Reynard looked up. “Of course I can’t read. Who would have taught me? And when? But I can still admire a book. Look at this. How beautifully the letters are formed. On some of the pages there are pictures. ’Tis truly a work of art.”
Fawkes went to the bed and leaned over Reynard’s shoulder. He traced the elegant curve of a large letter at the top of the page. “They must have used gold ink. You’re right ’Tis beautiful. And that letter, it’s an S. I know that much.”
“There must be a dozen books in the chest in the bedchamber.”
“They must have belonged to Nicola’s father.”
“Probably. But I found one of them in a basket with some thread, cloth, and the like. I’d be willing to wager Nicola has been reading that one.”
Fawkes nodded. “When she went over the accounts with the reeve, ’twas clear she can read and write. But something like this…this is the sort of thing that’s read for pure enjoyment.”
His wife was not only beautiful and highly competent, she was exceedingly well educated. More so than most men.
“And there’s another thing I found,” Reynard said. “In the basket were several half-finished garments. Children’s garments.”
“I know about that. She said she sews for the son of Lady Hilary, who is wed to Gilbert de Vescy, the castellan at Mordeaux.”
“But de Vescy also has a daughter. I remember her because of her reddish hair. As one who’s endured such unfortunate coloring all my life, I take special notice of children who are similarly afflicted.” Reynard grinned ruefully.
“What of it? Why are you mentioning these things?”
“Doesn’t it seem odd that Nicola sews garments for one child and not the other?”
“Perhaps she has a special fondness for the boy for some reason.”
“Aye. Perhaps because he is near the age her child would be if he had not died at birth.”
Fawkes felt his chest squeeze. As foolish it was, he could not help mourning his dead son.
“I thought you should know,” Reynard continued. “Because it does seem to give lie to the tale that she killed the child. If she strangled the babe, why would she go to all the trouble to sew for another child of similar age?”
“Perhaps she feels guilty and sews these garments as a sort of penance.”
Reynard’s green eyes fixed on Fawkes. “I thought things were better between you, and you’d decided she wasn’t capable of doing such a thing.”
“Things were better.”
“Were?”
Fawkes felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. “I just saw her talking to some fop of an entertainer. Her hand was on his arm and they were standing very close.”
“An entertainer? What do you mean?”
“A troupe of traveling performers has arrived. Geoffrey says they’ve been here before. He mentioned how skilled the tumblers were. I presume Nicola has asked them to stay and perform. They’re outside the castle right now, unloading their wains.”
“And you think Nicola knows this man from previous visits, and that they…”
Fawkes raised a hand. “Don’t say it. ’Twill make my blood boil and I won’t be fit company for anyone.”
“But if she did have a…liaison with this man, what of it? She wasn’t wed to you at the time. Indeed, she didn’t even know you were alive, let alone that you would return.”
“I know it’s irrational and foolish, but I can’t help it.” His hands were clenched into fists. He unclenched them and took a deep breath. Reynard was right; he was acting like a lackwit.
“I think you’re losing your temper over nothing. That Nicola was behaving familiarly with the man in clear view of everyone makes it unlikely there is anything scandalous or improper between them. Perhaps the troupe has been coming here for years and she’s simply pleased to see him.”
Everything Reynard said made perfect sense. And yet, there was something about the way Nicola clutched the man’s arm. All his instincts told Fawkes there was something between her and this man beyond fondness or friendship.
“I will do as you suggest and try to forget what I saw. Because if it wasn’t for my concern over this man, things have been very good between Nicola and me the last few days.”
“Concentrate on that then. I can’t imagine an elegant and refined lady like Nicola—who can read and write and run a castle to perfection—that she would have any interest in a tumbler or knife thrower.”
Fawkes nodded. He’d done the right thing in seeking out Reynard. For all his jesting, Reynard had an excellent understanding of human nature. He could scarce think of a time when Reynard steered him wrong. “I presume that since you’ve been out of bed and snooping around the solar, you must be feeling better?”
“My chest still hurts, but Glennyth said that will take time to ease. And I’m very fortunate the burns are on the back of my hands, and don’t interfere with my use of them. At any rate, she thought I was doing well enough that she’s left me on my own.”
“Left you? What do you mean?”
“She’s gone to Mordeaux. Apparently de Vescy’s wife has a supply of herbs and Glennyth hoped to replenish her own stores with some of hers.”
“I’m pleased to think Glennyth believes you’re well enough to be on your own. But I’d rather she hadn’t gone off like that. I was clear I expected her to stay and see to you.”
“I’m well enough, and growing tired of being an invalid. I wish I could have gone with you to question the villagers. Did you find out anything useful?”
“Nay. The whole day was a tedious waste. My questions yielded nothing.”
“No one saw anything suspicious?”
“Several people made suggestions as to who could have set the fire, but no one would say anything that could prove it. “
“Who do they think did it?”
“The miller mostly. And then there was Edith, whose husband died last winter. She’s bitter that Glennyth couldn’t save him. And young Alwen, the corn queen, hinted it was someone who lived here at the castle, but she wouldn’t give me a name.” Fawkes let out a sigh. “We may never know who set the fire, which is both infuriating and concerning. It means there is someone living in the village or the castle that is capable of murder. Worse yet, they may try again.”
