The Marsh King's Daughter (17 page)
'To Pandora.' Rohan raised the toast. 'The Pandora,' Nicholas echoed.
Rohan cupped his hands around his drink and looked at Nicholas. 'Are you not afraid that she too will fall victim to sea-raiders? Since your father died, the problem has increased apace. With this war between Louis of France and your young King's regents, the northern seas are infested with thieves and profiteers. That I arrived in Southampton whole owes much to the roll of fortune's dice.'
'I know there is danger,' Nicholas said soberly. 'She will not sail from harbour unarmed. I intend to man her with a full complement of footsoldiers and archers.'
'You will need to carry a rich cargo to offset your costs,' Rohan said with a hint of scepticism.
Nicholas knew that the shipwright was vastly curious as to the source of his wealth. The de Caen family, even at the height of their fortunes, had only been moderately prosperous, certainly not rich enough to afford a cog like the Pandora. He lifted his cup. 'Don't worry; I'll make my way in the world.' He fished a coin from his pouch to pay for the wine. A stylised portrait of King John's head was stamped into the silver. 'I only wish my family was here to see me do it,' he said grimly.
That night he slept aboard, rolled in his cloak on the crenellated platform above the stern rudder. The gentle creak of her timbers as she rocked on the water was soothing. The stars were white gemstones in the night sky. Nicholas counted them off in a sleepy murmur: Orion with his belt of crystal studs; the Plough; the Great Bear; all as familiar to him as the breath in his body. They were friends to be sought on a midnight ocean.
When he slept, it was deeply, and he did not dream.
A handful of costly gold rings shone on the coffer. Neatly folded beside them was a gown of blue linen, an exquisitely embroidered chemise and a pair of yellow silk hose with matching garters. Kneeling naked on the bed, red hair tucked behind her ears, Magdalene kneaded the old man's crepy flesh with her strong, white fingers until he groaned with pleasure. She had been his mistress for three years and she knew what he liked.
'Edwin, who were those two men in the tavern?' she asked as she worked on his knotted shoulders. 'Which two?'
'You know, you raised your cup to them.'
Edwin turned his head on his pillowed arms. 'I assume you're interested in the younger one?' he said in an amused voice.
'Don't tease.' The tips of her manicured nails dug into his flesh, and he gave a luxurious wriggle.
'Sweetheart, you'll make me hard doing that.'
Magdalene compressed her lips on the retort that it would be a miracle. Edwin needed his illusions and she was all part of the pretence. It was their bargain, and her livelihood. Rather this than gutting fish any day.
At fourteen she had been a fisherman's daughter dwelling in poverty when the lord of the manor had chanced by on an inspection with his bailiff. An hour later she was no longer a virgin, but richer by the fortune of three silver pennies. The next day Lord Engram had returned for her and she became his permanent mistress. She never wearied of the post. Indeed, she set out to keep it for she knew the alternative. Having worn beautiful clothes and fine jewellery, having eaten white bread off a silver platter, she would rather have died than return to her former life. When Engram had a fatal fall from his horse four years later, she immediately sought and found a replacement in Edwin. He wasn't a baron, but he was wealthy, she liked him and the only demands he made were for the benefit of public show and private reassurance. 'It was no more than curiosity,' she said with a shrug.
'I'm sure it was. Lower, girl, ah, that's it.' He made slow, thrusting motions with his buttocks.
Magdalene arched her brows. He was certainly labouring the virility tonight.
'He's from Normandy,' Edwin said through the pillow of his crossed arms. 'Goes by the name of Nicholas de Caen, and he's just bought a cog that's the envy of every ship-owner in the port. That is all that anyone knows of him.'
Magdalene massaged the small of Edwin's back, and thought of the young man, the firm skin and taut muscles, the fierce, interesting features.
'Oh, and he's not one for the women,' Edwin added drily, then chuckled. 'That's stopped your chicks from hatching, hasn't it?'
Magdalene's disappointment was balanced by a surge of relief. Wary of jeopardising her security, she had thus far resisted the temptation offered by younger men, but she liked the look of Nicholas de Caen, and he must be rich to afford a ship like a cog. 'He likes men, you mean?' She wondered if his companion in the tavern was his lover.
Edwin rolled over. His paunch curved like a whale's back, complete with blow hole. In its shadow his genitals cowered on his thigh. 'I mean he doesn't have time for either, and it would take more than you to convince him, sweetheart.' Grasping her hand, he placed it on his flaccid penis. 'You could always convince me instead. I might not rise to the occasion like some of them, but even an old dog needs a stroke sometimes.'
Sighing inwardly, a smile on her lips, Magdalene applied herself to his demand.
Robert Willoughby's hazel eyes crinkled with astonishment and laughter. 'You have done what? Bought Alice Leen's weaving trade?' He draped his arm across the back of Miriel's wall bench and crossed his legs. He was in Nottingham to conduct business with Gerbert, but had detoured to call upon Miriel to see how she was faring and discuss the price of wool. 'That's very . . . er . . . enterprising.'
Miriel glowered at him until his face straightened. 'If I was a man you wouldn't sit there chuckling,' she snapped. 'Alice would never have sold to me unless she thought I could continue her success.'
'Of course not,' Robert said quickly and smoothed his moustache. 'It is just that you looked so fierce when you told me - as if you were waiting for my objection so that you could pounce.'
Miriel coloured. There was more than an element of truth in the statement. She was so used to fighting for what she wanted that it was now ingrained. 'Well, why did you laugh?'
