“Here now, what’re you doing, mistress?”
I ignored Dame Brewer but realized I could not hang about in the doorway. I would have to choose. In or out. Stay or go.
The kitchen door opened behind and to one side of the bar. The public room was noisy and crowded. I slipped through the door and moved along the wall where benches and stools had been kicked haphazardly out of the way. Master Brewer was at the far end of the bar pouring generous drinks. Keeping my head down, I made my way into a corner near the hearth, unnoticed by the gang of men standing around Sir William.
Master Brewer lowered his pitcher and set it on the bar. He was ruddy-faced and bald, grinning broadly at the bounty this morning’s unexpected news had brought him. “Are you certain you must leave us so soon, Sir William?” he inquired.
“Indeed I must,” said my husband-to-be from the center of the loud, laughing, drinking crew. “There are purchases I must make, gifts to buy, and sadly, I cannot find them here. No offense to your fair village.”
The men guffawed with laughter. The miller slapped him on the back. “None taken, none taken, I assure you, sir. An esteemed personage such as yourself must of course go to Coventry to find what you are looking for.”
“Though why he didn’t go there for a bride is beyond my understanding,” someone said, and they all laughed.
“Now why would you say that?” Sir William said, in good-natured challenge.
“Forgive me for saying…” The miller leaned in close to Sir William. I could imagine the reek of his boozy breath. “But your bride is the most notorious shrew in the country.”
Another burst of laughter, and the clink of cups. Sir William laughed along with them. My hands made fists, my nails digging into my palms.
“Go to, gentlemen, I have chosen her for myself. I find my Kate as sweet as honey and fair as a spring morning,” Sir William said, and they all laughed again. He continued, his voice firmer. “If she and I be pleased, what’s it to you? But never fear,” he went on, after taking a quaff from his cup, “never fear. I will show her my will, and she will have no other will than my will, and I will be her only will…” He raised his cup in a salute. “And she will be mine.”
They all raised their glasses. “To Sir William,” they called and drank again. Master Brewer held out his pitcher again, looking as delighted as the day his younger daughter had gotten married.
I stepped forward.
No one saw me.
I climbed over a bench and on top of a stool.
“Just remember, Sir William,” I shouted over their raucous voices. They quieted, turning toward me, but it might as well have been only Sir William and me in the inn.
“You would do well to remember, sir, that a woman will have her will.”
Someone choked on his beer, another man dared to laugh. Sir William did not.
He walked forward. Standing on the stool, I was as tall as he was, perhaps a bit taller. I had garnered his attention, but I had not thought beyond that. He had punned on his name and made light of my obedience, and I had meant to take back some measure of control. Which I had. Except the common saying I had used to do it had two meanings. A woman will have her will— she will have her own way, and she will have her man’s….
I felt a hot blush on my cheeks, but what was done, was done. He had arrived at my stool and was looking up at me, amusement bright in his eyes. I glared down at him.
“Though others may have their wishes, you will have your Will.” He swept another of his broad, graceful bows, and everyone applauded, laughing and cheering. He meant to be charming, I supposed, but I didn’t find him so. He was so smug, and determined to have the last word.
My hand flinched with the desire to strike him again. He stayed me by taking hold of both of my hands. With a glance toward the door, he said, “I see my man is ready to depart. Much as it would delight me to stay and enjoy the unexpected pleasure of speaking with you, Kate, I must get to Coventry with all haste. Until Sunday.”
He kissed my hands one by one and bowed once more. Then he stepped back and bowed to the rest of the company and swept out the door.
Everyone was staring at me.
I hopped down from the stool—a stool is movable. Come sit on me, oh God!—my hands burning from his gallantry, and retreated back through the kitchen.
Ellen, shaking her head, stood in the doorway. “You never will learn to be quiet, will you?”
Just to spite her, I did not answer.
The men made a riot of noise in the front of the inn, seeing Sir William off. I stalked away, too flustered to go home, and found myself on Church Street, in the artisans’ part of town. Here, the uneven road was only wide enough for one cart to pass, and the timber-framed, whitewashed buildings leaned close on both sides of the street, barely allowing any light through from above. In fact, if you leaned out from an upper-story window on one side of the street, you could surely touch the sign of a store on the other side.