“You think Glennyth is still in danger?”
“I doubt the person who set the fire would strike again so soon.”
“At least she is out of the way for now. She should be safe on this journey to Mordeaux.”
“Is she walking there? ’Tis quite a distance.”
“Nay. She’s riding pillion with some knight.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?” Fawkes asked.
Reynard shrugged.
“I wish I could trust Nicola. Sometimes I get close. But then she does something to make me doubt her all over again. Like seeing her holding on to the arm of a traveling player.” Fawkes made a disgusted face.
“Give her a chance to explain. I suspect it’s nothing like what you think.”
“I hope not.” Fawkes started to leave, and then stopped at the doorway. “Do you feel well enough to come to the hall for the evening meal?”
“I’m certain I can make it there. I wouldn’t want to miss the performers.”
“Ah, the performers,” Fawkes muttered as he left Reynard and started down the stairs. He enjoyed tumblers and mummers as much as anyone, but he resented this bunch. Why did they have to come now, and ruin the fragile trust he had been building with Nicola? But Reynard was right. He must talk to her and get her explanation for her behavior before he became too angry.
He found Nicola in the kitchen talking to Agelwulf. She seemed to tense when she saw him, and there was a hint of wariness in her eyes. Once again, her manner suggested deceit. He forced himself to set aside his instinctive response. “Nicola, can I speak to you?”
She followed him outside the kitchen. He halted by a water barrel and tried to decide how to approach the matter. “I no
ticed you talking to one of the performers—that dark-haired fellow. Is he the head of the troupe? Is he the one I should see about payment for their performance this evening?”
“I…that’s already arranged, milord. You needn’t concern yourself with those details.”
“You paid him before they performed?”
“Nay. But we have agreed on the terms.”
“Is that what you were talking to him about when I arrived at the castle?”
“I’m certain it was.” She gave him a fleeting smile.
“This mummer, or tumbler, or juggler, or whatever he is, does he come regularly to Valmar?’
“The troupe has been here before, but not de Ronay. This is his first visit here.”
A lie? If so, it would be easy enough to find out. “So you don’t know this man, this de Ronay?”
“Nay, milord.”
There she was, back to calling him milord. It seemed to make a mockery of the intimacy they’d shared.
Fawkes cleared his throat. “I find that strange since I saw you with your hand on his arm having an intense conversation with him.”
“We were discussing payment, as I told you. And I…I asked him for a favor.”
“What favor is that?”
“I asked him to sing a special song for Agelwulf, the cook, for arranging a fine meal on such short notice.”
Fawkes stared at her. He felt certain she was lying. “There’s also this matter of Glennyth going off to Mordeaux. She should have asked my permission before leaving. And you should have spoken to me before arranging for one of my knights to take her.”
Nicola gestured vaguely. “You were off in the village. I didn’t think you’d mind, since Reynard is improving. Glennyth is very concerned about the loss of her medicinal herbs this late in the season. If Hilary can provide some of the plants destroyed in the fire, ’twill benefit everyone.”
Fawkes said nothing, but stared at her for long moments. Then he turned and walked away.
****
Nicola’s stomach twisted with anxiety as she watched him go. Once again she lied to him. Or, not lying exactly, but not telling the full truth either. She had no doubt he would soon forget this business of Glennyth going to Mordeaux. But this situation with Prince John, that was far more troubling. For a few brief days, she had felt hopeful and relaxed. Now she was back to being poised on a knife’s edge.
Maybe she should give up and tell Fawkes the whole wretched tale. But if she did that, she would have proven him right—that she was scheming and manipulative. She didn’t want to risk having to start over again in winning his trust. Better to try untangling this mess on her own. She would write a letter to Prince John and explain how unwise it would be to launch an attack on Mordeaux, or Valmar either.
For a while Nicola was too busy to worry. It was not easy pulling together a festive meal with so little notice. Especially since once word of their arrival had spread, many of the villagers had come to watch the performers, near doubling the crowd in the hall.
But somehow they managed to get everyone fed. Then the trestle tables were moved to the sides of the hall and everyone waited for the performers.
Two young women appeared, dressed in costumes of bright rose and saffron. They wore short snug tunics on their upper bodies, along with braies that gathered at the waist and ankles, covering their legs. A short filmy skirt preserved a bit of their modesty, but as they began to perform graceful cartwheels and flip head over heels, the shape of their legs and hips was clearly visible. They had dark hair and eyes and looked as if they might be sisters. They both had pulled back their hair in a single tight braid that whipped around wildly as they performed.
A man joined them. He wasn’t much bigger than the women, but his muscles bulged beneath his snug costume, which was dyed the brilliant hues of scarlet and apricot. He walked halfway across the hall on his hands, and then executed a series of flips high into the air. Gasps and exclamations erupted from the crowd
The man did several more amazing flips. Then he joined hands with the two women and the three of them performed flips and cartwheels in unison. The acrobats finished and bowed. Another man appeared, in vivid green and saffron. The two men balanced the women on their shoulders and performed several more amazing feats.
