by June Francis
Beth felt the blood rush to her head and collapsed on the ground.
Gawain cursed himself for his thoughtlessness and went down on one knee, placing his arms beneath her and lifting her up. He sat down with her on his lap and glanced at Jane, who had put down her mending and stood up. ‘Don’t stand there like a stock,’ he roared. ‘Fetch some wine.’
Jane hurried to do his bidding while Gawain tried to rouse Beth by patting her cheek and calling her name. He needed her to be strong when he was feeling aroused by simply holding her on his lap. He was annoyed with himself; he should not be feeling like this about her.
Beth’s eyelids fluttered open and she gazed up into his face. Realising that she was sitting in her guardian’s lap, she sat bolt upright. ‘Put me down at once!’ she ordered.
‘There is no need to panic,’ he said roughly, wishing she would keep still and hoping she was unaware of his arousal.
‘You—you did say that Monsieur Le Brun had been murdered?’ She swallowed a lump in her throat and, despite her earlier demand that he release her, clung to his doublet.
‘Aye, it was completely unexpected.’ His expression was serious. It appeared that perhaps after all they had a religious maniac on the loose. He could think of no other reason why the French master printer should have been killed, but one of his sons had told him that he had been providing Master Llewellyn with information about the teachings of the heretic Martin Luther for more than a year now, so maybe that was reason enough for a lunatic.
Beth’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He was such a kind, harmless old man,’ she whispered.
‘I’m going to get you on a ship to England today,’ said Gawain. ‘Whilst in Calais, I spoke to the master mariner of a vessel that is sailing this evening.’
‘Good,’ said Beth, relieved. ‘I will be glad to leave this place.’
Before she could say any more Jane brought the wine. Gawain took the cup from her and held it to Beth’s lips. She drank, but, despite feeling light-headed, as soon as she had drained the cup she insisted on getting to her feet. Gawain wasted no time in helping her up and then ordered the men to make ready the horses and to pack the tents, bedding and baggage in a wagon.
Beth and Gawain conversed little on the journey to Calais. She could not deny that she would have been more anxious if it were not for his presence. Yet she knew she could not depend on him to keep her safe once she arrived home, despite his promise to her father. He had a wife and children and she would not have him risk his life for her. One thing was for certain—the death of Monsieur Le Brun proved that her father must have had something to do with the printing of religious information coming out of Europe. She still could not believe that Jonathan was involved. Yet if he had not been, then why had he been killed? Could it have been purely because he was his father’s son? If so, that meant her life really could be in danger, too.
Chapter Three
Gawain stood at the side of the ship, gazing towards the port of Smallhythe, positioned on the bank of the River Rother where his boatyard, amongst others, was situated. Raventon Hall lay further inland up a hilly road that led to the town of Tenderden and beyond to the Wealden forests, nestling between fields where sheep grazed. He felt a swell of emotion, glad to be back despite the difficult situation he found himself in. If it were not for his concern for his daughters and the hope of having news of them, he would have sailed for London first to visit Beth’s father’s lawyer before going home. He needed to get her off his hands before he succumbed to temptation again. She held an attraction for him that went beyond mere physical beauty that he found baffling. She was self-opinionated, stubborn and had no mind as to how a lady should behave. But she was also well-read and clever and he could see her attempting to best him at every turn, especially when it came to choosing her a husband or deciding what to do with her father’s business.
Of course, he could send her to London by road with her servants and his own man, Tom, but would she be safe? It all depended on the murderer’s motives and whether he was a dangerous fanatic or a person of intelligence and cunning. He came to the decision that for now Beth would be safer at Raventon than in London. He would place her in the care of his Aunt Catherine, who hopefully knew better than to discuss her nephew’s most private affairs with anyone. He didn’t want Beth knowing what had been happening between him and Mary.
‘Do you have your own boat, Sir Gawain?’ asked a voice at his shoulder.
