Читать книгу The Adventurer's Bride - June Francis, June Francis - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Jane’s fingers shifted beneath his hand. It was true she could feel his heart pumping and it gave her a peculiar but exciting thrill to know that she could affect him in such a way.

‘This is foolishness,’ she said breathlessly, ‘and yet you are so clever. No doubt you are practised in the art of persuading women to do what you will. But how can you talk of marriage when you have only just arrived here, wounded and exhausted? Marriage is a serious matter and needs much consideration before a decision can be made.’

Nicholas gave her a weary look, but there was also a hint of bewilderment in his hazel eyes as he released her hand. ‘If there is one thing I have learnt on my travels it is that one has to seize the moment as it might never come again. Ask yourself a question: If I were to die, would you be filled with regret?’

She felt threatened again by the very idea of his dying. ‘How dare you ask me such a question? Most likely you have put it to me so as to rouse my pity because you are wounded.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Why should you die? I have tended your wound and I have a certain skill when it comes to healing. You must give me more time to consider your proposal. At least a month,’ she added wildly. ‘After all, you have been hit on the head and might not be in full possession of your wits. It could be that you will change your mind.’

He looked taken aback. ‘I assure you I am not out of my head. You’d be better accepting me this very moment. I cannot understand why you hesitate. I thought you a woman of sense. Am I so physically unattractive? Am I poor? No, I am well able to support you and the children in comfort. I have two houses and you can choose to live in both or either. You can throw out all the furniture and purchase new. You and the children will be able to dress in a grand style.’

She felt a flash of annoyance. ‘What is wrong with the garments we are wearing now? You think to persuade me with your wealth and your appearance. I tell you such things do not impress me.’

‘Which would make me admire you all the more, Jane, if I believed it to be true,’ said Nicholas with a wry smile.

His arrogance almost took her breath away. ‘How dare you,’ she cried. ‘I would not marry you if you were the last man on earth.’

‘Mama, you’re shouting,’ said Margaret.

Jane whirled round and stared at her stepdaughter. ‘Go and have your supper and serve the others,’ she snapped. ‘Master Hurst and I will eat later.’

Margaret nodded; her eyes were alight with interest as they darted from Jane’s face to that of their guest. ‘Master Hurst is not the last man on earth,’ she stated. ‘But if he were, it would be sensible of you to marry him.’

Jane barely managed to control her emotions. ‘You should not be listening. Go and have your supper,’ she repeated. ‘Now!’

The girl went.

Jane turned back to Nicholas, but this time she had the sense not to meet those eyes of his. ‘Now see what you’ve done?’ she whispered, dropping her gaze, only to find herself staring at his bare chest. The urge to touch it was overwhelming.

‘Consider the pleasure you’d have in choosing new materials and clothing yourself and the children in colours that lift the heart and spirits and made you want to dance and sing,’ whispered Nicholas insidiously, reaching for the brandy.

She placed a hand on the bottle. ‘I know why you are like this. You’re intoxicated.’

‘I deny that,’ he said, wrenching the bottle from her grasp.

She tried to wrestle it from him and managed it. She could not resist looking at him with a hint of triumph, only to see he was looking wan. Nevertheless he staggered to his feet and again her eyes were on a level with his chest. She could not have been more aware of his maleness at that moment than if her body had been joined to his. The mingled scents of sandalwood, salve, dried sweat and brandy filled her senses yet again and she had an urge to press her lips against his skin; her fingers wanted to twist the curls of his chest hair and hold tight. A shiver went through her as she recalled the ugliness of the wound she had just bound and she prayed that it would heal.

‘Forgive me, Jane, for teasing you,’ he said, lowering his head so that his lips touched her left ear. ‘Accept my proposal and I swear I will not rush you into marriage. I am persistent because I truly believe that we will be good for one another and the children.’

‘You are being presumptuous, Master Hurst,’ she said unevenly, unable to resist touching the spot that his lips had saluted, but she did not meet his gaze. ‘What does a man who has spent his life going hither and thither wherever he wished know about fatherhood and living in a family?’

