The Unconventional Maiden

by June Francis

  Gawain shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t admit that, but the truth is that whilst fighting here in France a few years ago, my shoulder was dislocated. Now the joint has a habit of coming out of its socket when put unduly under stress and the pain can be debilitating. It does not happen often, but enough to embarrass me in front of my king and peers. Besides, I could no longer be relied on to defend the king if he were in danger, so I had to beg leave to resign from my position.’

  ‘That must have been very upsetting for you,’ said Beth, struggling with conflicting emotions. ‘You must miss the life of a warrior.’

  ‘Hardly that of a real warrior,’ he said stiffly. ‘Although life at court could be amusing, as well as exciting. As it is, Henry summons me to play board games or dice with him. He is an inveterate gambler and I have some skill.’

  ‘That is why are you here now? He invited you to play with him?’

  Gawain nodded. ‘And there is no need for you to tell me that I should not be performing at the lists or wrestling with my disability. I have a wife to tell me that,’ he added harshly.

  ‘Is that the real reason why she is not here?’ asked Beth. ‘Because of your male pride being hurt? That is foolish.’

  He handed a cup of wine to her. ‘How well you understand me, Mistress Llewellyn,’ he said sardonically.

  ‘By St George, you took a risk,’ she said, taking a sip of wine.

  Their eyes met. ‘You would say that pride comes before a fall, but I say a man needs his pride,’ said Gawain.

  ‘He could have flattened you,’ said Beth. ‘But I admit I found it admirable that you were able to throw that Breton wrestler.’

  He shrugged and winced, determined not to show the pleasure her remark gave him. ‘Shall we change the subject?’

  She nodded, curious to know more about him. ‘Tell me about your wife. Have you children?’

  Gawain gazed into her attractive little face that was alight with interest. He imagined how her expression would change if he told the truth—that Mary had deserted him, taking their daughters with her. It would perhaps give Beth more reason to be against marriage. Of course, he could have told her how he had spent weeks searching for them, believing that his wife’s wits were deranged after the loss of their son, fearing for the girls’ safety and that of their mother. This had been after Mary’s father’s death when Gawain had taken on new responsibilities. Then he had struck lucky or so he had thought, only to discover that Mary had made a cuckold of him and when he had rode to the place where she had been observed, it was too late. She had vanished again. Then the king had summoned him to court and he’d had no choice but to abandon his search.

  ‘I have two daughters: Lydia, who has seen seven summers, and Tabitha, who is three years old.’ He found it too painful still to mention the loss of his son to her, but added swiftly, ‘More recently I’ve been sorting out my father-in-law’s affairs. He died a year ago and left it to me to rescue his ailing boat-building yard. I have hopes that in a few years it will be prosperous again.’

  Beth frowned. ‘You have enough matters of your own to sort out as it is without being bothered with mine. Why do you not allow me to handle my own affairs?’

  Gawain was tempted to agree, but found himself saying, ‘I made a promise to your father that I would find you a husband. His dearest wish was that you provided him with a grandson.’

  ‘A grandson!’ This was news, indeed, to Beth and it angered and hurt her further. ‘A daughter was not good enough for him,’ she added in a trembling voice. ‘Only a male offspring will do.’

  Gawain paused in the act of setting the table. ‘You must forgive him. It is natural for a man to want a son to carry on his name. No doubt your father had it in mind for you to marry someone who understood the printing- and book-selling business, but perhaps it would be wiser to sell it, so as to provide you with a substantial dowry to attract a gentleman so you would not be forever thinking of printing and books.’

  ‘No! It cannot be sold,’ she cried, starting to her feet and spilling a little wine on her gown. ‘If I have a son, then he will inherit and carry on with my work.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Gawain, frowning. ‘What work is this? Tell me?’

  Encouraged and filled with an overwhelming need to share her secret, Beth said, ‘I know how to set type and to work the presses, and I have continued with the work Jonathan began. I write and print a newsletter and it is distributed in London and I am determined to carry on doing so.’

