by Olga Daniels
She ignored Richard’s statement, dismissed it as meaningless pleasantry, the language of the courtier. She asked, “Is Nancy the wife of the Earl?”
“In all respects other than having a ceremony to bless their union. She holds considerable power over him, even though her youthful beauty has left her. They suit each other well. Two of a kind. Be advised by me, my lady, take care not to upset Nancy.”
“I suppose I should be grateful that I am to have new gowns,” she said.
“Most young ladies would be,” he agreed easily.
“I will admit to being a little excited at the prospect,”
“Good.” His eyes twinkled—she could not help liking him. If only she could trust him!
“Are you really quite willing to teach me how to behave properly?” she asked.
“I think you know more about proper behaviour than the Earl and Nancy will ever do,” he said.
“My uncle wishes me to be different from the way I am, Sir Richard. I have to learn to dance, and to sing songs other than the psalms, and to shoot with a bow and arrow—and a whole plethora of things besides.”
He nodded. “I am convinced you will make a very apt pupil, Lady Margaret.”
“I’m willing to try,” she sighed. “But I am not at all sure I shall be able to change enough to please my uncle. It’s all to do with finding me a husband, is it not, sir?”
She noticed the tightening of his mouth.
“Yes.” His response was brief.
“Truly I am not ill educated,” she said, suddenly feeling a need to defend herself. “There are many things I can do, and do well—I can read and write, and indeed I am better educated than most women. I could easily undertake to run a household, oversee the servants, and I have a considerable knowledge of the merits of various herbs and lotions. I nursed my mother until her death. What more should a husband need?” She paused, and then asked, “Who is this gentleman I am to marry?”
“That I cannot say.”
“You mean you will not,” she said scornfully.
“I mean exactly what I say.”
The comradeship she thought had been spun between them was snapped in an instant. She wished she had not persisted—but it was too late. At least it told her exactly where she stood with him. He was no friend to her. He would obey the Earl to the letter. His next words confirmed that.
“Your uncle will reveal his plans when he is ready.”
She snatched her hand away from his arm. They had reached her chambers. Sarah hurried up to open the door ahead of her mistress.
He bowed. “At what hour shall I come for you in the morning, Lady Margaret?”
“As early as you wish.” She tossed her head. “I am not accustomed to sleeping late.”
“There is no need to start too early. At half past nine, then?”
“Certainly,” she agreed.
Half past nine! He had no eagerness to commence the task which the Earl had assigned him. Tears pricked behind her eyes. He had been quick to offer to escort her to her chamber. No doubt he would now hurry back to the Great Hall and would stay up, drinking and dancing and having fun into the small hours of the morning.
There was nothing more to say other than to bid each other goodnight. She did so with a heavy heart.
Sarah shut the door firmly behind her.
“Cor, my lady—what a carry on! I ain’t never seen nor heard anything like it in all my born days!”
“I know, Sarah. Those players were quite disgraceful.” Meg heaved a sigh.
“So rude, wasn’t they?” said Sarah.
She was smiling—though she held her hand over her face to hide it, moved behind her mistress and began to unlace her gown.
Suddenly, unbelievably, Meg heard a sound that sounded like a chuckle. She listened. It came again, louder, exploding from Sarah’s mouth.
“Sarah?” she questioned.
“Sorry, my lady. I just couldn’t help a-thinkin’ when we was there in the Great Hall—” She broke off as her laughter pealed out.
“What were you thinking?” Meg asked. She was finding it difficult to keep a straight face herself, as Sarah’s laughter was beginning to be infectious, just as it always had been ever since they were little girls together.
“Oh, my lady! I just couldn’t help a-wonderin’—what would the Prioress have thought if she’d been here? Couldn’t you just imagine her face?”
Meg could. All too easily! The stern face of the Prioress flashed into her mind and it was so ridiculous that she, too, burst out laughing!”
“She’d have had a fit!” chortled Sarah. “An’ it’d have done her a power of good!”
“Oh, Sarah, you must not talk so.”
Meg felt she should speak firmly, and she tried to do so, but it was useless. The disapproving figure of the Prioress, with narrow pursed lips and spiteful tongue, came into her mind so vividly that she doubled up with laughter.
“Thank goodness—you came—here with me,” she spluttered, almost too convulsed to speak.
But later, mirth having subsided, curled up in bed, Meg thought again of her extraordinary situation, and felt afraid.
Chapter Four
Meg had not expected to be able to sleep at all, but she had been so tired that she had dropped off quite quickly. She awoke to a day that was fine and sunny. It lifted her spirits so greatly that she leapt out of bed and rushed to the window to look out. The little she could see made her eager to explore the castle and its surroundings.
Sarah must have woken up even earlier, for she was not in the room. Her truckle bed, still at the foot of Meg’s was empty. Later it would be pushed beneath the large bed in which Meg had slept so comfortably. Without waiting for her maid, Meg attended to her toilette and dressed herself. A few minutes later Sarah appeared, bearing a tray with ale and hot buttered oatcakes.
“It’s a fine morning, my lady,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve been down to the kitchens an’ got summat for your breakfast.”
