The Marsh King's Daughter

I would like to thank the many people who have helped me along the way in one form or another while writing this novel. On the publishing front, my gratitude goes out to Barbara Boote for being a wonderful editor and fighting my corner at every turn and to Filomena Wood for her efforts on my behalf each time publication day comes around. Copy editors are a frequently vilified breed, but I am delighted by mine, Richenda Todd, and would like to say thank you very much for her help with freeboards, halyards, furling and clewing! Any mistakes remaining in the terminology and techniques of Medieval shipping, I acknowledge as mine. I would also like to thank everyone at Blake Friedmann for their tireless endeavours on my behalf, especially Isobel Dixon and Carole Blake. I am much more knowledgeable about geography these days because I have to get out my atlas to look up the whereabouts of the myriad countries in which they sell my books and stories! My thanks for their interest and support also goes out to Richard Lee and Towse Harrison of the Historical Novel Society.

On the domestic front I could not do without the love and support of my husband Roger and our sons Ian and Simon. My parents, Robert and Joan Chadwick, are always there to back me up and I would like to thank Alison King for her interest and long-standing friendship.

In the research category, I want to say a huge thank you to members of Regia Anglorum and Conquest for extending my knowledge and giving me the opportunity to expand my Norman culinary expertise (never ever cook in a posh frock with hanging sleeves!). My appreciation goes out to Gary Golding, Lyn Mcquaid, Patrick O'Connel, Steve, Joe and Daniel Wibberly, Sharon Goode, Sarah and Mike Doyle, Jon Preston, Simon Carter, Ivor and Simone Lawton, Rosemary and Trevor Watson and anyone else who knows me!

Finally, for the inspiration, I would like to extend my gratitude to Bruce Springsteen, Jan Steinman, Runrig and Tori Amos among a host of others. Thank you for the music.

It was a glorious May morning in the world at large - soft, balmy and harmonious. At the home of Edward Weaver in Lincoln, however, a violent storm was raging.

'I won't go!' Miriel shrieked at her stepfather. 'You can't force me into a nunnery. I'll run away; I swear I will!'

Nigel Fuller's light eyes bulged with fury. Planting his legs wide, he adopted a dominant stance. 'I'm the head of this household now and you'll yield me obedience. Your shameless headstrong ways have been indulged for too long!'

'You've wanted rid of me ever since you married my mother!' Miriel spat. 'My grandfather's been buried less than a season and already you're at your schemes.' She tossed her head in contempt. 'You'll never match up to him. They'll still be calling this Edwin's house long after they've shovelled you into your grave.'

She realised that she had bated him too far. With a roar he swung his fist. Miriel side-stepped the blow and seized a distaff of raw wool from a basket by the hearth. 'Don't you dare lay a finger on me!' She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry with fear. Now that her grandfather was no longer here to shield her from Nigel's rage, a whipping seemed inevitable. She jabbed the distaff at his soft belly and, as he leaped aside, she darted for the door. Despite his bulk, Nigel was fast. Before she could raise the latch, he caught her by her thick tawny braid and jerked her back into the middle of the room.

Miriel struck at him with the distaff pole, but he wrenched it from her grasp and hurled it aside. The fleshy side of his hand clouted her on the temple and his gold seal ring opened a jagged cut. Held fast by her hair, Miriel fought back, gouging with her nails, biting like a dog until she tasted salt blood between her teeth. Nigel bellowed and struck her again. She lost her vision; her knees buckled and only the twisting, vicious grip on her braid held her upright.

'You will obey me!' he panted. 'Whether you will it or not, tomorrow you go to the nuns at St Catherine's!'

'Never!' Miriel refuted in blind litany. Her defiance was all she had left. Let him murder her first; she would rather break than bend.

A crackling sound of small flames growing bigger and the stench of burning wool filled the room. The flung distaff had landed half in and half out of the hearth and now fire was licking along its length and devouring the nearby basket of raw wool. There was a belch of air as the door opened and suddenly the room was full of choking, greasy smoke. Fire lashed towards the rafters.

Cursing, roaring like a goaded bear, Nigel threw Miriel to the ground, kicked her brutally in the ribs and, grabbing the flagon from the coffer, dashed wine at the blazing remnants of the wool basket.

The woman who had opened the door screamed the alarm and sped to fetch a water pail. Other household members came running with cloaks and besoms to smother and beat the flames from existence.