He looked hurt. ‘Obviously you disapprove of my past way of life, but I can change.’

‘You believe I wish to change you?’ she found herself blurting out.

He looked surprised. ‘Aye, surely you would want me to stay at home with you and the children?’

‘I wonder if that would be expecting too much of you?’ she said frankly. ‘Despite your having the best of intentions. Tell me about your mother. What did she think about your travelling?’

He fell silent, gazing down at the graceful line of her neck as she placed the brandy bottle on the table. Then he took a deep breath and said, ‘I know she worried about me, but she never tried to persuade me from following my dream. She had imagination,’ he said softly. ‘She was the one we boys went to when Father was overbearing and gave us a beating. She encouraged Pip in his storytelling. I still miss her. One day I went away and when I returned she was no longer there. I’ll always regret...’ His voice trailed away.

But Jane could guess what he regretted and that he did not wish to speak of it, so she remained silent.

Nicholas kept his head down, blinking back tears. He felt Jane understood how he felt. If she did eventually accept his proposal, he believed that she would be an excellent mother and wife, faithful to him and caring of her children. But perhaps she was right and he would be unable to be either the husband she wanted or the father the children needed. He would fail them and they would turn against him. Suddenly that faintness he had experienced earlier came over him again and he staggered and caught his shoulder on a carved knob on the back of the chair. He gasped in pain.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Jane, instantly going to his aid and helping him into the chair.

‘Brandy,’ he whispered.

She hesitated before saying, ‘Have you not had enough? I have a fear of drunkards.’

‘Do you want me screaming with pain, woman?’ he roused himself to ask savagely.

His tone of voice caused her to tremble. ‘I—I find it difficult to imagine you—you screaming, Master Hurst. You’re a hero. I have heard the truth from your own lips each time Rebecca told us a tale of your adventures.’

‘You should not believe all that you hear, Jane.’ His eyes darkened. ‘It was my brother’s intention that the readers of my first book believe me a hero when he edited my journal for the printing press.’

Jane sighed. ‘You would do well not to disillusion me if you wish me to marry you. The feminine within me demands heroics as well as dependability in a husband and father.’ Instead of brandy, she poured some of the elderflower wine into a goblet and handed it to him. He took it. She touched his shoulder lightly and felt a quiver run through him. ‘I have no wish to hurt you.’

‘I am relieved to hear it. I ask that your touch remains as gentle as possible even if you do not wish to be my wife.’ He grimaced and drank the wine down before resting his head against the back of the chair.

‘I will get you some food,’ she said.

He thanked her and closed his eyes, trying to convince himself that surely a sensible woman such as Jane would see the advantages of a match between them despite his shortcomings. Suddenly he felt incredibly tired and tumbled into oblivion.

Jane watched his body slump like a sack of grain and heard the rhythm of his breathing change. She should have fetched him some food earlier, but she would not wake him now so he could eat. Best he rested. It seemed that the brandy and wine had done their work. What would Anthony Mortimer think if he knew that she had been dosing Nicholas with his best liquor? Not that she had any intention of informing him of the fact, although perhaps he would notice the level in the bottle had dropped. Hopefully he would not think that she had taken to drink because he could not find a weaver willing to work with her. Of course, if she accepted Nicholas’s offer of marriage she would not have to worry about weavers or what Anthony Mortimer thought of her.

A sigh escaped her and she walked over to the children and told them they must be quiet so as not to wake Master Hurst. She was aware of the girls’ eyes on her and wondered if Margaret had told her younger sister about the conversation she had overheard. How would they feel if she did marry him so soon after the death of their father?

She turned back to Nicholas, noticing how the bandage on his shoulder showed up so white against his tanned skin. There must have been occasions when the heat had been so intense where he had travelled that he had stripped off his shirt. She watched the rise and fall of his chest. Such a chest! Strong and broad with just a sweep of fine reddish-golden hair forming a V to the waist of his hose. She was aware of a heat building inside her feminine core such as she had never experienced with her late husband.