“Thank you, Sarah.”
“The Hall’s in a right ole mess, an’ some of ’em are still asleep there.”
Was Richard among them? Meg wondered, and wished that the thought was not so distressing. She was not hungry, but she ate and drank a little. It would be more than an hour before Richard would call for her. She was too restless to remain in her chamber.
“It’s such a beautiful morning, Sarah. I shall go outside for a walk.”
“Just hold you hard a moment, my lady, whilst I dress your hair.”
“I’ve already run a comb through it, and it will be covered with my hood,” Meg protested.
“It’s not good enough,” Sarah insisted. “It’d be more than my job’s worth if I let you go outside without having it done right. They reckon that Mistress Nancy is a right sharp one. If I don’t look after you properly, she’ll bring in some other woman, an’ send me packing.”
“I’d never let her do that,” said Meg.
“You might not be able to stop her,” Sarah countered. “An’ then you’d be spied upon every moment of the day.”
Meg sat down meekly. Sarah might well be right, and certainly her maid was the only friend she had in Bixholm. There was no one else she could trust—though she thought the girl was being somewhat fussy. It couldn’t really matter what she looked like at this hour of the morning.
Sarah dressed her hair carefully, then placed her cap and gable hood on her head. She stood back and cast a critical eye over her mistress. “There. That’s better.” She nodded with satisfaction.
“May I go now?” Meg asked, with a smile.
“You may laugh at me, my lady. But there’s truth in what I say.”
“I know, Sarah dear. But I can’t bear to stay indoors a moment longer.”
She avoided the Great Hall and moved through a series of passages until she came out into the courtyard through which they had entered. Guards were lounging about, presumably on duty, but standing at ease, chatting together. They
glanced at Meg, but made no move to challenge her as she walked out into the sunshine and over the drawbridge.
She looked back and saw the castle was an impressive building, well constructed of brick and flint, rising from the top of a slight hill and surrounded by a moat. A river flowed gently on one side, and beyond that were wide acres of water meadows, where cattle grazed. Woods darkened the background. Undoubtedly it was a site of consequence. How different her life would have been if she had grown up here! But it was useless to harbour such thoughts, and she pushed them to the back of her mind.
She walked on and found the herb garden. She noted with approval that it was well stocked with a variety of pot-herbs: thyme, rosemary, celery and lovage among others. She ran her fingers over fragrant leaves, delighting in their scents. Automatically she pulled a few weeds from a bed of parsley. The gardeners arrived, and, not wanting to intrude, she spoke to them briefly, wishing them a good day and moved on.
It was impossible not to enjoy such a beautiful morning. She lingered for a little while by the stew ponds, watching the fish darting through the translucent water. As was customary for a gentleman’s residence, Bixholm Castle had a bowling alley and butts for archery practice. Soon she discovered it also had a tiltyard.
The pounding of horses’ hooves, shouts of command, the thump of wood and rattle of harness told her that other people were already up and about. She walked towards the sounds which came from behind a barn. Four young men were practising for the joust, Sir Richard and Alan Crompton among them.
Fear leapt into her heart as she watched Richard galloping his steed towards the quintain, a crossbar on a pivot. On one end of the bar was a flat piece of wood, which the rider had to strike with his lance. At the other hung a bag filled with sand; when struck, the crossbar swivelled. She saw it swing and closed her eyes, convinced that the heavy sandbag would strike the back of his head, that he would be unseated.
When she looked again he was well past, and riding with his lance triumphantly high in the air. She chided herself for being so stupid. Why should she have experienced even the slightest concern for his safety? He was one of the Earl’s men, no friend to her. He turned his horse and, seeing her, slowed it to a trot and rode to where she stood.
“I bid you good morning, my lady,” he exclaimed, doffing the flat hat of green velvet that topped his handsome head. “I trust you slept well?”
“Very well, thank you, sir. Pray do not interrupt your sport on my account.”
“I’ve almost finished my exercise for today. We are practising for a great tournament that is to be held at Hampton Court when we are in London. If you’ll excuse me, I shall ride at the quintain a couple of times more, then I will join you.”
He turned his horse and was off again, riding full tilt. He struck the wooden bar dead centre and spurred his horse forward, well ahead of the swinging sandbag. This time Meg was able to watch with only a tiny contraction of her nerves. He was capable. He knew what he was doing. It was the same with Alan Crompton when he took his turn. One of the other men, less able, was struck, and only just managed to hold his horse and keep his seat. The expertise of Richard and Alan had made it look easy.
Richard turned his snorting charger, galloped to where Meg stood, and drew the huge animal to a halt immediately in front of her. Leaping down, he handed the reins to a groom, who had run up ready to lead the horse away.
“I’m a bit out of practice,” Richard said. “This is my first morning at the tilt for almost two weeks.”
“I thought you did very well,” Meg felt obliged to say.
“Thank you, my lady. But real jousting is another matter. The opposition will be very strong when we go to Hampton Court.”
Despite his doubts she could see he was in high spirits after the energetic session. Meg made to move away. She would have been quite happy to continue her walk alone.
“Don’t go,” he said.
