“Yes milady,” she said. “Thank you, milady.”
“You’re entirely welcome,” said Mathilde, enjoying her role as mentor for once, instead of novice.
“But I don’t think you finished the book, milady,” frowned Prudie.
“Finished it?”
“For he did pledge himself in the end and settled down into matrimony.”
“With who?” asked Mathilde, somewhat startled.
“The original widow,” said Prudence. “He went back to her, when he realized she’d held his heart all along.”
XXVI
Robin returned only just in time for supper, his ears and nose quite pink with cold.
“It was rare sport!” he exclaimed as Mathilde helped him off with his hat and mittens. “I only wish the others could have been there. Will and Piers and Gordon I mean,” he added wistfully.
“We must write to them,” Mathilde said guiltily. “It’s only that things are not yet quite as settled as they should be…” she trailed off awkwardly, but Rob wasn’t listening.
“You should have heard how he cursed me, when I hit him square on the head with a rotten egg.” Robin hooted. “It was every bit as good as that time Gilbert Epsom sneaked on me to old Sir Avery, and I struck him that blow in the stable forecourt, and he fell directly in the water trough.”
“I’m sure it was a sight to behold,” Mathilde replied gravely. Gilbert Epsom was a squire Rob considered his mortal enemy. They were always feuding about something or other.
Robin’s high spirits did not abate one whit for the next hour. He scooped Mabel off the chair and began dancing around the kitchen with the cat in his arms. Mathilde shot a look at Prudence, expecting remonstrance but she was clearly away with the fairies, smiling absently as she stirred their soup. Prudie was yawning a good deal by the time they ate, which they did around the kitchen table together.
“Just lay a place next to mine and Rob’s,” Mathilde told her. Prudie looked mildly scandalized but was quickly persuaded. “We’ll just keep it plain fare this evening and have an early night.”
Even Rob’s spirits had died down by the time they had finished their simple meal of savory pottage soup and brown tourte bread. “It’s his last day in the stocks tomorrow,” he said sadly, his thoughts still clearly dwelling on the unfortunate carter. He sighed and dragged himself out of his chair.
“Did you see Temur and his wife in town?” Mathilde asked as she helped him don his jacket again to go and shut up the hens and secure the stable.
Rob nodded. “Oh aye,” he said pulling on his hat. “His aim wasn’t as good as mine though.” He disappeared out of the door and she and Prudie cleared the table.
“You go on up milady. I’ll bring up washing water for you presently.” A large pot of water was already bubbling over the kitchen fire.
Mathilde opened her mouth to offer to wash down here, but then noticed Prudie’s sharp glance at the window. Ah, she is expecting Waldon’s arrival. Of course, she was. They were as good as husband and wife now.
“Thank you Prudie,” she murmured instead and made for the staircase. She was only halfway up when she heard Robin slam and bolt the kitchen door.
“Goodnight,” she called down.
She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and guessed she would not lie awake for long, but in this respect, she was proved wrong. Despite the fact Guy had warned her that he was not at liberty to join her, Mathilde found herself lying in wait of his arrival long after she had washed and undressed for bed. It was most foolish, but every fiber in her being seemed to leap when a twig tapped against the windowpane or she heard some noise out in the garden, doubtless melting snow falling from the trees onto the ground which her ears mistook for a footfall. He had told her he would not come, but she could not help but remember other occasions when he had said the same thing, but still turned up all the same.
She turned onto her side again, hauling the blankets up to her chin, willing herself to relax into sleep that simply would not come. She was just wondering if she ought to rise again and drag out her tapestry design when heard three loud raps on the kitchen door. Her heart thudding, she sat up in bed and held her breath. Who was that? It surely was not Guy. He had never heralded his late-night arrival before in such a manner. But if not he, then who could it be?
She sat a moment, frozen in indecision, when she heard it again. Another three loud, ringing knocks. Somehow, they sounded ominous, as if they foretold someone’s doom. She shivered, even as she heard a tread on the attic stair and realized that Prudie must be descending them to find out who was demanding admittance.
