“My lord?”
Guy gave a start. “What is it?” Had Temur been speaking?
Temur pointed up at the sign of the shoe, speckled with snow. “We’re here.”
XI
Mathilde had been excited on her third morning at the lodge, to hear a knock on the door. He’s come! She thought, bounding out of her seat. At last! But she was only halfway down the stairs when she heard Prudence’s waspish accents drifting up to her.
“What now? And don’t go traipsing those wet boots through on my nice clean floor!”
She’d never dare take such a tone with her master, Mathilde thought, her shoulders drooping. It must be more supplies. Her steps slowed in her descent. Over the past two days they had received a bewildering amount of items for their store cupboards: cereals; vegetables; dried herbs and spices. She had thought this was a temporary arrangement for her to be living separately to her husband, but perhaps Lord Martindale intended it for the longer term? It was rather a lowering thought.
She watched from the bottom step as two burly men rolled a large barrel before them through to the pantry and guessed it must be ale. Leaning against the bannister, she swallowed down her disappointment. It seemed her husband did not share her keenness to grow acquainted. Abruptly, Mathilde sank down onto the step. She pulled her woolen mantle tighter about her and propped her chin on her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. Maybe she was just destined to be always alone. The thought had no sooner formed in her mind, than she dismissed it as contemptible self-pity. Lord Martindale had a vast estate to run. She was just one of many people he had to deal with, she told herself roundly. This attitude of melancholy would do her no good. Perhaps she had been too long cooped up against the cold weather?
Her eye strayed to the wintry scene outside the window. It wasn’t actually snowing at this instant. Should she go for a walk? Perhaps Robin would join her. She mustered a smile for the delivery men who were both goggling at her over their shoulders, as they disappeared out of the door. She cast a quick glance over herself to make sure nothing was amiss. What had caught their attention so? Not finding anything, she stood up from the step, and went in search of Robin.
“The young master’s outside, milady,” Prudence said, and folded her lips. She was up to her elbows in flour and seemed to be making some sort of pie. Mathilde beat a hasty retreat before she could incur Prudence’s displeasure. Drawing on her cloak and boots, she too ventured out of doors.
Robin was crouched down over the hen house this morning and appeared to be collecting eggs. Mathilde waited, as he gingerly picked them out of the straw.
“Three out of five,” Robin said, looking up to find her watching him. “That’s not bad.”
“It’s very good,” Mathilde agreed, though she knew nothing about keeping hens.
“What do you say to us getting a cow?” Robin asked, stepping over the fencing.
“A cow?”
“For milk and cheeses.” Robin nodded toward a structure at the bottom of the garden. “It looks like they might have had one here before.”
He held out the eggs for her inspection. “Very nice,” said Mathilde approvingly. “Are not the horses we rode here being stabled in there presently?”
“Aye,” agreed Robin, “but there’s easily room for a cow. Or possibly,” he added, screwing up his nose, “a goat.”
“Perhaps you should ask Prudence, as she would be the one expected to milk it?” Mathilde suggested.
Robin pulled a face. “I can already tell you what Miss Curds and Whey would say.”
Mathilde laughed. “She might surprise you.”
He snorted. “I very much doubt it.”
“What do you say, to our going for an exploratory walk this morning?”
Robin’s gloomy aspect brightened. “I’ll just take these into the kitchen,” he said. “And we can set forth at once.”
“Don’t forget your mittens and hat,” Mathilde called after him, and started making her way carefully down the garden path. The fresh powdery snow was perfect for walking on, but the churned up snow on the path had frozen hard and was treacherous indeed.
She had only just reached the edge of the wood, when Robin came crunching through the snow after her. “Wait for me!” he puffed, his orange hat slipping down over his eyes. He paused to adjust it to a jaunty angle.
“Which way shall we go? I vote this path.” Mathilde pointed to a thin trail leading in the opposite direction to that from which they had come. Robin nodded in agreement and they set off at once. “How was your bed last night? Did you sleep well?”
“Aye, very well. Yourself?”