“I’ve been exploring the grounds,” she told him.
“And do you approve of what you’ve seen?”
“It is impressive.”
“It is, and it is well run. You haven’t forgotten that I am to give you tuition in various sports and pastimes?”
She felt shy in his presence and shrugged her shoulders to indicate her indifference.
“Then, my lady, I think we should start with archery.”
He took her arm and guided her to the butts a short distance away. Men, boys and a few women were already at practice, loosing volleys of arrows towards targets set on top of tall mounds at the end of the field. The young gentlemen were of the nobility or gentry, fledgeling officials, destined to join the governing classes. They and their ladies lowered their bows and gathered around Richard and Meg. Most had witnessed her arrival, but she had not yet been properly introduced to them.
“May I present Lady Margaret Thurton, niece of the Earl, who is now his lordship’s ward?” Richard said.
He named all those in the group, and they exchanged greetings with the utmost civility, but Meg was overwhelmed by meeting so many all at once, and afterwards could not remember the names of any of them.
She was grateful that they soon strolled away to resume their practice. Skill with longbows was essential, not only as a military art, but also for hunting. The pursuit of game was one of the most popular sports, and women hunted with bows as well as men. Meg had never done so, and it was not an activity she looked forward to.
Hunting was only for the privileged few, and severe laws and harsh punishments prohibited commoners from taking game from the royal forests. In Meg’s eyes that was quite wrong. It was the poor who really needed the food. But she knew it would be useless to make such a suggestion. She felt lost and helpless. Everything and everyone was strange to her. She almost wished she was back in the nunnery. Then she looked at Richard and knew that being with him was more exciting than any experience in the whole of her past life.
“I’ll show you what to do,” he said. “You’ll soon learn.”
Meg doubted that, but it delighted her to watch. Richard stood tall, his velvet cap set on his head at a jaunty angle, decorated with gold and blue feathers. He lifted the bow, and his muscles flexed beneath his sleeveless jerkin as he drew back the string and took aim. He loosed arrow after arrow. They shuddered with the force of their impetus and ended their flight clustered in a tight circle around the bull’s-eye. He made it look easy.
Meg would have been content to watch him all morning, but as one servant retrieved the arrows, another handed him a smaller bow.
Richard passed it to her. “Right, Meg. Now it’s your turn.”
Although the bow was lighter than the one Richard had used she had difficulty in pulling the string. Every arrow fell short of the target and dropped limply, sticking into the ground in a zigzag line.
“It’s useless,” she moaned. “I’ll never manage it.”
“Of course you will. Practice, that’s all it takes.” Richard said encouragingly. “I’ll help you.”
He moved behind her, so close his body was touching hers. His arms reached around her, his hands, warm and strong, covered hers. She was unnervingly conscious of his nearness, and the warm, musky masculinity of him caused her to tremble.
“Stand steady,” he whispered in her ear. “You can do it. Just concentrate. Place your legs firmly, a little apart.”
She obeyed, and could not avoid knowledge of his hard, strong thighs pressing against her skirts. She hoped he did not know why it was that she was shaking! She blushed with shame, especially as it seemed that, for him, being so close had no such effect.
She wished she could shrug his hands off, but that would have been foolish, for there was no doubt she needed assistance, especially as she was aware that some of the other archers were watching them. Pride made her determined to succeed. She gritted her teeth, forced herself to clear her mind of his presence and concentrate only on the target.
“Lift the bow a little higher. Hold it out at ar
m’s length. Now gently pull the string back—further—further—till it touches your nose. Aim a little above the bull’s-eye.”
His hands guided hers as he gave each instruction, and when she released the arrow it flew towards the butt. It did not quite hit its mark, but to her joy it stuck firmly in the target.
She turned her head triumphantly, so excited she forgot how close Richard was. He had not released his hold on her and seemed to be in no hurry to do so. She felt his breath warm on her cheek, saw his eyes smiling down at her, and felt hot colour leap into her cheeks.
“You see,” he said softly. “You’ll soon learn.”
From the corner of her eye Meg noticed a gentleman among the archers who was watching them keenly. She recognised him as Gervase Gisbon. She had disliked him at that initial meeting, when he had flicked the whip at old blind Davy. Since then he had shown her nothing but courtesy, yet she could not bring herself to like him and felt uneasy in his company. Richard stepped back, as if he too was unnerved by those staring eyes. He took the bow from her and notched another arrow, ready for her to try again.
“You must shoot this one without my assistance. Remember what I told you. Stand firm and keep your eye on the target. I know you can do it.”
She wished she had that same faith in herself. She knew she would never find archery easy, and would never become as adept as some of the other women. But she persevered, and as the morning progressed there was no doubt her aim was beginning to improve.
“That’s better,” Richard told her. “Practice, that’s all you need. But you’ve had enough for your first morning.” He took the bow from her, adding, “I believe Mistress Nancy is seeking you.”
Meg turned and watched Nancy walking towards them with a determined air. She had lifted her skirts off the ground, revealing sturdy shoes and knitted stockings. Irreverently Meg thought she looked more like a milkmaid than the Earl’s lady.