Quickly, Mathilde slipped her sensible green woolen dress over her shift, pulled on her slippers and poked her head out of her bedroom. To her relief, she saw Waldon was descending the steps behind Prudie. He nodded at her, and Mathilde slipped around the door to join them as they went below stairs. Mathilde halted halfway up the stairs, clinging to the bannister as she watched Waldon draw back the bolts and open the door.
Outside, in the cold stood Old Helga. She wore no cloak and the shoulders of her sky blue dress were dusted in snowflakes. They glittered, too, in her long gray hair. She lifted one bony hand and pointed past Waldon, to where Mathilde hovered on the stairs.
“I come with a warning for you, little one. You have been betrayed,” she said in a loud portentous voice.
“Betrayed?” Mathilde repeated through numb lips.
Her thoughts flew to her friends Willard, Piers and Gordon. It would not be so surprising if one of them had been forced to give her away. They would have been under some considerable pressure after all.
“Do come in out of the cold, Helga,” she urged. The old woman gave no reaction to this. Instead she turned over her extended hand and opened her fingers to reveal the shiny black stone from her previous reading.
“By this one,” she said croakily. Mathilde frowned, remembering Helga had said the stone represented her enemy.
“But the carter has been punished already,” she blurted in confusion.
“Not he,” Helga said contemptuously.
“Who then?” Her mind raced. “I have no other enemy in the world.”
Prudie was looking from Mathilde to old Helga. “You’d best come in, Granny,” she said respectfully, pulling at Waldon’s arm. “In from the cold.” He fell back a step and Old Helga nodded grimly as she stepped inside.
“Where is Tancred?” Mathilde heard herself ask blankly.
Old Helga shrugged. “He refused to take any part in tonight’s doings,” she muttered cryptically. “He’s stubborn, that one.”
Mathilde forced herself to descend the last few steps to join the others. “Waldon, could you please revive the kitchen fire?” she requested, striving for normality. “We could sit in there, and have a warming drink perhaps?”
“There’s a spiced wine I could warm through, milady,” Prudie said, hurrying into the buttery.
Reluctantly Mathilde led Old Helga into the kitchen, where Waldon started prodding the fire. She pulled out a chair for the older woman and gestured for her to sit, then took a seat opposite her. The whole time she could feel Helga’s gaze trained on her face. At last she raised her eyes to meet the Helga’s pale blue eyes squarely. “Should we wait for refreshment, or—”
“Martindale has betrayed you,” Helga interrupted her harshly. In the background Mathilde heard a gasp. Then she realized she had been the one to utter it.
“I beg your pardon?” She sat up in her seat, a cold feeling rising up in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t think I quite—”
“Even now,” Helga continued in a loud ringing voice. “He sets another woman at the head of his table, wearing a jewel that belongs by rights to his wife.”
“No,” said Mathilde, shaking her head. “He would not.” She could not believe it of him. Not when they were at last approaching an understanding. They were growing closer; she was sure of it!
“Another woman sits in your plac
e,” Old Helga repeated, her words ringing with conviction. “The place he has denied you time and again. He has set her up in your stead as his false bride. His friends and neighbors all pay court to her. They give her the accord that should be yours alone.”
“I don’t believe you,” Mathilde said, lifting her chin. Her heart was beating now almost painfully in her chest.
Helga reached across the table and placed the black stone between them. Almost against her will, Mathilde found herself reaching for it. Belatedly she remembered that before when the small rock had appeared in her reading, Old Helga had spoken of Guy, not the carter. Mathilde’s fingers closed around its rough surface.
“Don’t believe or won’t believe, little maid?” Helga’s voice asked quietly. Under the older woman’s steady gaze, Mathilde found her conviction wavering.