“Very comfortably, though my bed is four times as big as the one I am accustomed to.”
“My room is much better than my usual quarters. Old Sir Avery is a penny-pinching old curmudgeon,” Robin grumbled about the knight he served at court.
Mathilde’s footsteps halted. “Robin!” she cried.
“What is it?”
“I never even thought about Sir Avery! Will you not be in very great trouble at abandoning his service?”
Robin shrugged, unconcerned. “Probably.”
“But will not your people be very cross, after he agreed to take you to squire?”
Again Robin showed supreme indifference. “My stepfather will doubtless cut up a bit rough,” he admitted. “But Mother wanted me for the church anyway. She hates knights and combat, ever since my father was killed in battle.”
Mathilde looked at him doubtfully. “Is that something you would be interested in pursuing?”
Robin grinned. “No. My older brother Gregor is more suited, in truth.”
“But—”
“If old Sir Avery throws me off, all the better. I wasn’t learning anything from him anyway, except different ways to tie your garters.” Robin pulled a face. It was true, Mathilde reflected, that Sir Avery was an elderly knight, who spent most of his days attending different ceremonial functions at court. Certainly his jousting days were long since spent. “He only agreed to take me as my father was his godson,” Robin continued, picking up a stick and inspecting it. He started swishing away with it, as if it were a sword.
“I suppose we ought both to write, explaining where we are,” sighed Mathilde guiltily.
“There’s no hurry.” Robin frowned, performing a side-step and kicking some imaginary foe.
“Mind out for that tree root—” Mathilde started, before Robin took a spectacular tumble and slid two feet in the snow. “Rob! Are you alright?”
“Ouch.” He sat up, rubbing his shin. “That’s the trouble with all this snow—” He broke off, staring into the trees. “Did you see that?”
“What?” Mathilde turned to look in the direction he was looking fixedly.
“That old crone?” He pointed. “She was right there!”
“I saw no one.” She turned back to see Robin still sat there staring. “Do get up Robin, the snow will soak through your cloak.”
He clambered to his feet, and started off at a slow jog in the direction he had pointed to.
“Robin!”
He beckoned to her. “Come on!”
“We’ll get lost!” Mathilde warned. “You’re leading us away from the path.”
“We’ll find our way back!”
“Robin!”
He stopped and turned back to look at her. “Mathilde,” he said in the same challenging tone. “Your nurse isn’t here now. This is our chance. One more adventure.” He crooked an eyebrow at her. “Matty would seize the opportunity.”
She laughed. “Oh very well, but only because you called me by my boy’s name.”
He grinned, and Mathilde made haste to follow him. As they hurried on, she looked about with interest to see if she could spot the jay who was calling through the trees. Doubtless he was retrieving some acorns he’d buried in the autumn, but even though she kept a sharp look out, she could not catch sight of the buff feathers or flash of white on the rump that often gav
e the bird away. She was surprised he could hide so successfully among the bare trees.
“I swear I caught a glimpse of her skirts…” Robin muttered, or “Just there!” whenever Mathilde suggested he must have lost sight of their quarry.
“What was she wearing?”
“A sort of pale blue,” said Robin. “Or maybe gray.”
They had been walking a good twenty minutes when Mathilde caught sight of the large raven watching them with interest from a nearby oak tree. As she watched him, he tipped his head to one side, opened his beak and emitted the jay’s haunting scream. “Oh!” she said aloud.
“Do you see her?” asked Robin, wheeling about.
“That raven,” said Mathilde. “He’s impersonating a jay.”
Robin screwed his eyes up, waiting for the raven to do it again, but the bird merely returned their gaze impartially. “Everyone knows ravens are tricky,” he said at last.
“But he let me see he was doing it,” Mathilde answered. “I wonder why.”
Robin gave a startled yelp. “Look!” He pointed to a curl of smoke to the left of the Raven’s oak. “There must be a dwelling nearby.” The raven nodded indulgently. “Come on!”
Mathilde shivered and tried to shake off the unnerved feeling stealing over her. With one last glance at the raven, she followed after Robin, setting her own feet directly in his footprints in the snow.
