by Olga Daniels
Meg was not unwilling to get out of the muddied everyday clothes. It was good to get washed and feel pleasantly clean again. Sarah stood holding a clean kirtle, ready to drop it over Meg’s head, and at once began lacing it up. Her best gown was of blue-green velvet, with a tight bodice, beautifully fitted, enhancing her small waist, decorously edged with narrow frilling and trimmed with pearls. The skirt, long and full, trailed on the ground.
The garments were old-fashioned, for there had never been money to buy anything new for Meg. The beautiful gown had been made for her mother, and she had worn it only once, on the occasion of a grand banquet at Bixholm Castle, shortly before her husband had left for France. He had been killed leading his troops into battle so had never returned.
Meg unfastened her plaits and Sarah brushed out her long fair hair, then covered it with a tight-fitting undercap. Over this went a French hood of black silk with front lappets decorated with a multi-coloured pattern of embroidery.
Even though the transformation was carried out with all possible speed, Sister Obligata came bustling in before they had quite finished. The tiny nun, one of the oldest in the nunnery, was wringing her hands anxiously.
“Wherever have you been, Meg? There’s an important visitor waiting to see you.”
“A visitor? To see me?” said Meg. Such a thing had never happened in her life before.
“That’s right. Are you ready now?”
“Wheesh, Sister,” admonished Sarah. “You don’t want her gown to be coming apart when she gets to the Prioress’s room, now, do you? She’d have the shock of her life!” She pulled the lacing tighter as she spoke.
“Sarah,” admonished Sister Obligata. “That is no way to speak of the Prioress.”
“I know.” Sarah hung her head, then glanced at Meg and whispered, “But it’s true, my lady, isn’t it?”
Meg shook her head reprovingly, but could not keep the smile from her lips. She turned to the little nun.
“Sister, dear, why is there such a hurry? Who wants to see me?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. No need for me to tell you,” said Sister Obligata. “Come along now.”
Despite her age and small stature she set off at a pace that was almost undignified for one in holy orders. Realising it would be useless to ask any further questions, Meg followed in silence. They waited briefly outside the solar. The little nun cast a critical eye over Meg, tweaked at one of the lappets, then knocked on the door.
“Enter.”
Meg braced herself. Visits to the Prioress had never brought her any joy in the past. They had usually followed some small misdemeanour over which the Prioress had lashed out with her stinging tongue. She prepared herself for the encounter on this occasion, as she had done in the past, by holding herself very upright, her head high and an expression of defiance on her face.
Sister Obligata opened the door and indicated that Meg should pass through, whilst she remained outside and closed the door. Meg stepped into the sumptuous apartment of her distant relative—and almost cried out in surprise. Her heart began to thump violently and her mouth felt suddenly dry. She stood stock-still, stunned, taking in the scene.
The Prioress, as she had expected, was seated on one side of the stone fireplace—but opposite her was the horseman she had encountered in the street that morning. The one they had called Sir Richard. He sprang to his feet. She stared at him, lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
“An important visitor waiting to see you,” Sister Obligata had said. What did that mean? Who was he? Why did he want to see her? Was his presence in some way connected with the earlier episode in the street? Had he made a complaint about her behaviour to the Prioress?
Her eyes sought his—she remembered with shame and anger how scornfully he had looked at her then. Now his expression was quite different—for one thing he appeared to be just as surprised as she was. Their eyes met and clashed, yet lingered. He recovered his equilibrium quicker than she did. She saw his expression relax, though his eyes remained fixed on her. It was a searching contemplation, and this time he gave the impression of being pleased with what he saw.
Then he looked down, his gaze moving slowly, taking in the length and slenderness of her neck, which rose elegantly from the square line of her gown, dropping lower to move over the gentle swelling of her bosom to the smallness of her waist. Again that sardonic smile lifted a corner of his lip as his gaze swept back up to her face. She wished desperately that she was able to regard him coolly, but she felt flustered, was aware that she was blushing and unsure of herself. She was quite unable to think of any reason why he should be there, or why he had asked to see her.
“Sir Richard—this is the young lady you have come to fetch; Lady Margaret Thurton, the daughter of my second cousin, Lady Elizabeth Thurton.” The Prioress performed the introductions in her usual haughty manner. Turning to Margaret, she added, “Sir Richard de Heigham has been sent by your uncle Edmund, Earl Thurton, to escort you to his castle at Bixholm.”
Meg could scarcely believe what she heard. She had no recollection of her uncle, had never even seen him, and everything she knew about him was disturbing. He had forced her mother to flee from Bixholm, even though it had been rightfully hers.
“Lady Margaret.” Sir Richard executed an elegant bow. His voice was smooth and friendly. “It’s a pleasure and an honour to make your acquaintance.”
With her mind in turmoil, Meg pulled herself together and lowered herself in a curtsey. She knew he did not mean those gallant words he uttered. She had no doubt that he had recognised her, and was grateful he made no reference to their encounter earlier in the day. It would have been difficult to explain to the Prioress, whose ideas on seemly behaviour were very different to her own.
