by June Francis
‘You are thinking of a specific person?’
Catherine shook herself. ‘I will say no more. I do not want you to have bad dreams.’
Beth’s curiosity was roused. ‘I deem you have a story to tell.’
‘Aye, but I’ll not be telling it,’ said Catherine firmly. ‘I will leave you now to do whatever you see fit. Do feel free to walk the grounds. At this time of year the rose garden in particular is lovely. When it is time for supper, I will send a servant to find you.’ She made for the door.
‘Please do not go yet,’ said Beth, stretching out a hand to her. ‘I would that you would tell me something more about Sir Gawain. I know so little about him. His parents—who were they?’
Catherine hesitated. ‘I cannot linger long as I must go to the kitchen and see that the preparations for supper are advanced. His father, Sir Jerome, fought on the old king’s side during the wars and was rewarded for it, although he already owned Raventon and forest on the Weald, supplying oak for the shipyards.’
‘And what about his mother? How did she and his father meet?’
Catherine’s homely features took on a grave expression. ‘Ah, my sister, Margaret, she was one of the old queen’s ladies-in-waiting. She had a lovely nature and was perhaps too good for this world. She died after she miscarried twins.’
‘That is sad,’ murmured Beth, wondering how old Gawain had been at the time. ‘Sir Gawain’s wife—’
‘Enough, child, I must go,’ said Catherine and hurried out before Beth could delay her further.
Jane glanced at her mistress. ‘She sent shivers down my spine with her talk of Old Nick. Despite her welcome, Mistress Beth, I did wonder if she wants to be rid of us. It would be strange indeed if Sir Gawain had brought you here, thinking you’d be safe, when the place could be haunted by nasty demons.’
‘We have no reason to believe this house is haunted. You are putting words into her mouth,’ said Beth, sitting on a stool and removing her shoes. ‘You can leave me now, Jane. I would like to be alone for a while.’
Jane smiled. ‘That’s right, Mistress Beth, you have a lie down. I’ll go to the kitchen and ask one of the maids where I can wash some of the garments you wore in France.’
‘You don’t have to worry about that now, Jane,’ said Beth, stretching out on the bed and closing her eyes. ‘We’ll be returning to London in a few days.’
‘I’d rather have some work to occupy my hands, Mistress Beth,’ said Jane.
‘Then do what you wish,’ murmured Beth, yawning.
Jane tiptoed out of the bedchamber and the room fell silent.
Beth tried to sleep, but the talk of Old Nick, demons, madness and menace had unsettled her. Briefly she had been able to put out of her mind what had happened in France, but now she wept for her father. Part of her regretted leaving France so swiftly and she could only pray that some kind Frenchwoman would tend his grave until she could return there one day. She gave up trying to sleep and rose and went over to the window. The glass was thick with a whirly pattern embedded in its surface in some of the tiny panes, but others were clear, enabling her to see through them. There was no way of opening the window, so she decided to go outside shortly and get a better view of the gardens. Right now she would use the time to write down her first impressions of this house and the gist of the conversations that had taken place since her arrival.
She took a sheet of paper and picked up her writing implement, sharpening it before removing the top from her ink container. She wasted no time gazing into space, but began to write. When she had finished and read through what she had written, she felt a stir of excitement. Here she felt there could be a thrilling tale in the making; all she needed was a little more information and then she would allow her imagination to take flight. She thought of Sir Gawain. There were questions she needed to ask him, but whether he would provide her with the answers she wanted was a different matter entirely.
Gawain had spoken to his steward before saddling up his horse and visiting the forest that could be seen in the near distance. After having a word with his forester and woodcutters, he returned to the stables and was making his way back to the house when he saw Beth strolling in the direction of the rose garden. He was tempted to call out to her. The garden would be a pleasant place to linger and would delay the moment when he would have to make certain decisions. Yet although drawn to her, he doubted he would ever trust a woman again. Had Beth wanted her father dead? As she had said herself, she had much to gain.
Then she turned her head and looked at him. ‘Sir Gawain, I was hoping I would see you,’ she said, giving him an unexpected dazzling smile.
‘Mistress Llewellyn, what can I do for you?’ he asked with chilling politeness.
The smile died on her lips. ‘Have you discovered something that displeases you?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he rasped.
Beth was reluctant to bring up the subject of the missive he had received from his wife, so instead she said, ‘You have obviously been out and about your lands and I wondered if some calamity had struck your trees or your sheep in your absence.’
‘Nothing like that.’ He hesitated before saying, ‘Perhaps you would like to see the rose garden?’
‘Your aunt told me it was a lovely place to stroll at this time of year,’ said Beth, glad of his change of manner.
‘My mother had the garden laid out with roses brought from many different places in Europe and their perfume is such that I remember her saying that she could never have enough of it.’
Beth was pleased that she had not needed to initiate a conversation about his mother, but that it had come naturally from him. ‘You miss your mother? I know I miss mine.’
A shadow darkened his handsome face with its fine straight nose and sculptured cheekbones. ‘I was only twelve when she died and my father died shortly afterwards.’
‘Their deaths must have been a great loss to you,’ she murmured.