One of the girls spoke and Jane looked up and realised her stepdaughters were still watching her. She felt her cheeks flame despite knowing they could not possibly know what she was thinking. She should be ashamed of herself. ‘A blanket,’ she said brightly. ‘Master Hurst will catch a chill if he is not kept warm.’

She hurried over to the other chest where she kept sleeping pallets, as well as blankets. From its interior she removed what she needed and returned to Nicholas. As she did so it occurred to her that as far as she was aware her stepdaughters had never seen a man half-naked before. Their father had not been one to bare his flesh, even in her company, but it was too late now to tell them to avert their gaze. Suddenly she remembered the classical naked sculptures in the garden of the house in Oxford that her husband had chiselled out himself. She had voiced her disapproval because of his daughters, but he had told her it was art. At the time she had thought how contrary men were. Yet, so many considered contrariness a failing in women.

She unfolded the blanket and tucked it about Nicholas, wondering what to do about their sleeping arrangements. Propriety insisted that he remove himself to the inn. Yet she was not of a mind to wake him and insist on his going there. Neither did she think it would it be right for him to do so on the morrow in his wounded state.

Upstairs there was a large bedchamber and an adjoining smaller one. She and the children normally shared the double bed in the larger room, but during the worst of the winter weather when ice had frosted the inside of the windows and their breath turned to mist, they had taken to sleeping on pallets downstairs in front of the fire. She did not like doing so, but common sense told her that it was the sensible move to make if they were to survive the winter without succumbing to severe chest ailments. She had been considering moving upstairs the last few days, but then the snow had arrived. Hopefully it would go as suddenly as it had come.

The children had finished eating their supper and now Jane ate some bread and broth. Then, with their help, she removed pallets and blankets from a chest and settled them on the floor a safe distance from the fire. After saying a prayer with them, she waited until they were asleep before removing some coins from a jar. Then she put on her coat and left the house.

The storm seemed to have passed and the snow was turning to mush underfoot. She could see stars twinkling overhead, although the moon had not yet risen. Anna lived but a short distance away up the High Street with her baker husband, toddler and five older children, so it was only a matter of minutes before Jane was knocking on her front door.

She refused Anna’s invitation to come inside, saying, ‘I must get back as soon as possible. You managed to feed Master Hurst’s daughter without difficulty?’

‘Aye. She is only tiny and does not need as much milk as Simon. My son is almost weaned, so it is fortunate for her that I have been feeding Simon, otherwise my milk would have dried up. As it is, only our Lord knows how long I will be able to feed Simon and this new little one.’

Jane looked at her in dismay and then suddenly thought of Tabitha, a nursing mother and wife to Ned, one of Philip’s troupe of travelling players. For a short while Tabitha had helped Jane in the Oxford house towards the end of her pregnancy while Rebecca was away. If the worse came to the worst then perhaps Ned could spare Tabitha if she was able to feed Matilda? She would keep it in mind.

‘It has occurred to me,’ said Anna, ‘that the little one will need a feed during the night and at first light. I suggest that I keep her with me until morning.’

Jane agreed. ‘I will not bother asking Master Hurst as he is fast asleep in the chair. I doubt he will stir until morning. I deem he is not well enough to be moved to the inn.’

Anna gave her a look that spoke volumes and Jane flushed as she pressed the coins she had brought into Anna’s hand, adding, ‘I will bring Simon to you in the morning and collect Master Hurst’s daughter then.’ She wished her a good night before hurrying back to the house.

* * *

She was relieved to find Nicholas still sleeping, although she thought he looked uncomfortable and would awake with a terrible crick in his neck if he remained in such a position. She fetched a small cushion and managed to ease it beneath his head without much difficulty.