Head down, shoulders hunched, muttering to myself, I relived the scene in the common room, wishing I had done things differently.
And proceeded to walk straight into someone.
His “oof” of lost breath was followed by an outraged “How dare—” as I bounced off his bony shoulder. I looked up into the ruddy face of our neighbor, Master Carson, a prosperous merchant like my father, but much younger and happily married with a brood of small children like chicks in his yard.
“Oh, Mistress Kathryn.” His face went still, careful. He steadied me with a hand on my shoulder. He glanced down, away, anywhere but at me. He stepped away, shaking his hand surreptitiously behind his back. As if he might have been sullied by touching me.
My fists clenched. “Good morrow, Master Carson.”
He ducked his head, tugging at his cap. “Good morrow, Mistress Mulleyn,” he replied. “My apologies.”
“The fault was mine, Master Carson.”
“Not at all. Not at all.” His words tumbled over each other faster than his feet as he passed me.
I twisted from my waist, watching him go. The devil himself might have dogged his heels for the speed at which he trotted along the street. But at least he had spoken politely to me rather than ignoring me entirely, which his wife always did.
Better, too, than muttering curses under his breath as he passed, as so many of our neighbors did.
Froward wench. Harpy. She-devil. Shrew.
With a sigh, I looked around at the bustle of folk going about their business, in and out of shops, easy smiles on their faces, some arm in arm with friends. How long since I had been so carefree, so easy with someone?
Blanche and I had been that way once, long ago, so long I could barely remember. Most days, I didn’t even try.
A painted sign indicated Dame Hutton’s dress shop a few doors ahead. I hesitated, then headed that way.
A small bell jingled as I shut the shop door behind me.
Every eye in the place slammed into me, an arrow to the bull’s-eye.
I met their stares, one by one.
Girls my own age watched with wide eyes and smirking lips. Matrons, their mothers and aunts and married older sisters, tipped their heads together and murmured. An Alice, one of Blanche’s herd of swine, peered around a bolt of pink linen, eagerly gathering gossip to share with the rest of them later.
How well I could read their expressions. How easily I could hear the whispers they tried to conceal. Kathryn Mulleyn a bride, they said. How preposterous. No one here in Whitelock would have her, so her father had to pay a stranger to take her away. Twenty thousand crowns— practically a king’s ransom! But he doesn’t know yet that he’s got the worse end of the bargain. He’ll learn. Soon enough, he’ll learn….
Dame Hutton glided over to me, her movements smooth and unhurried. “Mistress Kathryn, how lovely to see you.” Her light, friendly tone even sounded like she meant it.
“I see you are…quite busy today, Dame Hutton,” I said, feeling behind me for th
e latch on the door. “I can come back, or perhaps you can come by my house later? To discuss the… ah….”
“Yes,” she said brightly, “yes, of course. Come right in and I can help you at once.”
I could not tear my eyes off the other women. “It seems my situation is fascinating to you all.” My voice rose. “Is there something you’d like to say to me? Congratulations, perhaps?”
They all made a show of turning back to their perusal of fabrics and ribbons and lace, whispering. A hard, cold knot formed in my stomach.
Dame Hutton placed a hand on my arm. Startled, I looked down at her strong, capable fingers, at her firm, comforting grip, then up at her face. She was smiling.
I drew in a shaky breath. “I came to see you. I’m not even sure…. There is so little time.”
She nodded.
The words kept flowing; I could not understand why. “I probably should have stayed at home. The Moun— My father’s—my mother—she was out of bed and in the kitchen. She never goes in there. Poor Cook! But there is so little time,” I finished lamely.
“Come, Kathryn,” Dame Hutton said quietly. “Let’s have a look around.”
That tapping sound again.
This time, I was awake, unable to sleep after the unexpected events of the day. And this time, I knew full well the cause of the sound.
I sprang from the bed and crept to the shutters, groping in the dark for the handles. Standing directly in front of the window, I yanked both shutters open in one swift motion and leaned forward, insults ready on my tongue to hurl at the fool below.
But the fool was in my window.
I nearly collided with him, face to face.
I gasped. His eyes went wide as he lost his grip on the windowsill and began to fall backward.