“It’s not true,” she heard Waldon’s voice from over at the fireplace. Mathilde turned her head sharply, relieved to find support in an unexpected quarter. The fire crackled behind Waldon as he straightened up. “Lady Julia is a guest in his house, that is all. Nothing more.”
Helga gave a crack of skeptical laughter. “A guest!” she mocked. “Is that what he calls her? And what of this little one?” she said, nodding toward Mathilde. “What does he call this one?”
Waldon’s lips pressed together and he flushed. “He does not call her anything,” he muttered, avoiding Mathilde’s eyes.
“Not wife, then?” asked Helga slyly.
“Wife?” Waldon looked so startled that Mathilde felt all the breath stolen from her body. She squeezed the black stone so hard that its edges cut into her palm. Waldon looked from Mathilde to Helga. “He has given you his vow?” he asked uncertainly, his eyes full of disbelief. Then he shook his head. “Nay, he can’t have.”
Mathilde swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She remembered once more, how no one at Acton March had accorded her her rightful title.
“But that is because,” she said, trying desperately to rally, “he wanted us to become better acquainted before announcing it.” Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded weak. She heard a footfall in the doorway, and looked up to see Prudie stood there, grave-faced, holding a jug of wine.
“But Lord Martindale was not at liberty to give you his vow,” Waldon persisted gently. “For he is already wed to a southerner.”
Mathilde drew herself up in her chair, trying to muster some dignity. At the end of the day, she supposed bleakly, it would always boil down to that. She would forever be a southerner to these people.
“Of course he is,” said Prudence sharply. “Just who do you think my lady is?” She bustled forward with the wine and slammed it down on the table.
“Then, the Lady Mathilde is—?“ Waldon broke off in confusion. “Nay, she cannot be.”
“I am the Marchioness of Martindale,” Mathilde said with quiet conviction. “And Guy’s lawful wife.” She looked up again to find Old Helga’s eyes watchful, her head tipped to one side like a bird’s. Mathilde turned back to Waldon. “There is another lady at Acton March at present?” she forced herself to ask in a small voice.
He cleared his throat. “As I said, a guest of his lordship’s—”
“Who is she?”
“More importantly, who was she?” put in Helga, holding up a crooked finger.
Mathilde looked expectantly at Waldon. There was a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, but she had to know.
“The Lady Julia Allworthy,” Waldon answered with clear reluctance. He shot a look of appeal at Prudie, but she folded her arms and glared back at him. “She — in the old days, her family held a neighboring estate.”
“Neighbor was she?” snorted Helga. “And what else?”
Waldon rubbed the stubble on his chin. “They were betrothed,” he admitted. “But that was before the war. She’s wed now—”
“To a man who lies on his deathbed,” Helga retorted. “An old man she left to gasp out his last breath alone.”
“I had not heard that,” Waldon answered defensively. “She’s highly thought of in these parts—”
“Unlike his unwanted southern bride,” Helga agreed. “Who he stashes in the woods like a guilty secret, while he woos his former love.”
Mathilde gave an involuntary cry of anguish, as she felt her heart crack.
Prudie rushed forward, slipping an arm around her shoulders. She turned angrily on Waldon. “You should have told me!” she flung at him accusingly.
“I didn’t know she was his wife!” Waldon protested. “No one knows!”
Helga nodded sagely. “He has been careful to keep it so.”
Mathilde covered her trembling mouth with her hand. “He woos another?” she asked of Helga in a low, urgent voice.
“If you do not believe me,” Helga replied calmly. “Then there is the evidence of your own eyes.”
Mathilde started up immediately from her chair.
“My lady!” Prudie exclaimed in alarm. “Wait! You cannot mean to go there!”
But Mathilde had already rounded the table and was heading with determination for the door.
XXVII
Guy looked up wearily from his plate. The venison and wild boar dishes were being cleared away now and the musicians were striking up another tune. It seemed there was to be a musical interval between each course. He leaned to one side and signaled for Firmin, who stood on the sidelines overseeing the servers.
His steward darted forward “Aye, Guy?”
