The Marsh King's Daughter (13 page)

'They called it being cruel to be kind,' Miriel said neutrally as she donned the mantle and fastened it with the plain bone pin provided. Then she bundled up the habit and white wimple. 'These can burn on our fire tonight. From this day forth I am Miriel of Stamford, a respectable widow.' A poor, respectable widow, she thought with distaste as Nicholas cupped his hands to boost her into her mount's saddle.

But not poor for long if she had her way.

The afternoon was late and wintry when Nicholas and Miriel arrived in Nottingham after two more days on the road. Although their cloaks had kept out the worst of the icy rain, they were chilled and tired, Nicholas in particular. His cough was harsh and his cheeks were flushed. For the last mile he had not spoken.

Miriel said nothing to him, but she was worried. They needed shelter and food in short order. There were several taverns near the castle, including a fine new one established at the time of King Richard's crusade. After a short consideration, Miriel discarded these, aware that they would be full of soldiers from the garrison. Instead, she headed for the old Saxon quarter of the town on the far side of the Corn Market. The streets were mired in the sludge of advancing autumn, not yet cold enough to freeze solidly underfoot. Smoke twisted from the holes in the house thatches and folk were preparing to retire to their hearths. Miriel vaguely remembered that there was a hostelry on a low hill near the town wall. Her grandfather had lodged there once when his preferred place near the castle had been full.

Nicholas coughed into his cloak. 'Do you know where you're going?' he demanded hoarsely. 'Seems to me you're directing us in circles.'

'Of course I do,' she snapped. 'It's just up here.' She ducked her head as a fresh gust of rain buffeted them. 'They have a main dormitory in the loft and sleeping space in the cellars too.' Crossing her fingers on the wet bridle, she hoped that it was where she remembered and that there was sleeping space.

The Bull was a hostelry serving the merchants and traders who entered Nottingham from the direction of Derby and Stafford. It had begun life at the time of the Conquest as a common alehouse displaying a green bush on a pole every time there was a fresh brewing. These days, the inn sign was a permanent painted shield, and the symbol of a bush had been replaced by the more fanciful device of a charging black bull.

Its proprietor was a red-faced Anglo-Norman called Baldwin, with a booming voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep within his enormous drum of a belly.

'Aye, we've room,' he declared stridently to Miriel and Nicholas's utter relief. 'Although if you'd come a fortnight ago, I'd have had to turn you away. Full to the lintels we was with folks visiting the great fair.' He had a lad take the horses away to the stables at the back of the premises and directed an older man to pick up the blanket-bound chest unstrapped from the mule.

'Staying long?' he asked as he kindled a lantern and led the way towards a set of steps cut in the rock at the back of the room.

'No,' Nicholas replied. Now he was out of the wind and cold he had rallied a little. 'My business lies in the South.'

Miriel said nothing. Let the landlord think that Nicholas spoke for both of them. The less explanation, the easier her new life would be. She lowered her eyes and clasped her hands in her sleeves, the image of modest womanhood. There had been plenty of opportunity to practise the pose at St Catherine's.

'I don't envy folk as has to travel on roads to make their living,' Baldwin said in the cheerful tones of one who knew better. 'Give me a roaring fire and home comforts any day.'

'Amen to that,' Nicholas coughed.

If not for the light shed by the lantern, their surroundings would have been pitch black. The temperature was chilly, and the smell of underground stone pervasive. The Bull, like most dwellings in Nottingham, had its own caves hewn from the sandstone on which the town was built.

'Here we are.' Baldwin guided them under an archway and into a surprisingly spacious room. Cut from the rock face it was shaped like the rounded belly of a drinking cup. There was a hearth with kindling laid ready in one corner, and a smoke hole above. Starting at the curved wall half a dozen mattresses were arranged with an arm's length between each one.

'Stuffed with the best goose down,' Baldwin said proudly. 'No straw. My wife makes 'em to sell. Famous as far away as Doncaster, she is.'

Miriel nodded and gave him a preoccupied smile. The servant set the covered chest down beside one of the mattresses and left. Baldwin kindled another lantern that stood on a shelf chopped out of the gritty rock.

'I know it's not home, but you'll be comfortable, I promise.' Setting his hands on his hips, he looked round with a proprietorial air.

'Just now I could even sleep on a bed of nails,' Nicholas said.

'You travelled far then?' Baldwin enquired.

Nicholas shook his head. 'I've recently been ill.' He smiled bleakly. 'Neither I nor the good mistress would be making this journey unless it was entirely necessary.'

'What you need is a bowl of my wife's beef broth to warm your cockles. Best in four counties. I'll have some sent down.'

Baldwin
's boastful pride in his wife was borne out. The mattresses offered seductive, cocooning support and the cheerful blankets covering them were reasonably fresh and not too coarse. A shy serving girl brought them steaming bowls of clear beef broth and a small basket of golden wastel loaves. Miriel wolfed hers in short order. After the bread and water privations of St Catherine's and cold food eaten by the wayside, this was manna indeed. Nicholas, however, had exhausted all his reserves. He ate about a quarter of his broth and one small loaf. Then, beneath Miriel's anxious gaze, he lay down on his pallet and closed his eyes.

Dusting the crumbs from her hands, she approached him and laid her palm across his brow. With relief she noted that it was cool; at least he wasn't feverish. His breathing was slow and deep, with just the slightest catch of chestiness at the end of each inhalation. Now and then his body gave a muscular twitch. Her palm still on his brow, Miriel studied him long and hard. At last she sighed and moved away to light the kindling in the firepit, occupying her hands while her mind pondered.