“The honour is mine, Sir Richard,” Meg replied, managing at last to take control of herself and speak with studied politeness. Then, turning towards the Prioress, she asked, “May I ask why I am to be taken to my uncle at Bixholm?”
“I sent a message to your uncle, informing him of the death of your mother, God rest her soul,” said the Prioress. “Lord Thurton is now your next of kin, Margaret. He replied almost immediately, sending a messenger to enquire about you. I did not inform you before, for I was not sure of the outcome, but as you are now alone in the world he has most generously offered to give you his protection—until he can arrange a suitable marriage for you.”
“M-marriage?” Meg stammered.
“Of course. You are no longer a child, my dear.”
Meg did not recollect ever before such an endearment falling from the tight, thin lips of the Prioress. Far from reassuring her, it increased her alarm. “Must I go?” she asked.
“It is undoubtedly in your best interest.” The Prioress wore an air of smug satisfaction. “You should be grateful to your uncle for this beneficent gesture.”
“But I do not know him,” Meg protested. “He never came here to see me or my mother—”
“Your uncle has a great deal to attend to,” snapped the Prioress. “He moves in the highest of circles and is in constant attendance at Court. Besides, you must know there was ill feeling between him and your mother; that was the reason she brought you here. Now he is willing to overlook the past, and I deem it exceedingly generous of him to make you this offer.”
“But I have no wish to leave—please, dear Mother Prioress, will you not allow me to stay? I can make myself useful—”
“No, Margaret,” said the Prioress. “It is all settled. You will go to Bixholm and behave in a manner befitting the training and tuition you have received here in the priory. I trust that you will obey your illustrious uncle and endeavour to please him in every way.”
Meg regarded the Prioress with growing horror. She had never heard a good word about Earl Thurton. She feared him, even more than she feared the Prioress.
“Please—” She was about to plead further but the Prioress silenced her with an up sweep of one long pale hand.
&
nbsp; “It is no use arguing, Margaret. I know you have no calling for the religious life. You have told me so in the past.” She brought her lips together tightly, her eyes chilling in their disapproval. “The priory is soon to be closed. Everyone has to go. Though I shall be permitted to stay on in my own apartments and keep my own staff. I have worried about what should become of you and it was for that reason I wrote to Lord Thurton.”
Meg’s last hope faded. She had to accept that she was no more than a chattel, to be passed from one to another, and it was true she had no wish to become a nun. She stood in silence as the Prioress continued.
“This is the ideal solution for everyone. I shall pray that a suitable husband will be found for you, and that you may bear him many strong sons.” Again she clamped her thin lips together, making it absolutely clear she was not prepared to discuss the matter further.
Meg turned to Sir Richard and looked at him with such resentment it was near to hatred. She did not trust him. He and his entourage had been arrogant, careless of the safety of poor old Davy. She was uneasy at the thought of being escorted by such a trio, not least because undoubtedly they were all in the pay of the uncle who had used her mother so cruelly.
“When am I to go?” she asked bleakly.
“We set out in two days’ time,” Sir Richard answered. “We shall rest the horses tomorrow, and leave at dawn the day after.” His manner was coolly practical. He was simply undertaking a mission for his master.
Meg nodded. They would be up at dawn. Everyone in the nunnery was up early for prayers. She was pleased that she would also be able to make one last visit to old Betsy, as she had promised.
“May I take Sarah with me, if she is willing?” she asked.
“Sarah? Oh, your maid? Certainly,” the Prioress agreed easily. Sarah meant nothing to her.
“I would like to assure you, my lady, that you will be perfectly safe,” said Sir Richard.
Meg looked at him keenly but made no reply. She had nothing to say to him. She was deeply troubled about the whole arrangement. Why should her uncle have sent for her? She had nothing. He had robbed her mother of everything that should have been hers. He had forged papers purporting to show that not only was the title to pass to him, but that he should own all the worldly goods that had rightly been her mother’s.
Her uncle was a villain—and therefore it followed that this man, Sir Richard, his henchman, who had been sent to fetch her, was not to be trusted either. She would go with him—she had no choice. But she would be on her guard—and she would have as little to do with him as possible.
Chapter Two
Meg was surprised and puzzled by the helpfulness of the Prioress over preparations for her departure. It might have been no more than relief that she would have no further responsibility, even though in past years the lady had shown only a minimum of interest in Meg’s well-being. The Prioress had done her duty and no more—and now it became evident that she wished to impress Earl Thurton. She even provided a neat little bay mare for Meg to ride.
Did she know more about the marriage plans than she wished to divulge? Why was it all so sudden and so secretive? She fussed over Meg’s apparel, all of which had been handed down from her mother, or had been woven, cut out and stitched by Sarah and the nuns. She seemed to be quite distressed that there was no time for new garments to be made, and presented Meg with an elaborate brooch with which to fasten her cape. She also hired a packhorse to transport Meg’s few personal possessions, and a bundle belonging to Sarah.
Sarah had at first refused to undertake the journey. She had been indignant when it was suggested that she should ride pillion behind Alan Crompton, the third member of the party from Bixholm.
“Hosses!” she protested. “Great big hairy things. I ain’t used to ’em, and I don’t like ’em. I’d probably fall off!” she had said vehemently.
