweeping out the fire. “I’ve only just started in here, milady,” she said warningly. “It’s not fit for occupation.”
“Oh, of course Prudence,” Mathilde answered. “Could I help at all?”
“Certainly not!” Prudence sounded shocked. “Begging your pardon, but you would only be in the way.” She closed her mouth tight and looked very fierce.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to be a hindrance.”
“Thank you, milady,” Prudence sounded relieved. “Perhaps you could check on that young man of yours.” She frowned. “I dread to think what mischief the young scoundrel could be getting in.”
Mathilde regarded the maid with surprise. “Oh, Robin is very mature and responsible,” she answered. “You may rest easy on that score. He has my complete and utter confidence.”
Again, Prudence’s lips screwed up tight with disapproval. “If you say so, milady,” she muttered.
Mathilde took a deep breath. “I do say so,” she said. When Prudence’s eyes darted to hers, Mathilde smiled, a kind but firm smile. Then she shut the door behind her and made her way downstairs to finish her exploration. Most of the ground floor was taken up with the large kitchen with its two fireplaces, pots and spits and a large functional table with a worn surface. The other rooms were a large store and pantry area and a buttery. These were full of implements that had not been used in a long time, and the shelves and containers were mostly bare and empty where once they would have been well stocked and heaving with provisions. The things they had brought with them had been placed tidily away, she noticed catching sight of the large round cheese and a salted ham. Doubtless Prudence’s work. She was industrious, even if she was a little abrasive. Leaning toward a draughty window, Mathilde caught sight of Robin moving about the garden and made haste to join him there.
As she shut the door behind her, she was immediately reminded of the bitter cold. Mathilde shivered as she picked her way along the path which was slushy from the amount of boots that had traipsed up and down it already. There had been more coming and going this day than any time in the past few years, she reflected, wondering if the place had felt as neglected as it looked. She had left her gloves somewhere inside, so she rubbed her hands together, as she looked around to find her friend. He was hanging over the side of an enclosure. As she hurried to join him, she realized he was feeding the chickens.
“This looks very impressive,” Mathilde said. “Did you make it yourself?”
Robin looked modest. “I had some help,” he admitted. “And this area was clearly used for this same purpose in past times.” He passed her a chunk of bread and noticing how he was crumbling his own up and scattering it for the fowls, she did the same. For a few moments they stood in harmonious silence, listening to the clucks and squawks of the chickens as they gobbled up the breadcrumbs. Robin finally broke it by pointing at the largest hen and saying, “That one’s name is the Prioress,” he said. “She holds sway over all the others.”
“So she does,” agreed Mathilde. “And she looks like she is clad in a black and white habit.” She watched the other hens a moment. “That one’s name is Intrepid,” she said pointing to a gray speckled hen. “See how she refuses to bow down, despite how the others are trying her?”
Robin nodded. “That one is Fussy and that one is Feisty,” he said pointing at the two brown hens who looked practically identical although their behaviors were very different. Fussy spent most of her time scratching in the snow and looking dissatisfied. Feisty spent most of her time squaring up to others and flapping her feathers in challenge. “That leaves one more for you to name,” Robin said nudging her in the side. Mathilde cocked her head to one side and eyed the remaining nameless hen. She was mostly white with a very red comb. “And you’re not allowed to call her Snowy,” said Robin.
“I wasn’t going to!” Mathilde protested hotly. “How about Valiant? Val for short.”
Robin rolled his eyes. “You and your names. Valiant is nearly as bad as Leander! Why do they have to be so grandiloquent?” he complained.
“Because,” Mathilde said, slipping her arm through his. “They are aspirational. It’s important to aspire to things.”
“Very well, but I shall call her Val, and likely think of her as Valerie.”
“That is fine,” said Mathilde. “For she and I will both know her real name. And so will you, deep down.”
“Aye, my lady,” he said with an eye-roll.
“You called me ‘my lady’ again,” sighed Mathilde, missing the easy camaraderie of the road.
Robin shrugged. “Of course. Anything else isn’t really proper.” At her disappointed expression, he scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe in private…” he started gruffly.
“Oh yes!” Mathilde agreed readily. “In private you must still call me Matty.”
Robin grinned reluctantly at that. “That’s a boy’s name. I only called you that in front of other people to be convincing.”
“Well, I like it,” she insisted. “Besides, you refused to call me Leander, like I wanted.”
“Leander!” he repeated scornfully. “I should say not! I’d never be friends with anyone called Leander.”
“What’s wrong with the name?” asked Mathilde. “If I were ever to have a son…” she broke off wistfully. “Well… It’s a very good sort of name.”
Robin snorted, and tilted his head back to look up at the sky. “It’s snowing again!”
Mathilde brushed away the flakes that were settling on her eyelashes. “Snow!” she breathed reverently. “It’s a sign!”
“Sign of what?” asked Robin curiously.