The curling smoke came from a chimney set in a curious shack of stone and mud, with a thatched roof. They came upon it suddenly, as though the clearing sprang up out of nowhere, but in fact, the cottage was set on the very edge of the wood next to a small stream. In truth, if it had been placed in a village or hamlet, surrounded by other similar houses, it would not have seemed unusual at all. It was the location alone that made it startling.
“Look!” whispered Robin hoarsely, but Mathilde had already spotted the flash of faded blue at the window. In the next instant the wooden door opened and an upright woman with long hair of iron gray stood in the entrance. She was dressed in a woolen gown which would once have been blue, but had been washed so many times since that it was now an indeterminate shade somewhere between blue and gray. Flakes of snow still clung to her skirts and she wore no mantle or cloak to guard her against the bitter cold. Without a word, she turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door open for them. While Mathilde hesitated, Robin took the unspoken invitation and followed her inside.
“Wait for me!” Mathilde hurried after them, shutting the door behind her. Inside the shack, Mathilde had to take a moment to adjust her eyes from the dazzling snow outside, to the gloom within. To her surprise, Mathilde found there was a cow standing sedately against one wall, and several chickens scratching around on the dirt floor around her. “Oh excuse me,” she murmured to a little black hen who was staring up at her beadily.
“Light me a fire, boy,” the old woman said suddenly, making Mathilde jump. She had sat so still, Mathilde had not caught sight of her at first. She sat cross-legged next to a hearth which was in the center of the room and comprised of a large metal bowl on three legs. Over this stood three poles lashed together with a pot hanging down from them on a chain. Mathilde was startled to see nothing but cold ash within the bowl. What had caused the plume of smoke then, that had caught their attention from the wood? She darted a look at Robin, but he seemed to find nothing amiss with the woman’s request, and was already hurrying outside to fetch twigs and branches for her fire. “Come child and sit beside me, here,” the old woman continued, and patted the floor next to her.
“Should I not help gather some wood for the fire?” Mathilde asked, but the old woman shook her head. Mindful not to seem ungrateful to her hospitality, Mathilde crossed the floor to join her, and sank down onto the floor next to her. “I hope you do not mind our intrusion. My friend caught sight of you in the wood and we followed.”
A shadow passed over the already darkened room, and Mathilde gasped as something blocked the only available light from a small window. A loud swoosh was heard and a flutter of feathers, and in the next instant the large raven sat on the old woman’s shoulder.
“Just in time for introductions,” cackled the old woman. “Though it seems you have already met Tancred?”
“Oh yes, in the wood,” said Mathilde, gazing on the blue-black glossy plumage. The bird stared fixedly at the far wall, refusing to acknowledge their acquaintanceship. “I am Mathilde, and very pleased to meet you.” The bird’s eye darted to her a second before he looked away. “Tancred. That’s a very handsome name.”
“Don’t mind him,” wheezed the old woman. “He’s always standoffish at first. I am called Old Helga in these parts.” She made a curious gesture, placing her thumb on her chin and touching her index finger to the tip of her nose. Mathilde was not familiar with the salute, but did her best to replicate it. The old woman gave a delighted chuckle. “You have other names?” she asked, turning her head to look at Mathilde with interest.
Other names? Mathilde flushed with embarrassment. Was that what the action meant? But after all, did she not? She had travelled for almost a month under a boy’s alias and was on her third married name. “Oh yes,” she said quickly, recovering herself. “I have had at least four.”
The old woman nodded appreciatively, her eyes darting over Mathilde’s face. “The magpies foretold your coming two days ago,” she muttered dreamily, almost as though to herself. “For a moment, I thought I saw four for a boy. My old eyes played tricks on me, for when I looked again there were only three. Three for a girl.”
Mathilde started in surprise. “I was dressed as a boy,” she confided in a rush. “So, that would be why you saw four at first.”