He muttered indistinctly and opened his eyes. She held her breath as he smiled up at her, seemingly instantly recognising her. Then his eyelids drooped. Impulsively she dropped a kiss on his head. His smile had been so warm and friendly that she was oddly affected by it. She lingered for a while, considering his proposal and what he had said about her having a choice of two houses in which to live. That he had two homes was news to her. However, it would mean another move for the children. Was that fair on them when they had only recently left the home that had been theirs since their births and were just settling down here in Witney?

She continued looking at him as she hung up her coat, wondering if he would do as she asked and wait a month before broaching the subject of marriage again. Then she bolted the front door before going into the workroom and making sure the door to the garden was locked as well. After placing a log on the fire that should smoulder for hours, she unrolled her own pallet and, wrapping a blanket around her, lay down to sleep. She had much to ponder on, but was so tired that she was asleep in no time.

* * *

It was discomfort and pain in his head and shoulder, as well as the noise of a woman hushing a crying baby, that woke Nicholas. For a moment he believed himself back at Louise’s house in Flanders and then the events of yesterday flooded in. Somewhere a cockerel crowed and then another and another. He forced open his eyes and looked about him.

‘Jane, is that you?’ he asked in a low voice.

In the pearly-grey light coming through the window he saw a woman’s head turn and then she tiptoed over to him. He thought he remembered Jane placing a cushion beneath his cheek. Had he dreamed that she had also pressed a kiss on the sore spot on his head? If so, that raised an interesting question.

‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

He shrugged. ‘I had intended spending the night at the inn in order to protect your reputation, but...’

‘You were exhausted and who is to say that your enemies might not have found you there?’ she said hastily. ‘I fear you must have been uncomfortable.’

‘I’ve spent nights in worse places,’ he said, easing his neck and slowly rolling his head before drawing the blanket over a naked shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m taking Simon to Anna. I left your daughter with her last night and will bring her back with me.’

‘The nightly feed!’ he exclaimed, grimacing with pain as he eased himself upright. The movement resulted in the blanket slipping down again and revealing his chest. ‘I had given no thought to it since coming here and I forgot Anna needed paying despite remembering to pay her son.’

‘I have paid her,’ said Jane, wondering if he had a spare shirt in his saddlebag. ‘Rest now. The children are sleeping down here as they have done most of winter. I must make haste, for Simon is hungry.’

He smiled. ‘I will not delay you and will reimburse you when you come back.’

Jane nodded and hurried from the house.

Nicholas rose from the chair and, avoiding the sleeping children, picked up his coat from the stool where it had been drying. Leaving the blanket on the chair, he swung the garment with difficulty about his naked shoulders and went through into the rear chamber where he was able to make out shelves, as well as a spinning wheel, a loom and baskets of raw wool and thread. He drew back the bolt and lifted the latch, wondering if Jane had come to a definite decision yet regarding his proposal.

He went outside into the garden and found to his relief that most of the snow had already melted and that the sky was free of cloud. There was an apricot-and-silver glow in the east and the scent of spring in the air, as well as the tantalising smell of baking bread. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten since midday yesterday.

For a short while he lingered, gazing down the garden over a vegetable patch and herb garden to a couple of fruit trees and what must be a hen house; he could hear the fowls clucking sleepily and unexpectedly was reminded of the woman’s voice he had thought he had recognised as he made his escape yesterday. If he was right, then it surely meant that she was behind the attack and had hired the men. And what of Berthe? Why should she have decided to make an enemy of him? It was troubling that she knew his destination was Witney. Maybe he should prepare for unwelcome visitors? He frowned, thinking that perhaps he should get in touch with the constable of the shire. He’d had dealings with him last year after the attempt on his life in Oxford.

He returned to the house. Despite a throbbing head, an extremely stiff and painful shoulder and various aches and pains in other parts of his anatomy, he managed to steer around the sleeping children to the fire. He split the smouldering log with a poker and added some faggots of firewood. Then he poured the remains of a jug of ale into the pot containing what appeared to be barley broth and hung the pot over the fire.