Miriel closed her eyes and willed her awareness, already blurred, to vanish, but as with the rest of her life, she could not have the things she desired even for the fiercest of willing. It was true that her stepfather had almost vanished just now in a puff of smoke, but almost was not good enough.

'It is all your daughter's fault!' she heard Nigel snarling at her mother. 'She's as disrespectful and wild as a vixen. Now you see the fruit of Edward's indulgence and pampering. She should have been put in a nunnery at birth!'

'Yes, Nigel.'

The dutiful murmur caused Miriel's closed eyelids to twitch with irritation and pain. Even to save her own life, she doubted her mother would gainsay a man. As far as

Annet Fuller was concerned, they were the masters, their orders and opinions all that mattered in the world.

'She's not spending another night under this roof. She can sleep in the warehouse with a bolt on the door, and at dawn she leaves.'

Miriel wondered if she heard the briefest hesitation before the next placatory 'Yes, Nigel', but decided it was just wishful thinking. Then she heard Nigel's harsh breathing as he stood over her. 'I hope for your sake that those nuns can find something worth saving in your soul. God knows, they have a thankless task before them.' He gave her a vicious nudge with his toe. 'It's no use to play dead, you deceitful wench, I know you can hear me.'

Miriel had an urge to poke out her tongue, but resisted it and lay unresponding. Even if she could not defeat him in battle, she would not give him the satisfaction of being right.

The floor rushes crackled as he strode to the door. His fingers clicked. 'Get this mess cleared up before I return.' 'Yes, Nigel'

'And I don't want to see her again.'

The door banged. There was a brief silence which was swiftly overtaken by the serving women who commenced chattering and clucking over the state of the room like a pair of disturbed hens. Miriel groaned and opened her eyes. Blood stung in one of them, making her squint and blink. Huge, sooty fireprints had made violent patterns on the lime-washed walls. The wicker wool basket was a skeleton fretwork of blackened strands and the stink of charred wool was almost overpowering.

'Oh, Miriel, what have you done?' Her mother shook her head in exasperation. Annet Fuller was three and thirty years old with a swirl of golden-tawny hair like her daughter's, although hers was decently tucked within a housewife's wimple. She had clear grey eyes and fine, thin features which were seldom brightened by a smile.

'Nothing.' Miriel sniffed and sat up. Her head was throbbing and her ribs ached sharply with each breath. 'He started the fire. I always get the blame; he hates me.'

'Oh, he doesn't,' Annet said in her mild voice. Going to a water pail near the charred basket, she soaked a linen cloth and wrung it out. 'Your father only wants what is best for you.'

'He's not my lather.' Miriel's own voice was hard and tight. No one had ever said much about the man who had begotten her. All she knew, and that gleaned from servants' gossip and the occasional stray remark of her grandfather's, was that he had been a minstrel, an itinerant singer who had taken advantage of the wealthy weaver's virgin fourteen-year-old daughter and moved on long before her belly began to swell. It was from him that Miriel had inherited her slender height and honey-brown eyes.

Annet sighed and her knuckles tightened on the wringing until they were white. 'He is in the eyes of the law.' She knelt by Miriel and laid the cloth against the jagged cut on her temple. 'You gainsay him at every turn, child. A man has to know he is master in his own house. I am surprised that he has not taken his belt to you before now.'

Miriel's teeth chattered with shock and revulsion. 'My grandfather was master here and he never beat me once.' The tightness in her voice grew and strangled her. Suddenly she was choking on tears. She didn't want to cry, and clenched her fists in her gown, fighting herself. It was the mention of her grandfather that had caused the damage. The image of his creased, dour features filled her mind. He had been harsh and stern, but never unfair - and he had loved her. That was what made the world's difference.

Her mother's lips compressed as she continued to dab with the cloth. 'Your grandfather was an old man.'

'You mean he would have beaten me if he'd been younger?' Miriel said with scornful flippancy.

Annet ceased dabbing and sat back on her heels. 'I mean that his judgement was impaired.' Her voice remained level, but it was no longer soft. 'He indulged you when he should have been strict. He let you wrap him around your little finger. Whatever you wanted, you received.'

The envy and resentment in her mother's words came as no surprise to Miriel; the emotions had always been there, unspoken, but until this moment she had not realised how deep and bitter, being the favoured one, there had been no reason to probe.