“Is that so?” Helga asked, looking completely unruffled by this news. “Doubtless, you had your reasons.” She nodded sagely and for some reason, her total lack of curiosity put Mathilde immediately at ease. Rob entered the shack with an armful of branches and set about laying out the fire. Mathilde and Old Helga sat in companionable silence until the flames caught. Mathilde noticed a cat creep forward out of the shadows to get closer to the source of warmth. She sat up straight, her tail whisking, but as the larger logs started to spit and flare, she closed her eyes and seemed to settle, hunkering down onto her belly. In one corner, a goat bleated, making Mathilde jump. Her eyes could make out a heap of hay or straw in another corner, but she wasn’t sure if that was the old woman’s bedding, or food for the livestock.
“I’ll chop you some logs before we leave, Granny,” Rob said politely and settled down beside them. “Your stores are low.”
Helga nodded. “Good boy.” She rearranged herself, so that she hugged her bony knees and stared into the flames.
“Have you no blanket for your shoulders, Granny?” Rob asked, glancing around. “You must be cold. Your dress is likely damp from the snow.”
Old Helga looked surprised. “Cold? Not I. I have too many companions to be cold.”
Mathilde glanced at the hem of the old woman’s dress, and was astonished to see that the white flecks she had taken for snow, in fact were a woven pattern in the fabric. A slight movement to her right made her turn her head and to her shock a large gray wolf sat there silently, staring into the flames. She gave a stifled exclamation, and saw Rob reached for his knife, only to find he did not have it. The wolf flicked him a contemptuous glance from his fierce yellow eyes.
“Do not anger Maven,” Old Helga warned mildly. “All who sit at my hearth are bound by a sacred truce.”
Rob shifted uneasily. “So long as we all abide by it,” he said grimly.
Tancred winked one wicked black eye at Mathilde, and gave a mirthless cackle. Helga reached to her belt and unknotted a small cloth bag which she held out in front of her at arm’s length and then turned upside down. Several flat stones tumbled to the floor. Helga glanced down at them and grunted. Tancred also craned his head to look. It seemed to Mathilde that there were scratched symbols on their surfaces, but they were not letters
as she knew them.
“This is you,” said Helga, pointing to a small blue stone. “The traveler on his quest. The hero.” Mathilde’s eyes went very wide. She was the hero? She felt her cheeks flush with pleasure.
“This here,” said Helga pointing, “is your foe.”
“My foe?” Mathilde squinted down at the large shiny gray stone with a rough surface.
Helga nodded slowly. “A wise hero knows his true foe.”
Mathilde frowned. The carter? she wondered. She could think of no other enemy.
“With a man like yours,” Old Helga said suddenly. “You need to give all of yourself over. Hold nothing back.”
Mathilde started. “My husband?” she blurted in surprise, her breath coming fast. “He’s not my enemy!”
Helga paid no heed to her outburst. “His past has left him suspicious and bruised. You must needs shower him with your affections.”
Mathilde’s heart was beating so loud now, that she could almost fancy she heard it pounding in her ears. “I can do that,” she said eagerly. “I too…” she broke off, looking across at Robin. Was it suitable to speak of such things in front of him? “I have plenty to give,” she said in a stifled voice.
Again, Helga continued without acknowledging Mathilde’s response. “He tells himself and everyone, he does not like tenderness, that he does not need it. But that is a lie.” Helga nodded. “Deep inside, he craves it desperately.” She shot a look of challenge Mathilde’s way.
Mathilde clasped her hands together. “I — I can do that. I will!” she vowed. “What else Granny?” she said pleadingly, addressing her in familiar terms as she had heard Robin do. On the road, Robin had addressed all women as “Aunty” or “Mother,” all old ladies as “Granny.” Often it had earned him an extra spoonful of stew, a soft word, kindly advice.
Helga opened her mouth as if to speak and then hesitated. Both women turned as one, to look at Robin, who was staring fixedly at the ground, a wooden, uncomfortable look on his face. This was no conversation for him to hear, thought Mathilde awkwardly. Helga gave a quick gesture of one hand and the cat sauntered forward from its position in the circle and butted its head against his knee.
Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1) Page 9