The humour returned to his eyes and deepened the attractive creases in his cheeks. Miriel felt a stirring of warmth. If Gerbert was like her grandfather, then Robert was the father she had never known.
'Because you took me by surprise,' he said. 'I know from what Alice has said that you are probably competent to run a business, but you still seem so young.' He raised and wagged his forefinger as she drew breath. 'Before you rail at me again, let me add that I am also full of admiration and pride.'
Miriel bit her lip. Compliments were almost harder to accept than disapproval. She was unaccustomed to receiving praise. To distract herself, she rose to replenish his goblet. 'She's retiring to Lenton Priory. Says that another winter would prove too difficult for her old bones and she cannot give the weaving the attention it needs to flourish.'
'So she has sold you everything?'
Miriel nodded. 'As it stands.'
'You must have quite a store of wealth at your disposal then.' The last word ended on a rising note of question as he took the cup.
'Enough,' Miriel fenced. She met his gaze steadily, revealing nothing.
'And your past would seem to be a blank slate,' he mused. 'The few times we have met, you have been at pains to avoid the subject.'
'Because it is my own business,' she said stiffly.
He swirled the wine in his cup, then took a drink. 'That is true, but your very secrecy makes me curious.'
'Then curious you must remain.' Miriel's heart pounded in response to the potential danger. 'I thought you came to talk of wool prices, not to satisfy your desire for gossip.'
'Oh, I have several desires to satisfy where you are concerned, ' Robert murmured in a voice so soft that Miriel was not sure she had heard aright. She stared at him, her breath quickening with anger, with fear, and with an emotion she was unable to identify.
'I think it best if you leave,' she said stiffly.
Robert extended his hand in a gesture of contrition. 'I meant no offence, Mistress Stamford. I did but tease, and out of turn, I can see.'
Miriel studied him warily. The tone of his voice when he spoke of satisfying desires had sent a jolt of not unpleasant warmth through her loins and she found herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him. It was a notion that she swiftly dismissed. She needed no such complication in her life. 'You would not have teased had I been a male acquaintance,' she said frostily.
'That is true, but it is a response you will find time and again in your dealings.' Finishing the wine, he set his cup on the coffer. 'Men will react to you in that way because you are a rich and attractive young widow. They will think your life lacking without that which they can provide - if you take my meaning.' He raised and lowered his brows.
Miriel's face grew hot for she did take his meaning and it ran on a parallel course to her wayward thoughts of a moment since. 'I understand what you are saying,' she said with a curt nod. 'It might be useful to employ an agent to negotiate for me.' She looked down at her hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap, then back at him, through the guard of her lashes. 'But I also know that I am the best negotiator of my business interests. Men might view me as weak because I am a woman, but they have their own weaknesses to be exploited too . . . do they not?'
The humour returned to Robert Willoughby's gaze. 'I see that you are going to be a formidable opponent.'
'Business partner,' Miriel contradicted with a smile and put her own cup down. 'Now, we were talking of the price of wool, and I want to know how much per sarple you were charging Alice.'
Two days later, at her new weaving shed below the castle rock, Miriel took delivery of the sacks of wool she had bought from Robert Willoughby. Old Alice was on hand to inspect the fleeces as Miriel distributed them to the local good wives for carding and spinning.
'They'll do,' Alice said grudgingly as she fingered the oily, yellowish wool. Miriel took the remark as a compliment. It would be a relief when the old lady moved to her new home at the priory next week.
'What did you pay for 'em?' Alice gave her a narrow look.
'I got a good price,' Miriel said, refusing to be drawn. Rubbing her hands, which were sticky with oil from the fleeces, she went to watch Thomas the senior weaver at work on a light brown serge woven with a red stripe. A loud clatter came from the loom as Thomas worked the foot treadles to raise the shed between the threads and pass the loaded shuttle through the gap. Beside him, one of the apprentices was winding a hank of yarn on to a ball ready for use on the loom. Thomas's wife was busy at a smaller loom, making braid from odd ends of wool that would otherwise go to waste.
Miriel had to admit that Alice ran a clean and thrifty business. It was much smaller than her grandfather's, but he had been one of the most important weavers in Lincoln, his cloth of Lincoln greyne famous throughout
Alice
sighed as she watched Thomas passing his loaded shuttle under and over. 'I shall miss all this,' she said. 'It has been my life since my Herbert died. We started from nothing in the time of old King Henry and we became the best weavers on the banks of the Leen.'
Miriel had heard the sentiment twenty times over, but she mustered her patience. In forty years it might be her standing in Alice's place telling the same story to another young woman. The thought made her shiver. 'And it shall continue to be the best, I promise you.' She found a smile and gave Alice's stick-thin arm a squeeze.
'Aye, well, I'll visit often.'
'You will be most welcome,' Miriel murmured, being sparse with the truth. She furnished Alice with a seat in the corner and a cup of good wine. Then she flattered the old lady by asking her opinion on a number of matters. While Alice might be irritating, she had a lifetime of knowledge and Miriel had no intention of cutting off her nose to spite her face by being too proud to ask. What she did not want was a watchdog peering over her shoulder all the time.
Alice
's weaving shed had its own private dwelling at the side, composing of a ground floor hall and an upstairs sleeping chamber reached by way of a wooden outer stair. Miriel had already decided that when Gerbert came home from his wool-gathering, she would give him notice and move into her new accommodation.