He turned and stared down at his ward’s sombre wind-flushed face. ‘Aye. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I am wondering if you will be taking me to London in it rather than continue there in this ship.’ Beth had also been wondering what he had meant when he’d said that she did not know what was between him and his wife. Perhaps she was not the wife he had desired or maybe he loved her and she did not love him?
‘Certainly not today,’ he answered.
She hesitated. ‘Of course, you will be hoping that your wife and children are home now. Surely that is all the more reason for me to leave you to enjoy their company. I and my servants could travel by road if you will lend us horses.’
Gawain shook his head. ‘It is best you rest after the journey. My wife has most likely not returned, but my aunt will make you welcome at Raventon Hall. There you will find peace and solitude and that is needful whilst you mourn your father. You need time to recover from the terrible shock you have suffered.’
Having hoped that she might gain some control over her own life once back in England, Beth was disappointed, thinking now of what she had been going to write for her news sheet, but she kept a grip on her emotions. ‘How much time are you talking about? It is thoughtful of you to consider my feelings in such a way, but I would prefer to go home,’ she said firmly.
‘Of course, but I doubt you will find much in the way of peace and solitude in London’s streets at this time of year, Mistress Llewellyn.’
‘I would not gainsay you, but I will need more clothes and items for my toilette if I am to stay in your home for more than a few days and there is much in my house that will need my attention,’ she said in a polite little voice.
‘Shall we leave the decision about the length of time you will stay until the morrow?’ suggested Gawain.
Beth decided she would have to be content with that suggestion for the moment. She did not want to appear to be difficult so that he would feel a need to have a watch kept on her. She nodded, adding, ‘Should you not warn your aunt of my arrival? I know how having unexpected visitors sprung on one can put all planning of meals askew and I do not wish your aunt to take a dislike to me.’
Gawain agreed.
As soon as the ship had anchored and all their goods were unloaded, Tom was sent on ahead to Raventon Hall. Beth gazed about her at the bustling little port. ‘Most of the buildings appear quite new,’ she said, accepting Gawain’s help up on to his horse; Sam was driving the cart with Jane sitting alongside him.
‘There was a fire here a few years ago and most of the houses were destroyed,’ Gawain said, swinging up into the saddle in front of her. ‘The majority of the buildings are of half-timbered design, but the new church is of red brick.’
‘I’ve never seen a redbrick church before,’ said Beth, hesitating to slip her arms about his waist and link her hands together despite knowing she would feel so much safer if she did so once the horse broke into a canter. Instead she gripped the back of his doublet and hoped for the best. ‘How far is your home?’ she asked.
‘Tenderden is less than a league’s distance from here. Most of the timber for the boat-building yards is transported by river via the town.’
Beth gazed about her as they made their way out of the port of Smallhythe. ‘Tell me more about the area, if you would?’
Gawain was pleased by her interest. ‘Tenderden is a centre of the broadcloth industry and so there are many spinners and weavers plying their trade. Some are of Flemish descent. Edward III forbade the export of unwashed woo
l and so they brought their specialist skills here.’
‘How interesting,’ said Beth, her fingers tightening their grip as the horse broke into a trot. She shifted closer to him and felt more secure moulded against his back and even a little excited. She blamed that on the speed at which they were travelling.
Conscious of Beth’s comely form in a way that he knew was not sensible, Gawain attempted to block out such thoughts by pointing out the church of St Mildred on the hill as they came into Tenderden. He thought of Mary and how glad he was that they had not married at the parish church. The one in Smallhythe had burnt down and in one of her rants she had stated it was a sign from God that their marriage was not of his will. His eyes darkened. In the light of what had happened since, it seemed she was right.
As they approached the house, Beth’s stomach began to tie itself into knots. What if the elderly sick relative had died and Sir Gawain’s wife had returned? She might resent his having brought a strange young woman to her home. Whilst Beth did not doubt that Gawain was the master in his own home, she knew enough about her own sex to realise that if his wife took a dislike to her, then she could make her stay very uncomfortable, indeed.