“When it snows,” she replied softly. “Everything is covered over, including the past, and made crisp and new again.” They gazed a moment in silence at the falling flakes.
“You don’t need to be made over,” Robin said abruptly.
“No,” agreed Mathilde. “Because I already have been, by the adventure of our journey north.” Feeling Robin’s curious gaze on her profile, Mathilde turned to face him. “Thank you for accompanying me, Rob. You’re a very good friend to me. In truth,” she hesitated. “You and the Countess Vawdrey are my best friends in all the world.”
Robin flushed. “What about the other pages?” he asked looking away.
“They are good friends to me,” she acknowledged. “Very good friends. Willard, Gordon, Piers, I’m very fond of them all. You boys were my first friends. But you and Fenella are my very best.”
Robin cleared his throat. “We should probably light some more fires. We will need to keep the house warm.”
“Why don’t we just sit around the kitchen fire?” Mathilde suggested. “It’s cozy there, and welcoming. It seems foolish to use up all the firewood Waldon chopped for us, by lighting fires in all the rooms. Especially,” she added. “Since we are a household of only three.”
Robin brightened at the idea. “That’s not half bad,” he said. “Of course, I can chop us more logs as we need them.”
“Of course,” agreed Mathilde. “But there is no point in creating additional work where it is not needed. Should we shut up the chickens in their basket?” she asked looking at the crate which had been filled with straw.
“Maybe we should leave them to choose, until it grows dark?” Robin shrugged. “They can make up their own minds till then.”
“Very well, but we must not forget,” Mathilde said with a shiver. “
We are very close to the edge of the wood, and you never know what predator might emerge under cover of night.”
Robin nodded in agreement and they made their way, still arm-in-arm to the warm, bright kitchen where the fire burned merrily in the hearth.
X
“No,” said Guy, his patience wearing thin. Almost he was tempted to bring his fist crashing down on the table top, but he restrained himself. Just. “I do not want the pick of the confiscated horses,” he said scathingly. “I want the horse that was brought in with my — with the two young lads the day before yesterday,” he corrected himself hastily. What the hells had he been about to call her? He had slept badly the previous night, dreaming about foxes and chickens and the gods only knew what. He needed to pull himself together. Through gritted teeth, he elaborated. “The horse the carter claimed was his after the affray.”
The jail official gazed back at him unhappily. He was not one of the beadles that had accompanied Mathilde to Acton March. It irked Guy to think of her by that name, but she had given him none other, so it would have to suffice for now.
“But my lord,” the man bleated, spreading wide his hands. “The carter likely took the beast with him.”
“You mean he has been released?” barked Guy, looking suddenly furious. The bastard should have had a spell in the stocks at the very least! “There was also some personal property that needs to be released to me. A belt and a knife taken from the smaller boy.”
The official quaked. “If you would wait here for one moment, my lord,” he said, lurching to his feet. “I will go and make enquiries.”
Guy bit back his retort, which was to enquire rather acidly, why the fellow had not done so in the first place. He gazed around with dissatisfaction at the surroundings of Wickhamford jail, which was a gray stone structure of rather bleak aspect. The holding cells were below this floor, in the cellars. The air was dank. He found it hard to believe it would be any more congenial on the floor below. When he thought of Mathilde being dragged here, he had a strange acrid feeling in the pit of his stomach. Hearing footsteps in the corridor outside, he turned his head to see reinforcements had been brought this time.
“My lord!” cried a large jovial looking man, who looked vaguely familiar to him. He gave a hurried bow. “Your servant, sir, your devoted servant. My name is Bernard Thurston. We have met previously on several civic occasions.” Catching sight of the expression on Guy’s face he added, “Right sorry am I, to hear there has been such a confounded mix-up around this matter!”
“Thurston,” Guy repeated in clipped accents. “I believe your son played a part in this debacle.”
Thurston flushed. “He,— er, he was performing his duty that night here,” he answered cautiously. “And gave an account of it afterward that ensured we did not release the animal into the carter’s possession when he left us.”
“The horse is still here?”
“It is, in the courtyard below, my lord. It has been awaiting your collection.”
Guy felt himself relax in spite of himself. He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s something at least,” he conceded. “What about the carter?”
Thurston cleared his throat. “He was released, my lord,” he confessed apologetically. “In truth we did not have any charge to keep him here.”
“Well, I have plenty,” Guy countered aggressively. “We could start with assault and theft.”
The merchant gazed back at him unhappily. “My lord—”, he started, but Guy cut him off.
“If you did not believe this, then why did you not release the horse to him?” he asked with some belligerence.
Thurston gave a small cough. “In truth my lord, because my son made it plain that if we did so, we would incur your considerable displeasure.”
Guy drew in a deep breath. “I see,” he answered, once he had recovered his temper. “It seems I owe your son a debt.”
“I’m sure he does not see it in that manner,” Thurston murmured, “and was only too glad to be able to perform some small service for your lordship.”