Nicola glanced briefly at Fawkes. Having seen the entertainers before, she knew that after the tumblers finished, the mummers would appear and perform a raucous, silly skit portraying a man and a woman taking a pig to market. As the husband and wife fought, near beating each other black and blue, the pig would escape and end up sitting on the lap of the one of the prettiest maids in the hall.
Nicola had never understood the hilarity of watching people strike each other and shout insults, but she knew by the end of the performance most of those gathered in the hall would be so overcome with mirth they would be wiping tears from their eyes. If Fawkes was like his fellow knights, he would be amused enough by the skit that he would take little note of her absence.
When the acrobats began their finale—forming a tower with their bodies—Nicola stood and mouthed the word garderobe. Fawkes frowned at her, but said nothing.
Nicola found de Ronay at the back of the hall and bid him follow her outside. She halted near the cistern. “Two things I must tell you. If my husband seeks you out, you must explain to him that earlier today when we speaking outside the castle, we were discussing your fee and that I asked you to perform a special song for Agelwulf, the cook, who supervised the preparation of the fine repast this evening. Then, of course, you must sing something in Agelwulf’s honor when you perform. Do you understand?”
De Ronay nodded.
“Second, I know you said that it is too late to change the prince’s plans, but I must try. I’m going to write a message for you to carry to court explaining my concerns.”
“A message? Aye, I’m willing to carry a message. Give it to me ere we leave on the morrow.”
“How soon will you be able to take it to London?”
“The troupe has several more stops planned before we head back to court.”
That might be too late, Nicola thought in panic. “Do you have to remain with the troupe? Could you not leave now and go to London?”
De Ronay’s dark eyes glittered. “I could. For a price.”
“How much?”
“Ten silver marks.”
Nicola gasped. “That’s a fortune!”
De Ronay shrugged. “I must be compensated for my share of what the troupe will earn over the next fortnight. And I’ll need a horse.”
“I can provide you with a horse.” Nicola wondered how she would ever explain this to Fawkes.
“We’re agreed then?” the jongleur asked. “Ten marks?”
Nicola made her voice hard. “Five.”
De Ronay stared at her a moment. Then he grinned. “Very well, milady. And now I must get back to the hall. I perform next.” He bowed.
****
“You hedge-witted varlet!” the woman screeched. “With the money from the pig, we must buy a new cauldron. My old one has so many holes you could use it for a fishing weir!”
The man thrust his shoulders back and his chin forward, glaring at the woman. “We’ll buy a plow!” he bellowed. He took a swipe at her, nearly knocking her off the table that served as their stage. “Take that, you sow-faced, swag-bellied old wench!”
Next to the two, the pig, that was really a man in a tan costume, complete with real pig’s ears and a curly tail, waggled his rear end and farted loudly.
Loud guffaws of laughter sounded. Fawkes took no part in the hilarity. All he could think of was Nicola, and the fact that she had been gone longer than it took to go to the garderobe. He was on the verge of getting up to look for her when she entered the hall and sat next to him. Although he gave her a long, searching look, her expression remained cool and collected.
The mummers finished their performance and the jongleur appeared. He took a seat on a stool, strummed his lut
e, and began to sing. Fawkes had to admit the man was talented. His voice was rich and deep and filled the hushed hall as he sang.
After a long, sad ballad, the jongleur performed several lighter, more playful songs. The mood in the hall changed from somber to boisterous. As people stomped their feet and sang along, Fawkes lost interest and again focused his attention on his wife. Should he ask where she’d been so long? There seemed no point. She likely wouldn’t tell the truth anyway.
It was so frustrating. She’d had to be devious and cunning to survive being married to Mortimer, but her circumstances were completely different now. Didn’t she realize he would never hurt her? That he wanted nothing more than to protect her and keep her safe? Couldn’t she trust him to do that?
The jongleur finished the bawdy ditty and began another ballad. Fawkes focused on the singer. Perhaps instead of questioning Nicola, he should speak to de Ronay. But the man seemed so sly and slimy. With his glossy dark hair falling in curls around his shoulders and his ostentatious clothing, de Ronay was the sort of man who sought the favor of women over men, undoubtedly because he had a better chance of manipulating them.
Fawkes regarded the jongleur’s bright red samite tunic, with its lavish gold embroidery, with distaste. Some woman had clearly slaved for hours making the garment. Some woman de Ronay had left behind when he moved on to the next castle or town. It must be very easy for him. Right now it appeared every woman in the hall was watching him with adoration and awe, even the kitchen wenches and Old Emma, who leaned heavily on a walking stick.
Fawkes struggled to tamp down his disgust. He turned to look at Nicola. At least she didn’t appear to be mooning over de Ronay. Indeed, she didn’t seem to be paying any attention to his performance. Her expression was distant. When she caught him looking at her, she gave him a nervous, distracted smile. “He’s very good, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so. If you like that sort of thing.”
“You don’t like music, milord?”
Fawkes’s irritation burst its banks. “I’ve told you not to call me, milord. I’m your husband, not your liege.”
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