Whilst he waited for the food to warm, he took a knife from the table and cut the stitching in the hem of his riding coat. He removed a narrow oilskin package and a strip of folded soft leather containing several gold coins. Placing them on the table, he stared down at them. He would need to change one of them for coins of a smaller denomination if there was not enough in his pouch to pay Anna and to reimburse Jane.

Was there a goldsmith or banker in Witney? If so, he would be able to produce proof of his identity and avail himself of more coin if necessary. He wanted to hold on to a couple of the gold coins to give to his younger brother. The other year they had made a wager as to which one of them would marry first. Nicholas smiled at the memory, for he was extremely fond of his actor-and-playwright brother and prayed that he would soon return to Oxford so he could discuss with him not only yesterday’s events, but also his plans for the future.

He rose and went over to where he had left the saddlebags and removed thread and needle from a leather container and returned most of the gold coins to their hiding place. He kept out the package and sewed up the hem of his coat.

By the time he had accomplished his task, he was feeling faint again, so rested for a while before getting to his feet and going over to stir the broth and remove it from the heat. The room was getting lighter by the moment, so he had no difficulty in seeing his way about in his search for an eating bowl. He wondered when the children would wake. He would appreciate silence for a little while longer, at least until Jane returned.

But it was neither Jane nor the children who disturbed the peace as Nicholas sat down to break his fast, but the sound of the back-door latch being lifted that instantly alerted him to an intruder. A voice called out a greeting. He was on his feet in moments and hesitated before seizing the poker, then made his way into the back room where he came face-to-face with a man.

He had grey eyes in a strong-boned face and Nicholas thought he looked vaguely familiar, but could not put a name to him. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

The man stared at the poker in Nicholas’s hand. ‘I might ask you the same question, except I know who you are.’

Nicholas’s expression hardened. ‘Do you, indeed? Make yourself known, man, before I use this!’

The intruder removed his cap and smoothed down the black hair that fell to his shoulders. ‘I am the weaver, Willem Godar. Is Mistress Caldwell within?’

‘Willem! That is a Flemish name,’ growled Nicholas, his fingers tightening on the poker, ‘and so is Godar.’

‘Aye, but my family have lived in England for years and I was born over here.’ His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. ‘If I am not mistaken, you are the renowned explorer, Nicholas Hurst.’

Nicholas questioned whether that was a note of amusement or derision in the man’s deep voice. He had an accent which was not from this part of England, but one that was familiar to him. Kentish! Nicholas kept a firm grip on the poker and drew his coat more tightly about him. ‘How do you know me?’

‘I was born in Tenderden, not far from Raventon Hall. I remember seeing you on a couple of occasions when you visited Sir Gawain and Lady Elizabeth. I was amongst those who helped search for the murderer who killed his first wife. You were there then.’

Nicholas remembered the occasion. There had been a time when he had wanted to marry Elizabeth. He told himself that it was highly unlikely that Godar and Berthe could have met before and be in league with each other.

‘All right, I accept that you’ve seen me before, but what are you doing here in this house? Mistress Caldwell made no mention of expecting a visit from you.’

‘I heard she was in need of a weaver and so I decided to come and see her,’ said Willem. ‘I have been to this town before and liked it.’

Did you, indeed? thought Nicholas. ‘Who told you she was in need of a weaver?’ he asked.

Willem rested a shoulder against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Sir Gawain Raventon was my informant.’

Nicholas lowered the poker, thinking that Rebecca must had been in touch with Elizabeth and told her about Jane’s difficulty in finding a weaver. Even so, for this man to travel such distance from his home town, to work for a woman, surprised Nicholas. As did the earliness of the hour he had called and his entering by the back door. His suspicions resurfaced.

‘When did you arrive in Witney?’ asked Nicholas. ‘And what was your route?’

‘I came north with Sir Gawain to Oxford. He wished to visit his printing works and bookshop on Broad Street.’

Nicholas frowned. ‘I was there yesterday and there was no mention of Sir Gawain visiting the premises.’