She had asked him to bring her to Nottingham, and now that he had, there was no reason for them to remain in each other's company. She knew that he wanted rid of her, that she was a burden he could do without. And he was probably right. They knew too much about each other and it was best that they came to a parting of the ways.

She struck a spark from the fire-steel and applied it gently to the kindling. One of the few useful things her mother had taught her was how to lay a fire and make it burn with a clear, bright light. She gave all her attention to the task, but once the flames were licking eagerly at the twigs and branches, her glance strayed to the shrouded chest standing beside Nicholas's pallet. He had more than enough to start afresh, but all she had were the clothes on her back and three pouches of silver if he was disposed to remember their bargain.

Biting on her underlip, Miriel crept to the chest and stealthily unfastened the ropes binding the blanket. She tugged the coarse wool aside and ran her fingers gently over the gorgeous but salt-damaged enamelling. Very softly, very slowly, she raised the lid by its knife-scored hasp. A furtive look over her shoulder reassured her that Nicholas still slept deeply and by the looks of him was unlikely to waken even for the trumpets of Judgement Day. She could do whatever she wanted - abscond with the entire chest if she had such a mind.

The thought warmed her for an instant, but at the same time made her feel soiled. Her conscience would not let her go so far and, besides, there was plenty for them both. How much to take was the question. Enough for her needs, but not so much that she would be plagued by guilt.

She cupped her hand around one of the satisfyingly heavy money bags and the feeling of warmth returned, sensual as a blanket drawn over her body by a lover's hand. Fetching the bolster that she had brought from St Catherine's, she fed it with a dozen pouches of the silver. It was sufficient to establish herself comfortably and still leave him enough for his own designs - whatever they might be.

The reflection of the flames danced on the ivory surface of the second chest, emphasising the carved lines and ornamental goldwork. The object's beauty called to her with a siren song she was unable to resist. She told herself that she would take one more look at the fabulous treasure within -the royal crown of an empress. But when she opened the chest and removed the silk wrappings, just looking was not enough. She held Mathilda's crown in her hand. The power of queenship rippled from the bejewelled gold into her veins. Symbol of authority, symbol that a woman's place was not just by the hearth. Mathilda had gone to war to defend her rights and had counted herself the equal of any man.

Acting on the feeling in the pit of her belly, ignoring the voice that told her what she was doing was dangerous and foolhardy, she shrouded the crown in its purple silk and added it to the pouches in her bolster.

It was well past dawn when Nicholas awoke, although it was impossible for him to tell the time by the darkness in the cave. The room was warmed by the embers in the firepit, which gave off a dull, red glow, just sufficient for him to kindle a flame on a spill of wood and light the lantern. Blearily, he rubbed his eyes and stretched. His mouth was dry and his stomach felt as hollow as an empty barrel. He plucked with distaste at his rumpled clothes and gazed around the womb-like cavern. There was no sign of Miriel except for a slight depression on the mattress nearest the door arch. Thinking no more of it, Nicholas went to find her, the time of day and something to eat.

The door of the hostelry's main room opened on to the street and revealed an overcast morning full of urban bustle: the clop of hooves; the creak of cart wheels; the ring of a farrier's hammer as he shod two oxen across the way. Nicholas sat at one of the oak trestles and rubbed his face.

Baldwin
appeared with a jug of ale and more of the wastel loaves, their centres dug out and filled with a stuffing of chopped mushrooms and fried breadcrumbs. Of Miriel there was still no sign, but looking at the hour, Nicholas judged that she was probably out and about, reacquainting herself with the town.

'You feeling better this morn, sir?' enquired Baldwin.

Through a mouthful of bread and mushroom, Nicholas nodded that he was.

"Bout dead on your feet you was last night.' The landlord tucked his linen rag in his belt and watched Nicholas eat. 'The lady said we was to leave you to sleep and not go disturbing you.'

Nicholas took a drink of the yeasty, golden ale, cool from its storage in one of the caves. 'Where is she?'

Baldwin
blinked in surprise. 'You don't know?' he said, as if he expected Nicholas to do so.

Nicholas shook his head and felt the first stirrings of unease. 'I have only just awoken, and we did not speak last night.'

Baldwin
scratched his head. 'I cannot tell you her whereabouts, sir, only that she left almost before it was light. Paid me fair and square she did, and my wife gave her some of those stuffed loaves for her journey.'

'Her journey?' Nicholas set his cup down, his unease turning to downright misgiving.

'Oh, no.' The landlord tucked his hands into his armpits. Curiosity glinted in his eyes. 'She said this morn as she needed to be on her way, but that you wasn't up to the journey so she'd find another escort. Said it kindly, like. She wasn't complaining behind your back.'

'And she didn't say where she was bound?'

The man shook his head, beginning to look serious as he caught the scent of Nicholas's anxiety. 'No, sir, but I took it to be south like you said yester eve.' He unfolded his arms and placed them on his hips. 'Is there something amiss?'

Nicholas grabbed at his scattered wits. 'No,' he said quickly, 'she has taken me by surprise, that is all.' Which was certainly true.

'Hah, nothing would surprise me about the ways of the gentler sex,' Baldwin snorted. 'You take my wife for instance. When she . . .'

Nicholas jumped to his feet and, ignoring the landlord's attempts at empathy, strode back to the cellar chamber. He tripped over a step in the dark and scraped his knuckles on the walls as he clutched it for support. Cursing, sucking the peeled skin, he limped over to the chest and, snatching off the blanket, flung back the lid.