As Gawain reined in his horse in front of Raventon Hall, Beth saw that whilst it had decent proportions, it was not large, as he had mentioned, so she would not have to worry about finding her way about. It was half-timbered, with mullioned windows that reflected the sunlight and had a welcoming aspect.
A metal-studded wooden door opened and out came a tall lanky woman. She wore a brown gown trimmed with lace and wisps of greying hair clung to a damp, smiling face framed by a starched white headdress. ‘You have returned safely, nephew,’ she cried. ‘I cannot express too much how glad I am to see you.’
‘It is good to be home,’ said Gawain, a question in his eyes.
She glanced briefly at Beth, flashing her a slight smile, before saying to her nephew in a low voice, ‘A missive arrived, addressed to you in Mary’s hand. I have placed it in your bedchamber.’
He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but his voice showed no emotion when he spoke. ‘May I introduce my ward, Mistress Elizabeth Llewellyn. Beth, this is my aunt, Mistress Catherine Ashbourne.’
‘Mistress Llewellyn, you are very welcome. I extend my condolences on your very sad loss,’ said Catherine, inclining her head.
‘Thank you. It is good to meet you and I am pleased to be here,’ said Beth politely with a smile, relieved that his wife must still be away if the mention of a missive was anything to go by.
Gawain dismounted and, with a brief word of apology to Beth, headed for the house. The smile on her lips died and she managed to get down from the horse, unaided. ‘You must forgive my nephew,’ said Catherine. ‘It is some time since he has seen his wife and daughters and he is impatient to have news of them. I dearly miss the girls myself. The house is not the same without them. Do come inside.’
Beth followed her and paused just inside the doorway to gaze about the hall. It had a timbered ceiling that ran the full length of the house. Sunlight flooded in from a window at the other end of the hall, to the side of which was a raised area, partially concealed by an intricately carved wooden screen. Two settles with cushions stood close to the hearth where a fire burnt, a necessity even though it was summer because the stone floor struck chill through the soles of her shoes despite the rushes and herbs that covered it. Against one of the walls were a couple of benches, trestles and a table top. Set against another wall was an iron coffer and a large wooden chest with metal bands and a large keyhole. Perched on top of it was a travelling writing desk and several books. On two of the walls there were tapestries.
‘It is a fine hall,’ said Beth, curious to inspect the books as she remembered Sir Gawain mentioning his own reading.
‘Do sit down and I will have refreshments brought to you as it is still a few hours until supper,’ invited Catherine. ‘Whilst you take your ease, I will ensure that your baggage is taken up to your bedchamber, so your maid can unpack for you. There is a small antechamber adjoining yours with a truckle bed where she can sleep.’
Beth thanked her and relaxed against a cushion, wondering what Gawain had learnt of his wife and daughters and whether he would be joining her for refreshments.
Gawain entered his bedchamber and wasted no time breaking the seal of his wife’s missive. Not once had she written to him since that first note she had left on his pillow after she had disappeared. That had been brief and to the point, simply stating that she could no longer live with him and that he must not try to find her and the girls. He unfolded the sheet of paper and spread it on the small table over by the window and began to read.
Gawain,
It has come to my ears that you have been searching for us. I should have expected this, but I hoped that you would heed my wishes, but no, you have grown obstinate and uncaring since I first met you. In the past I respected and admired your strength of character and appreciated your generosity and warmth of manner, but I have to tell you that I only went through a form of marriage with you because Father insisted on it. I loved another. We met whilst I was staying with distant kinsfolk of my mother’s. We were scarcely more than children when we plighted our troth without benefit of clergy, but simply in the eyes of God. Then our parents parted us and we were both forced into marriages not of our making.