Willem shrugged. ‘Maybe he wanted to catch his workers unawares. What hour were you there? We did not arrive until after noon. By the purest chance a man called Mortimer was in the shop, purchasing a copy of your latest book. Sir Gawain suggested that I accompany him to Minster Draymore, which is but a short distance from here.’

‘So you spent the night at Mortimer’s manor house?’

Willem grimaced. ‘Despite the unexpected blizzard, he told me that it was not fit for visitors, although he planned staying there himself, so I found lodging in Minster Draymore.’

Nicholas nodded, thinking what he had to say sounded feasible. ‘Where is Master Mortimer now?’

‘I presume he is still abed. When I saw the weather was clearing, I decided to make my way here without bothering him.’

Nicholas stared at him pensively. ‘Does he know your purpose in coming here?’

‘Aye, Sir Gawain told him.’ He smiled. ‘I received the impression the news did not please him.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Nicholas drily. ‘It is a wife he wants, not Mistress Caldwell having another man to turn to.’ He paused, for his coat had begun to slide from his shoulders and he hoisted it back in place again with a wince. ‘Tell me, Master Godar, why come here when Tenderden is famous for its broadcloth and you are at home there?’

‘You ask a lot of questions, Master Hurst,’ drawled Willem, ‘and I don’t see how that is any of your business.’

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. ‘Fair comment! Perhaps you would not mind telling me if you are married?’

He hesitated. ‘My wife died recently.’

‘My condolences. Do you have children?’

‘Aye, although again I do not see what business that is of yours, Master Hurst.’ Willem frowned. ‘I would ask you another question despite you did not answer my last one! Why the bandaged shoulder? How did you come by it?’

‘I was attacked on my way here,’ said Nicholas, his expression hardening. ‘Now, if you can explain why you didn’t knock on the front door, but sneaked in the back way?’

Willem’s eyes flashed with annoyance. ‘I did knock, but received no answer, so I came round here and found the door unlocked.’ He paused. ‘Have you reported the attack to the constable? If I did not mishear Sir Gawain yesterday, then you were attacked last year in Oxford, as well as in London.’

‘So you were discussing me,’ said Nicholas, frowning.

‘Only because of your book. Will you be staying here long?’

‘Until this latest attack is dealt with I will be remaining in Witney.’ He thought that Godar looked none too pleased with that news.

‘How many of them were there? Were you robbed?’

‘Fortunately I managed to escape with my possessions intact as there were only two men.’

‘Then you were fortunate.’ Willem walked over to the loom and gazed down at it. Watching him, Nicholas experienced a flash of anger. It seemed to him that this weaver was making himself at home much too early. He wished he could kick him out, but sensed the weaver would not be so easy to get rid of and had a strong feeling Jane would resent him taking charge in such a fashion.

As if aware of Nicholas’s eyes on him, Willem turned and met his gaze. ‘Perhaps Oxfordshire isn’t the safest of places for you, Master Hurst? Do you think the two attacks are in any way connected?’

Nicholas shrugged and a flash of pain crossed his face. ‘Unlikely, although I didn’t believe myself to have so many enemies.’

There was a long silence.

Willem hesitated before saying, ‘Mistress Caldwell...?’

‘She has gone to the bakery and should soon return,’ said Nicholas. ‘Perhaps it is best that you remain in here whilst you wait. The children are asleep in the other room.’

Willem nodded and went over to one of the baskets and fingered the wool. Nicholas decided to leave the weaver to his own devices, wondering what else he might have discussed with Sir Gawain. He doubted the knight had mentioned the names of the men involved and the reason why they wanted him dead.

He checked the contents of the pot and ladled out more broth for himself and then sat down at table, wondering whether Jane would welcome Willem Godar’s offer to weave for her. If so, would that mean she would give him a definite nay to his proposal?

Hell, he wished the weaver had not chosen today to arrive. Conscious of his aching head and painful shoulder, he closed his eyes and went over yesterday’s attack on him. He thought of Berthe and how she had seemed genuinely fond of Matilda. Could it be that her grief for her husband and baby had overturned her mind and she had decided that she must have a baby to replace the one she had lost? But why wait until they arrived in England to abduct his daughter? She could have taken her any time. It didn’t make sense!