Guy lapsed into brooding silence. “What of the items confiscated from the two boys?” he asked after a moment.
Thurston turned and motioned to one of his companions. It was the same melancholy looking fellow from earlier. He held a small wooden trunk which he made haste to bring forward, setting it on the table before Guy. The small key was still in the lock. Guy turned it and flung back the lid. Inside were two coiled brown leather belts and two sheathed daggers. One must belong to Robin, he supposed. Both knives looked perfectly serviceable and bore neither embellishment nor crest. He gave a short nod. “I will take these with me.”
“Of course, my lord. Edwards will come downstairs and accompany you to the stables.”
Guy wasn’t that surprised when they reached the stable yard and found the horse to be a broken down old nag, without even a bridle. Somehow, Mathilde’s words had prepared him for this eventuality. He cast his eyes heavenward a moment and then ordered it to be brought out and a halter and leading rein attached.
Temur was awaiting him in the thoroughfare outside, and eyed the animal with interest. “I take it the lady has not much of an aptitude for horses,” he commented wryly.
“Actually,” Guy rumbled. “She’s a very fair rider.” He kept his gaze straight ahead when he felt Temur’s surprised gaze on his face. He had attached the horse to his own and it was following along behind placidly enough.
“Not much of an eye for horse-flesh though, has she?” Temur rallied.
“I believe this horse was acquired for altruistic purposes,” Guy forced himself to respond. “Can we drop the subject?”
Temur shrugged. “Are we headed back to the manor now?”
“I’ve a few other things to pick up,” Guy said shortly. “Did you place the orders I gave you?”
“I did,” said Temur. “Though you gave me no measurements for the tailor. Luckily one of his daughters was there and looked to be of a muchness, so I told him to take her for a guide.”
“Good thinking.”
“I was at a loss at the cordwainer’s though,” Temur confessed, scratching his head. “And I doubt very much you measured her feet.”
“I know exactly the size of her feet,” Guy frowned, pulling on the reins to halt his horse. He held up his hand. “From the tip of my middle finger to here,” he said, pointing a finger to his wrist. “Measuring this much in width, at the widest point.” He held his thumb and index finger up to illustrate.
Temur blinked. “Well—”
“In which direction is the shoemaker?” Guy asked, turning in his saddle.
“We’re going back?” Temur glanced up at the sky. “It looks like we’ll likely have more snow before midday.”
Guy sent a scornful glance at his companion and turned his horse about. “Which direction?”
“This way,” sighed Temur, urging his own horse to turn. “It’s over yonder,” he said, pointing to a distant sign of a wooden shoe. They started forward.
“How’s that wife of yours?” Guy asked abruptly. “What was her name again?”
“Lettys. She’s well, my lord,” Temur responded cautiously. Guy grunted. He could feel Temur’s curious gaze still on him. “She’s ruffled my father’s feathers a bit,” Temur added after a moment. “Maybe us moving her in with the old man was a mistake, but he couldn’t manage the place on his own and it seemed the obvious move to make.”
Guy listened to this with knitted brows. “How is your Father? I don’t think I saw him at your wedding,” he said after a moment. He was sure that was right, but in truth he’d paid scant attention to the personal lives of his men over the past few years. Really, he should have done better, especially with Temur, whose Father was some sort of cousin of Guy’s mother, a few times removed which made him his kinsman. They had a large place over at Acton Dymock.
“He was not there, my lord,” sighed Temur. “He took my mother’s death hard. He gave us his blessing to wed, bu
t could not face the celebrations. It’s been over five years now since my mother died. The house needs a lot of work and Lettys can’t wait to be the new broom that sweeps all before it. But Father’s resistant to change and well…” Temur coughed. “There’s been a few sharp words on both sides.”
“Hmmm.” An image of Guy’s own father flashed into his mind’s eye and he could well imagine what his sire would have had to say about him installing Mathilde at the hunting lodge. “It can’t be easy,” he said heavily.
Temur could not have looked more astonished if he had fallen off his horse. “No, m’lord,” he agreed. “And that’s putting it mildly.”
Guy shot a sidelong glance at him. He didn’t want to sound too interested in how Temur was negotiating married life. After all, his own situation was not the same at all. This imposter wasn’t his wife, despite what she said. She couldn’t be. Aloud he said, “How long were you courting Lettys?”
If anything, Temur looked even more alarmed by this turn in the conversation. “Some three months, my lord.”
“Three months? That’s not long.” Guy frowned.
“Couldn’t see the point in putting it off.” Temur shrugged. “I wanted her, she wanted me. What was there to delay about?”
What indeed? Guy thought back fleetingly to his own broken betrothal. He and Julia Kerslake had been promised for over five years. It had all counted for naught in the end. For most of that time, he had been embroiled in the war. They had spent precious little time getting to know one another. Sometimes he thought he had never really known her at all. Perhaps, after all, there was something to be said for short betrothals.
Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1) Page 8