“How many courses are we serving?”
“Seven,” replied Firmin proudly.
“A feast fit for a king!” drawled Tristan Kerslake, draining his goblet.
Firmin signaled for Jankin, who was holding a pitcher of wine. He snapped his fingers and gestured to Guy and Tristan.
“Not for me,” said Guy absently. His own wine goblet was untouched.
“You do not drink?” Firmin asked in surprise. “This wine was laid down by your father and is of the finest vintage.”
“I am sure,” Guy replied. “But as host I would rather keep a clear head and remember my duties.”
Firmin frowned, but luckily the Countess of Strethneal was asking a question about the centerpiece of peacock feathers so he was distracted. Guy did not know if he could withstand the temptation to steal away to the lodge after the banquet was done. His head ached from the buzz of conversation and the whining strings of the musicians jarred on him this evening. He drank some ale and leaned back in his seat, frowning at the view of all the neighboring lords and ladies it afforded him.
The atmosphere was not joyous or even pleasant to his mind, but that might have been down to the fact that Firmin had seated Julia at the other end of the table in the hostess’s place. Of course, Guy had deliberately left all decisions regarding the banquet to his steward, but this choice was one that bothered him unduly. He knew not why for in two hours’ time, the business would be over and done with. That did not stop him from frowning every time his eye fell on Julia in her golden gown and diadem, lording it over everyone like a queen.
It did not help that at her bodice she wore a Martindale ruby which he had been fool enough to give to her as a betrothal gift in his youth. He had almost forgotten he had broken up the set to give it away. It had hardly seemed to matter at the time, but her wearing it now made him acutely uncomfortable. The ruby was set in the heraldic beast of the Martindales, a large white enameled swan with its wings extended and a gold collar about its neck. It certainly drew the eye, and no doubt all of his neighbors would be aware of who must have given it to her. They could hardly fail to do so, when a huge portrait of his grandmother hung in this very hall, dominating the north wall. The old dowager marchioness was depicted resplendent in the full set of necklace, tiara, bracelet and brooch.
Guy told himself he was a fool to feel so discomforted that Julia flaunted the brooch now. It was not as though he ever intended for his wife to get her greedy hands on it. Why, then, did he feel almost ashamed whenever
he saw anyone’s eyes dwell on it now? It was not as though he was saving it for anyone. Unless, a small voice whispered in his ear, he managed to secure that divorce from the present marchioness, then wed where his own choice lay. Immediately a vision of Mathilde rose up before his eyes.
He glanced up at his haughty grandmother and tried to imagine Mathilde dressed in a formal court gown, plastered in so many jewels. He smiled to himself briefly, though it soon faded. How would he answer, if she saw the portrait and asked where the missing brooch was? He shifted uneasily in his seat.
He was imagining problems now, where none existed! It wasn’t like him to be so fanciful. Then he gave a start, straightening in his chair. Emerging from the shadows, as if he had conjured her from thin air by the power of his thoughts alone, came Mathilde. He stared, surely his mind was playing tricks on him. But no, other heads were turning now. The musicians faltered, their fingers stalling over their instruments. Guy found himself unable to catch his breath. He felt frozen to his seat as he saw her cross the room, like a sleepwalker, the expression in her eyes wounded. The room fell deadly silent, and almost as if on cue, the conversation died on everyone’s lips. People gasped audibly at the appearance of this stricken-looking stranger.
Mathilde’s gaze went from him to Julia, and then he watched in horror as they dwelt on the portrait and then back to Julia. Her cheeks flushed hot with color. She walked up the long table in her simple wool dress, past all the guests in their fine silks and velvets and finally arrived in front of him, coming to a halt. He swallowed and tried to fight down the irrational guilt that engulfed him.
Julia Allworthy’s voice rang out authoritatively across the whispers. “Mistress, you forget yourself!” she said in a loud, stern voice. “Your kind are not welcome here at Acton March!”
Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1) Page 24