  His eyes flared. ‘By St George, I believe you are serious!’

  ‘Indeed, I am!’ Her face was alight with enthusiasm. ‘I write about matters that I know will interest those who have learnt to read since their parents’ generation grasped the first books that came off Master Caxton’s presses here in England. They are eager for the written word and they desire more than just the gospels and stories of the saints. They enjoy the old tales from classical history such as Aesop’s Fables, but they also want to be kept informed about what is happening today.’

  ‘Are you saying that the printing and distribution of Holy Writ in our own tongue does not interest you?’ he asked, his dark brows knitting.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said, flushing. ‘I am saying that the printed word has the power to do more than bring religious enlightenment to those who wish to read the gospels for themselves. It can educate, entertain and amuse on several topics.’

  ‘I agree that there is much enjoyment to be found in such as Homer’s Illiad, but the printed word can also be dangerous, as you well know. It can preach sedition and moral laxity,’ he said drily.

  ‘That is not my intention,’ she said hastily. ‘I sincerely believe there are many people who are eager to know what is happening in other countries. They are interested in the great occasions such as this one taking place here. They would also enjoy reading of the wonders of the Indies and the New World by those who have visited these lands.’

  ‘I would not deny the truth of what you say, but those accounts will be written by explorers and no doubt printed by men. I would be doing you a disfavour if I allowed you to hold out any hope of continuing with this newsletter of yours, Mistress Llewellyn,’ said Gawain, marvelling at the enthusiasm that gleamed in her lovely eyes. If only she would look at him in such a manner! He quashed the thought. ‘Obviously your father would have disapproved and that is why you kept it a secret.’

  Deeply disappointed in him, she said, ‘Aye, because he thought, like you, that men can do most things better than a woman. We must be kept in our place under a man’s heel, to keep house, to be faithful and do what a man says and to bear him sons. Daughters do not matter. I pity your wife, because no doubt you do not appreciate your girls but long for her to give you a son!’

  The anger he had suppressed for so long exploded and he seized hold of her. ‘I deem you have said enough, Mistress Llewellyn,’ he said in a dangerously low voice. ‘You have no idea of what is between my wife and myself. I, like many men, believe it is our God-given role to cherish and protect our women and children, whatever their sex. You would spread falsehoods and discontent if what you say is an example of your writing. I would be doing your readers a favour by taking your newsletter out of circulation.’

  ‘I will not be silenced,’ she said, glaring at him.

  ‘Will you not?’ he said harshly and pressed a fierce kiss on her lips.

  A stunned Beth could do no more than remain still in his embrace, but her heart raced and her knees had turned to water.

  He released her abruptly, furious with himself and her.

  ‘You should not have done that,’ she gasped, putting a hand to her tingling lips.

  ‘No, I should not,’ admitted Gawain hoarsely, turning his back on her and breathing deeply. ‘But you would cause a priest to forget his vows. Your father held you in high esteem as a housekeeper and spoke fondly of you. He wanted you safely married and that will be my aim. I must ask you to forgive me for losing my te
mper and I assure you that it will not happen again.’

  ‘I—I should think not! What would your wife say?’ cried Beth.

  ‘Shall we keep my wife out of this?’ he said, clenching his fist.

  Her eyes fixed on his whitened knuckles and she knew that she had touched him on the raw. ‘I will not mention her again,’ she said stiffly. ‘Although if we were to meet in England—’

  ‘You would tell her?’ His expression was grim. ‘It is possible she would not believe you.’

  There was a long silence as they stared at each other. Then he reached for a knife. She shrank back and he swore beneath his breath and began to slice a loaf. ‘Eat, Mistress Llewellyn, you need to keep up your strength if you are to survive the difficulties that lie ahead,’ he rasped.

  ‘I am no weakling nor did I say I would speak of that kiss to your wife. Rather I wonder how I could look her in the face, knowing that you had kissed me.’

  ‘It is the swiftest way I know to silence a woman,’ he said.