Gawain had never spoken about his double bereavement and had no intention of doing so now. Instead, he simply said, ‘One has to accept life as it is.’
Beth wondered if he was giving her a subtle hint about her need to accept her fate. She allowed several moments to pass before saying, ‘My father might have told you that my mother was his third wife. I don’t think his feelings for any woman surpassed the passion he felt for printing. Jonathan did not feel the same about the business. It is true he enjoyed finding out snippets of information that would amuse and interest people, but his real passion was for play-acting. I only wish he could have told Father. Our lives would have been so different and perhaps he would have been happier.’
‘You cannot know that for certain.’ Gawain opened a wicket gate and she went on ahead of him. The scent of roses instantly assailed her senses and she walked slowly along the path, stopping every now and again to sniff the fragrant heart of a blowsy deep-red or purple-pink bloom. She knew little about flowers but here and there was a name, such as Belle de Crecy. In her eagerness to read the label, she pricked her finger.
‘Ouch!’ she exclaimed. ‘That was careless of me.’
Gawain resisted taking hold of her hand as he gazed at the torn flesh from which blood oozed. ‘You’ll need some salve for that.’ He peered closer. ‘Two of your fingers are discoloured.’
‘It’s ink,’ said Beth.
‘Ink.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been writing?’
She hesitated. ‘Aye. My mother encouraged me to note down my thoughts and the events of each day and this I have tried to do.’
‘And where do you keep all these pages of writing?’ he asked abruptly.
She slanted him a glance from beneath her eyelashes. ‘I really shouldn’t tell you. You might want to destroy them.’
He frowned. ‘You really believe I would do that?’
‘You’ve already made your feelings clear about how you feel about my writing,’ retorted Beth.
‘That is becau
se I do not want you wasting your time when you can be more gainfully occupied. You will marry shortly, so what is the point of writing if no one is to read it?’ Even as he spoke, Gawain wondered if Mary had any scribblings secreted away in her bedchamber that might provide a clue to her and the girls’ whereabouts.
Beth’s brown eyes glinted. ‘Another woman might read them one day and it would give her an insight into how a woman of my day lived. Unfortunately, most histories are written by men. Have you given any thought to your daughters’ education? I doubt it. Most men don’t.’
He drew his breath in with a hiss. ‘You go too far, Mistress Llewellyn. Of course I have considered my daughters’ education. And if you had a pennyworth of sense you would accept that you could be mistaken at times. If you only thought like a man, then you would consider charming me into finding you an indulgent husband who will allow you to have your way in all things.’
‘I don’t believe it. Rather you would marry me off to a man like yourself, determined to force his will on me. A man who has no experience of printing or how to recognise a market for a news sheet and a different kind of book. A man who won’t heed aught I say to him,’ replied Beth fiercely.
‘Enough,’ warned Gawain. ‘You will go to your bedchamber and stay there until I give you permission to come downstairs again. It is possible that you will never enter a print room again!’
Beth stared at him and her mouth quivered, then, without another word, she turned and ran towards the house.
Chapter Four
Beth spent the next hour angrily filling one side of a sheet of her precious supply of paper with suggestions of what she would like to do to Sir Gawain. Eventually she put down her quill and stretched before going over to the bed and dropping onto it. She was hungry, but she was not going to go begging for food from him. She pillowed her head on her arms and thought of her father and Jonathan and tears oozed from beneath her eyelids. It seemed so much longer than three days since she had discovered her father’s body. If only she had not been drawn to the wrestling match, then she might have returned to the tent in time to prevent his murder, but her curiosity and love of writing had led her into trouble and turned her life upside down. Why did her father have to choose Sir Gawain, a man whom he scarcely knew, to be her guardian? Why had he had to bribe him by offering shares in his company? It was enough to tempt some men to commit murder; although Sir Gawain had said he didn’t need money, he was having to spend his own in the shipyard that had belonged to his father-in-law. What if he had bribed someone to kill her father, not knowing that the dagger would be recognised by her servant? No, he would not do that. Somehow she sensed he was not a man to get someone else to do dangerous acts. Nor did she really believe he had killed her father. No, she believed Jonathan and her father’s deaths were connected and she could not think why Sir Gawain would wish her half-brother dead.
She yawned, realising how tired she was; maybe it was that which was causing her to allow her thoughts to run away with her. Her father had trusted Sir Gawain. Maybe she could trust him, as well? A vision of the knight half-naked swam into her consciousness and she was filled with an inexplicable longing. She hated herself for finding him so physically attractive when he had set his mind so firmly against that which she so wanted out of life.
A sudden knock at the door caused her to start and she called, ‘Who is it?’
‘Gawain.’
Her heart seemed to kick against her ribs and she rolled off the bed and smoothed down her gown. ‘May I ask what is it you want?’
‘I thought you might be hungry so I have brought you some food,’ came the reply.
She was taken aback and wondered why he had not asked Jane or his aunt to bring it up. Should she refuse it? She decided that would be churlish; besides, she was hungry. She went over to the door and opened it, intending to thank him politely, accept the food and wish him a good-night and close the door.