Gawain gave a mirthless laugh. He could remember no force being exerted. Rather he recalled how willingly Mary had come into his arms. He found it hard to believe that it had all been a pretence on her behalf. He was tempted to screw up the letter and throw it away, but he needed to know how his daughters fared and the identity of the man she was now claiming was her husband. He read on with growing incredulity and anger.
Despite our conviction that we were really tied to each other and our other marriages false, I dared not cause a scandal and bring my father’s wrath down on my head. We did not see each other for a year or more after I went through a form of marriage with you and then fate intervened and we met again and became lovers. Then my dear love’s so-called wife died in childbirth and shortly after my father passed away. We decided that we could no longer live apart and so I went to him. Of course, I could not leave my sweet girls behind; besides, it is possible that Tabitha could be my dear love’s daughter. Accept, Gawain, that we will not be coming back to you. I was never, in truth, your wife, Mary.
Gawain’s emotions threatened to choke him. Who did Mary think she was, deciding what was lawful and what was not? He knew that in some cases such ceremonies were accepted as binding, but as far as he was aware they were only considered legal if the parties lived together afterwards. He needed to know where Mary and this man were living and sort this matter out even if he did not want her back. Separating the girls from him was cruel. Gawain had always been the girls’ provider and protector. He knew they looked up to him. What had Mary told them about him and this other so-called husband? They must be utterly confused. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he had Mary and this man in front of him now. He would show them who was in the right here. Instead, he had to control his anger and frustration, needing time to think about what he must do to get the girls back. Tabitha could still be his daughter, but even if she were not, he still loved her and wanted her home. As for Mary—he could be right in believing her wits had gone begging after the loss of their son.
He placed the missive at the bottom of the chest at the foot of his bed and locked the chest. Then he left his bedchamber and went downstairs, but there was no one in the hall, yet he could hear voices and recognised that of Beth Llewellyn. He guessed that his aunt had taken her into the smaller, more comfortable parlour for refreshments. He decided he could not face them right now. As he crossed the hall and went outside, he remembered lifting Beth off her feet after the wrestling match and that moment when she had trapped her hand and he had caught a glimpse of her cleavage. It had been as revealing a moment as when her cap had slipped an
d her braids had tumbled free. She must have been mortified, yet she had kept her wits about her, called a warning to him and, making the most of her opportunity whilst he faced the Breton, made good her escape. He needed to keep his wits about him right now. He might desire her, but he needed to keep his hands off her.
A wry smile twisted his lips and then he scowled. Beth’s shocking behaviour in dressing as a youth was far less damaging than Mary’s actions. How on earth was he going to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion where the girls were concerned without creating a scandal? As if he didn’t have enough to do in the next few months: securing a safe future for Beth, finding a murderer and managing the Raventon estate, his forests on the Weald and the boat-building yard at Smallhythe. He swore beneath his breath and then squared his shoulders and went in search of his steward.
Beth was feeling pleasantly sleepy when she was shown into a bedchamber that was furnished with all that was necessary for her comfort. She was happy to see that Jane was there unpacking her clothes; on a table over by the window her writing implements had been laid out.
‘It is a pleasant room,’ said Catherine, drawing back one of the bed hangings and fastening it securely to a hook on the wall.
Beth smiled. ‘I certainly cannot find fault with it. Do you have many guests staying here?’
‘Not since the Christmas revels when my nephew had a couple of friends to stay with their wives and children. The mummers from the village came and entertained the guests. We sometimes took part and it was immensely exciting and amusing dressing up and wearing masks. Have you ever done so, Mistress Llewellyn?’ asked Catherine.
‘Indeed, I have done so in London. I deem that such moments are also spiced with danger because one cannot always guess the identity of the person behind the mask.’
Catherine agreed. ‘You are so right. I have felt fearful more than once on such occasions. There are some people who exude an air of madness or menace so that you wonder if they are Old Nick himself.’ Her hand quivered as she smoothed down the blue-and-green woven counterpoint on the bed.