Meg laughed, then was immediately contrite as she saw real fear on her friend’s plumply pretty face. “You won’t fall off, Sarah! Honestly, you’ll be perfectly safe. I promise we won’t ride too fast.”
“It’s all very well for you, my lady. You allus did like ridin’. I ain’t never been on the back of a hoss, and I never want to!” Sarah clamped her mouth shut disapprovingly.
Meg was almost in despair. The prospect of going away quite alone was unbearable. “Please, Sarah, do come with me. I have to go, and I can’t manage without you.”
“Yes, you can, my lady. You’re no fool.” Sarah could be really stubborn at times.
Meg gave a wry smile, remembering past altercations between them. This time she was determined to win the other girl over. “I’ll be so lonely without you, and anyway, what will you do when they close the priory?”
“Find work somewhere, I suppose.” Sarah’s lips trembled slightly. “Not that I want to work for anyone else. Couldn’t I walk beside you, my lady?”
“Sarah, that’s impossible—it’s much too far. I really do need you. I can’t possibly leave you here. We’ve always been such good friends. Please don’t desert me—for I have to go.”
“We-ell.” The word was long drawn-out, showing her reluctance. “All right. I suppose what is to be will be. I’ll come with you—even if it kills me—for I’ve no wish to be parted from you, my lady.”
“Nor I from you, Sarah.” Meg threw her arms around the other girl and hugged her tightly. “I’ll look after you—always.”
Her feelings were mixed as they rode away from the priory. She realised that the natural course of life for a woman was to be married, and that it was normal for a husband to be chosen by her guardian. She had assumed that some day such an event would happen to her, but had expected that her wedding would be to a gentleman of her mother’s choice and in the distant future.
Most particularly it alarmed her that from now on she would be entirely beholden to this uncle of whom she had never heard one single word that was good. Did he already have some marriage of convenience in mind for her? Whoever the gentleman was, he had to be a stranger to her—and she to him—for she knew no men who could be remotely considered as eligible. If he was abhorrent to her, would she be able to refuse? A priest would not perform a marriage ceremony without the bride’s consent, but she had heard tales of some who were not as honourable as they should be.
The town was left behind. The horses trotted gently along stony tracks, through the fields and meadows of the open countryside. Villagers were working in their own strips of land, digging, raking, sowing seeds. Spring was a busy time, and they were making the most of the fine weather.
Sir Richard brought his big black charger up to ride alongside her. She was aware that he was there, but she did not turn her head; his nearness fired a tension that alerted previously unknown sensations which were disturbing—though not entirely unpleasant. For some inexplicable reason she had no wish to enter into conversation with him. Her mind raced with questions, but she was reluctant to reveal her anxiety.
“You ride very well, my lady,” he remarked.
“Thank you, sir,” she responded, coolly polite.
“Did you learn whilst you were at the priory?”
“Of course. I was only three years old when my mother took me there. She saw to it that I acquired those skills that would be necessary for life outside its walls.”
“I imagine it must have been restrictive at times. Will you be glad to be free from that life?”
“Neither glad nor sorry, sir,” she replied truthfully. “I have known no other way.”
“You will find things very different at Bixholm.”
“I do not doubt it.”
“Every night there is feasting and dancing. There are resident musicians and jesters, and sometimes they are joined by travelling players,” he said.
“I am sure it is very entertaining,” she said. “But that will all be new to me.”
They rode side by side for some minutes. She glanced at him, studied his well-chiselled profile and decided that he looked much more
friendly than when she had first encountered him. Then he turned towards her and his face was quite transformed by a smile—he seemed contented, as if well pleased to be riding with her. How ever was it that she had decided he was not handsome?
Suddenly it seemed easy and right to ask the question that had been continually in her mind since that interview with the Prioress. “My lord, can you tell me—because I would very much like to know—does my uncle have a gentleman in mind to whom he wishes me to become betrothed?”
The smile faded from Sir Richard’s face. There was a pause before he replied, and then his words were vague. “That is something that he will tell you in due course.”
“I suppose he must already have given some thought to the matter,” she persisted. “Otherwise he would not have sent for me.”
“Perhaps. I am not privy to the Earl’s plans.”
Despite his answer she was sure that he knew more than he was telling. “Then I shall have to ask him when we arrive at Bixholm,” she said.
“In my opinion, Lady Margaret, it would be wise to leave the matter until the Earl raises it with you.”
His tone sounded ominous. The smile had been replaced by a closed and distant expression. Her fears were reawakened. Of course, he was no friend to her. Why should she expect it? He was in the pay of her uncle. She had allowed herself to be deceived because his face and bearing were attractive to her. She had been a fool to think he might be friendly. She wished he would go away, leave her to travel alone with her thoughts.
He was silent for a time, but continued to ride at her side. Uneasily she turned her head towards him, and was disconcerted to find his eyes looking directly into hers—brown eyes flecked with gold. They seemed gentle, caring, almost as if he was sorry for her—but why should that be? A flush spread up her cheeks and over her face; it made her feel vulnerable and foolish. She looked down at the nodding head of her mare, a pretty animal, and then straight ahead.