  If he thought he had silenced her, then he was mistaken. Yet it had been such a kiss that she could still feel his lips’ impression on hers. How dare he accuse her of spreading falsehood and discontent when he had not read a word she had written! She would show him—but in the meantime, he was right about her keeping up her strength. She reached for the bread and cheese, determined to have her way, but uncertain yet exactly how to go about it. She supposed it all depended on what happened when they reached England. He could not force her to marry and no doubt he would need to leave her in London if he were to visit his wife and children. The sooner they parted the better—they obviously struck sparks off each other, rousing feelings that had to be suppressed.

  Gawain wondered what she was thinking. What would she say if he told her that Mary had borne him a son, but the boy had died? How in the weeks that followed he’d had to contend with Mary’s coolness and impenetrable silences. He had tried to reason with her and get her to talk about their loss, but that had been a waste of time. Once he had discovered there was another man involved, it had caused him to wonder how long she had been making a cuckold of him and whether the boy had truly been his son or this other man’s child. He had tried to be a good husband to her—never had he beaten her or forced her to bend to his will as she had told him her father had done. Gawain had treated her with respect and warmth as he remembered his father treating his mother. There had been great love between his parents, but still it had been a terrible shock when his father had died on the hunting field not long after his mother had passed away. Although he had left no message, Gawain was convinced his father had not wanted to live after his mother’s death and had recklessly taken one risk too many. As if it had not been painful enough to lose his mother, he had felt utterly abandoned when his father died.

  ‘I must speak to my servants, Jane and Sam,’ said Beth, rousing Gawain from his reverie.

  ‘My man, Tom Cobtree, and the lad, Michael, should be here soon,’ he said, lifting his head. ‘I will instruct them on how to find your tent. Hopefully, your servants will have returned and Tom will have your maid pack your possessions and bring them here. It is best you sleep in this tent tonight. You and she can have my sleeping quarters. I want the men to make a thorough search of your tent and its vicinity in the hope of finding the dagger and any other clues that might point to the identity of the murderer.’

  Beth accepted Gawain’s plan. She had no desire to return to the other tent where her father had met his death.

  Within the hour, Tom and Michael had arrived; after a low-voiced discussion with Gawain, they left. Thankfully, Beth did not have to wait long before Jane came with some of her mistress’s baggage. Gawain excused himself and left the two women to rearrange the sleeping quarters.

  Jane was old enough to be Beth’s mother and they were fond of each other. She was a widow and had lost two children in infancy. ‘What a terrible thing to happen, Mistress Beth,’ she said, dabbing her wet eyes with her sleeve. ‘What is the world coming to? How will we manage?’

  Beth placed an arm around her. ‘I’m sure we will cope, Jane. It isn’t as if I was unaccustomed to running the household and, despite what Sir Gawain says, I am determined that my father’s business will not be sold.’

  Jane’s face brightened. ‘That’s the spirit, Mistress Beth, although, I will say that I deem it a good thing that the master thought to enlist him to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘More than just an eye, Jane,’ said Beth, scowling. ‘Father asked him to find a husband for me. You can imagine how I feel about that.’

  ‘Your father only wanted what was best for you, Mistress Beth,’ said Jane, picking up the bundle of bedding she had brought with her.

  ‘What he thought was best for me,’ corrected Beth. ‘But he didn’t really know me. Even so, I’d like to go to the Church of the Nativity of Our Lady in the village and speak with the priest and have masses said for his soul. You can accompany me after we’ve finished here. I know some French and am sure I will be able to make my wishes known.’ She sighed. ‘Let’s hope that Sir Gawain and the other men will find some clue to the murderer’s identity.’

  Gawain took the dagger from Tom and fingered the amethysts embedded in the hilt. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘In the corner over there,’ said Tom. ‘The grass hasn’t been flattened by the groundsheet and the cloth it was in was the same colour. Definitely worth a bit,’ he added with fine understatement.

  ‘I’ve a feeling I’ve seen that dagger before,’ said Sam.