But he was too swift for her and barged right in before she could speak or prevent him from entering the bedchamber. She watched with annoyance as he strode over to the window and placed the tray on the table there. Instantly she remembered the sheet of paper with her scribblings on it and almost ran after him. Obviously he had come to spy on her! She was too late, for already he had picked up the sheet of paper.
‘I see you have been writing despite hurting your finger,’ said Gawain, glancing down the page.
‘Please, give that to me! You have no right to read it.’
She tried to take it from him, but he brushed her hand away and carried on deciphering her untidy script. When he came to the end, he lifted his dark head and stared at her.
‘Boiling in oil? Stung to death by bees? Do my words and one kiss really merit such a fate?’ There was a quiver of amusement in his voice.
‘I was angry,’ she muttered, lowering her gaze and toying with the binding on her finger.
‘So was I, but I would not have considered meting out such punishment to you for your rudeness,’ he said idly, his eyes running over the page again.
‘No, you simply silenced and threatened me in a manner you thought fit,’ she said indignantly.
‘But I did not silence you, did I? You still ran on and judged my relationship with my wife and children without knowing the facts.’ His voice was flat. ‘I should put you on bread and water and take away your writing implements and paper. Then when you feel ready to beg my pardon for your ill manners, I should refuse to accept your apology and send you home with Sam and Jane and leave you to your fate.’
Beth’s head shot up and there was a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Then send me home. It is what I want, after all. But you won’t, will you? Because if I was left to fend for myself, then I could prove how well I could manage without you. My thoughts were for my eyes only and you should have respected my privacy. Although, you can’t really believe I want you boiled in oil or stung to death by bees.’ She could not resist adding in an undertone, ‘I pity the poor bees who would attempt such an act.’
‘If your words are meant to be some sort of apology then you really do need to curb your tongue and learn a few lessons in good manners,’ said Gawain, a glint in his eyes. ‘Explain why you pity the bees?’
She bit her lower lip. ‘I spoke without thinking. Couldn’t I just beg your pardon?’
‘No, you are not getting off so easily!’ Gawain folded his arms across his chest. ‘The thought must have come from somewhere. Explain what you meant, Mistress.’
‘It was just a jest.’
‘Then why am I not laughing?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps you were insinuating that their stings would have difficulty penetrating my hide because I am tough and unfeeling. If so, I would like to know on what hypothesis you have come to that conclusion? You scarcely know me.’
‘And that is why my father should not have made you my guardian,’ said Beth promptly, a flush on her cheeks. ‘Now I would rather not continue with this conversation, if you please.’
‘In that case, all I have to say is that your time would be better spent considering the kind of husband who would suit you so our relationship can be terminated as soon as possible, rather than you waste it writing nonsense.’ He gathered together her writing implements and the sheet of paper containing her scribblings before she could make a move to prevent him.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘Please, I beg your pardon! Forgive me and return them to me!’
He ignored her protests, telling himself that he should never have given in to the impulse to show compassion towards her. What she had written down proved that she had a temper and who was to say that if she wanted something badly enough she might not commit murder to get her way? He made for the door and could not resist calling over his shoulder, ‘I’m surprised you never thought of having me hung, drawn and quartered, Mistress Llewellyn.’
‘Maybe I should have,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘only it was far too horrible to contemplate.’
‘Should I be gratef
ul for that?’ he asked, pausing by the door. ‘Or perhaps you really would like to murder me?’
‘I do not find that the least bit amusing,’ snapped Beth, considering picking up one of the items on the tray and flinging it at him, only the door was already closing. Oh, why did she have to write such nonsense? Sir Gawain would now rate all her thought processes as emotional, foolish and inferior to his own. If only she could prove to him that she could reason as sensibly as many a man. A thought struck her. Perhaps she could begin by trying to recall at least some of the names of the customers in her father’s account book!
Her stomach rumbled and she remembered the food he had brought and was glad to see that he had thought to include a cup of wine, as well. Perhaps she should be grateful to him for thinking of it and she felt ashamed of her behaviour. Had he meant the food as a peace offering? A sigh escaped her. Should she beg for his pardon again on the morrow?
The mutton broth had cooled, but it was still tasty and she ate the lot and downed the wine. She decided not to wait for Jane to come and help her undress, but did so unaided and performed her toilette before saying her prayers and climbing into bed. The mattress felt as if stuffed with sheep’s wool and the boards beneath were hard. Even so, the wine had made her drowsy, so she turned on her side and fell asleep, only to dream that she was trapped in a tent. There seemed to be no opening and she was trying to crawl beneath the walls but there were too many pegs holding them down. Suddenly she sensed that there was someone in the tent with her. Then she saw a figure dressed in red and the head was hooded and a mask covered the face. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
She tore herself out of the dream, her heart thudding. What had the dream meant?
She slid out of bed and, still drowsy, made her way over to the table, meaning to write down the dream whilst it was fresh in her mind, only to remember that Sir Gawain had removed her writing implements. Exasperated, she returned to bed and tried to hold the dream in her mind. Perhaps in the morning she could go into Tenderden and find a stationer’s. That was, of course, if Sir Gawain did not prevent her from doing so.