His thoughts drifted to his conversation with Willem Godar and he wondered whether Mortimer would be Jane’s next visitor. He was still a bit of a mystery to Nicholas. After an absence of twenty years, the older man had returned to England a rich man in search of the woman he had loved and the daughter he had left behind. Anthony’s twin brother had tricked that woman into marrying him and Rebecca had been reared as his daughter. He had come to work at the Hurst family shipyard every summer and that is how Nicholas and his brother knew her. It was because of Anthony Mortimer’s actions in seeking out his daughter that Nicholas had decided to return to Flanders and take responsibility for his own child. He sighed, considering that despite the emotional turmoil of what had taken place in Bruges, he did not regret any of his actions.

He yawned and was on the edge of falling asleep when a noise close by disturbed him. Fully awake now, he became aware not only of the faint clacking of the loom in the other room, but that he was being watched by Margaret, Jane’s elder stepdaughter.

‘It wasn’t a dream after all and you are here,’ she said.

He returned her smile and pinched his wrist. ‘Well, I’m certainly flesh and blood.’

She laughed and cocked her head to one side. ‘What is that clacking noise?’

Nicholas wished that Willem Godar was a dream. ‘A weaver has come to see if your mother wishes to avail herself of his services.’

Margaret’s eyes rounded. ‘I wonder what she will say to him! I will have a peek at him in a moment.’ She pushed back the blanket and stood up in her chemise. Nicholas looked away and only faced her when she spoke his name. She was rolling up her pallet. ‘How is your shoulder today, Master Hurst?’ she asked politely.

‘Better than yesterday, thank you, Margaret,’ he replied. ‘And how are you feeling this morning?’

‘I’m pleased you are here and that you remember my name. Master Mortimer gets our names muddled up,’ she said, looking chagrined. ‘Perhaps it is because he is old like my father was. You’re not going to die, are you, Master Hurst? You’re not as old as either of them.’

‘I certainly hope to live a lot longer,’ said Nicholas, unaccustomed to such conversation, but wanting to reassure the girl.

‘Mama says that when you are properly Simon’s godfather it will be as if you are one of our little family. Does that please you?’

Had Jane really told Margaret that? The thought warmed him and he said, ‘It pleases me very much.’

‘Good!’ Margaret sighed happily. ‘I am hoping that Mama will say that we can have a small feast to celebrate your being here.’ She smacked her lips. ‘Maybe she will kill one of the hens. It will make a change from fish or cheese or just vegetables and barley as is customary during Lent. Although one less hen will mean less eggs once they start laying again. Still, the hens are sitting on eggs and so there will be chicks in the hen house that will grow into more hens.’ She beamed at him and skipped over to the window and climbed onto the seat beneath. ‘Most of the snow has melted. Good. I will go and tend to the poultry as that is my first task of the day. Oh, and here is Mama with the bread and ale and Simon or...’ She scrambled down and looked into the cradle before turning to Nicholas. ‘Perhaps it is your baby because there are no babies here?’

Nicholas agreed that it most likely was his daughter, Matilda. He forced himself to walk over to the front door and opened it and smiled down at Jane. ‘May I help you?’

She frowned up at him and hesitated before carefully placing his daughter in the crook of his unaffected arm. ‘You should be resting. Matilda is fed and changed. I notice you still have no shirt on. Is there one in your saddlebags?’

He nodded, gazing down at his sleeping daughter.

‘Good. You really should be resting.’

‘I will rest soon enough.’ He kissed Matilda’s cheek before carrying her over to the cradle and placing her down.

‘Have you eaten?’ asked Jane, thinking that he really did look drawn and weary.

‘I was about to do so when we had a visitor and Margaret woke up,’ he replied.

Jane looked startled. ‘A visitor?’

‘Aye, can you not hear the loom clacking? The man says he has come from Kent with Sir Gawain. His name is Willem Godar.’