  Gawain shot a glance at the burly figure of Beth’s servant. ‘Are you sure? Think, man.’

  Sam screwed up his lined face. ‘Perhaps it was in some nobleman’s house when I was out delivering books on the master’s orders. Couldn’t see any of our other customers owning such a blade.’

  ‘I presume there’ll be a list of Master Llewellyn’s customers back in London,’ said Gawain.

  Sam nodded. ‘Mistress Beth will be able to put her hand on the book straight away.’

  Gawain looked thoughtful. ‘But she didn’t recognise the dagger.’

  ‘She don’t go delivering, has too much else to do.’

  Gawain placed the dagger in its cloth inside his doublet. ‘I’d best return to Mistress Llewellyn and inform her that we’ve found the weapon. Sam, if you would, pack your master’s possessions and bring them to my tent. Tom, you can come with me and cook us something hot for supper. You, Sam and Michael will share this tent tonight.’

  The three of them nodded.

  When Gawain arrived back at his tent it was to find it deserted. Where could Beth and her maid have vanished to? He was filled with unease, hoping they had not been followed earlier. Then he remembered what Beth had said about visiting the church in the village and decided to go and look for her there. He told Tom what he was about and then set off in the direction of Balinghem.

  ‘It is a sobering thought, Jane,’ said Beth in hushed tones as they left the church, ‘that my father’s bones will lie here in France. A country that he long regarded as the enemy.’

  Jane glanced over her shoulder as they hurried past the churchyard. ‘You can’t trust the Frenchies. Their king might be all smiles now, but give him another month and he’ll be making up to someone else. The Scotties, mebbe, or even the Holy Roman Emperor Charles, himself.’

  ‘The Emperor is Queen Katherine’s nephew, so it is more likely that he and Henry might yet come to some agreement against the French,’ said Beth. ‘But these matters are for statesmen and royalty to sort out. We have enough problems of our own to deal with when we return home.’

  ‘Do you think Sir Gawain will move us from Pater Noster Row?’

  ‘I imagine that he has that in mind,’ said Beth. ‘With a murderer on the loose, no doubt he would consider it a sensible move.’ Even as she spoke, Beth caught sight of Gawain coming towards them. She frowned, her emotions in a tangle, and thought how strange it was that in such a short ti
me she was able to recognise his form and his stride from a distance. She determined not to dwell on the kiss he had forced on her or how much she had liked it.

  She waited until he drew closer before calling, ‘Good even, Sir Gawain. Did you find anything?’

  ‘Aye. Tom found the dagger. Somehow it must have been knocked from the table and landed in a patch of tall grass in a corner.’ Gawain gazed down at her and wondered if she was still angry inside because he had kissed her. ‘Your man, Sam, thinks he might have seen it in some nobleman’s house whilst delivering books. He can’t remember his name. He suggested that you look through the account book and read the names out to him, so that hopefully it will jog his memory.’

  Beth felt a stir of excitement. ‘And if it can be proved that person was also here at the time of my father’s murder, then we have our killer.’

  ‘That is certainly a strong possibility,’ agreed Gawain. ‘In the meantime I must speak with Monsieur Le Brun and intend visiting Calais early tomorrow morning. I will return in time for your father’s burial.’

  ‘May I come with you?’ asked Beth. ‘I would like to see him.’

  Gawain hesitated, then agreed.

  The rest of the evening passed without further incident and although Beth slept only fitfully, towards the dawn she finally fell into a deep sleep.

  When at last she did wake, Jane told her that Sir Gawain had given orders that she was not to be disturbed and had set off for Calais with Tom Crabtree, leaving Sam to keep a watch out for any sign of trouble. She was annoyed at being left behind, but soon decided there was little point in feeling that way. After a breakfast of bread and ham, she took paper and quill and ink and began to write down all that happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  By the time she had finished the sun was climbing high in the sky and Gawain had returned.

  One look at his face told Beth that something momentous had occurred. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, starting to her feet.

  ‘Monsieur Le Brun has been murdered,’ said Gawain grimly.