Without thinking, I reached out for him. His hands caught my forearms in an iron grip, pulling me forward. My gut slammed into the sill, knocking the breath out of me. Bracing my legs against the wall, I hauled back against him. He teetered and wobbled and pitched forward.
With a grunt, he fell face-first into my breasts.
I pushed him off.
Laughing, he clung to my arms and held himself steady.
“What,” I said through my teeth, “are you doing here?”
He couldn’t stop laughing. He bowed his head down against his forearm. His hair was dark in the moonlight, silver-limned. I could see every short-clipped hair on the back of his neck. I could smell his harsh, unscented soap.
“Sir William,” I said sharply. “You will rattle the nails out of your ladder and then where will you be?”
He collected himself and looked down at the ground between his feet before turning his face toward me. I had not even a candle to illuminate the night. His face was almost entirely in shadow. “I will fall to my death beneath your window.”
“Surely you did not come here tonight intending to die at my feet.”
“To die in your arms, perhaps.”
A bolt shot through me, settling to a thrum deep within. Thankful for the absence of light, I pulled back, trying to escape his touch which was suddenly heated. “How dare you?”
“We are betrothed,” he said. “Sunday is only days away.”
My heart stopped, then lurched into its course again. Days. What he was suggesting, people did it all the time. Out in the countryside, men and women who didn’t want to wait for a priest lived together, had children, grew old and died, often never receiving the church’s blessing. We wouldn’t be so bold, just take our marriage rights a little early….
And then maybe he’d never come back.
“I thank you for the offer, but I will wait till the bed has been properly blessed.”
He chuckled. “Wise woman. I knew it, but I had to ask.” And he winked.
Too late I noticed that I was illuminated by a pool of moonlight that poured over my thin linen nightgown like water.
“My Kate is slender as the hazel branch, brown as hazel nuts, and sweeter than the kernels,” he murmured, his gaze roving over my body, my hair, my face.
My will faltered. Would it be so terribly wrong, after all? If his gaze set me alight, what else might he do if I let him in?
But I would not—I could not—yield so easily, not any part of me.
I rushed to the bed for a blanket to pull tight around me, hunching my shoulders. “What are you doing here? You should be halfway to Coventry by now.”
Perching his elbows on the sill, he looked up at me, still smiling, still shrouded in shadow.
“I found it much harder to leave than I expected, when it came to it.”
I returned his smile. It was so easy.
“Oh, and I brought you something,” he said, reaching down toward his belt. Curious, I took a step closer, then another as he fumbled one-handed with his belt-purse.
“Here!” He held out a fistful of tiny, crumpled flowers yanked up by their roots, dirt still clinging to them. I reached out hesitantly to take them from him.
“Thank you,” I said, half a question. “Where did you—?”
“A field on the way out of town, miles from here. When I saw them, I knew I had to come back.”
I looked from the flowers to him. “Because—?”
“Because the flowers are Sweet William. William. Me. You see?”
I took the little water cup from my bedside table and dropped the flowers in. “They are lovely.”
In a way, they were. I could imagine him pulling that immense horse to a stop, sliding off, curling his fist around them, and pulling them up out of the ground, turning around, and riding back to give them to me….
The ladder. Where on earth…?
“I am glad you’re pleased.” His voice cut into my thoughts. “What else can I bring you?”
“What?”
“From Coventry. What shall I bring back to my fair bride from Coventry, Kate?”
Oh aye, his fair bride. Just like that, the afternoon fell upon me again. Sir William’s proposal, the words we exchanged like blows…and the blows that had been struck as well. Being sold like a pig at the market with nothing to say about it. The way he presumed I would say yes to his proposal, the same way he presumed I’d let him in here tonight….
“I want no gifts from you.”
“There must be something you lack, something your heart desires….”
He was leaning forward in the window, trying to see me better. I remained in the shadows. I would not reveal my desires to him.
“Nothing, sir. Pray do not trouble yourself.”
“Alas, then, I shall content myself.” He shook a finger at me. “But then you may not berate me for choosing ill.”
“I think you may be certain I shall find many other reasons to berate you once we are married.”
“Oh!” His hand flew to his heart so violently he almost overset himself. “How you wound me.”
“Indeed? I am not sorry. And now, good night.” I moved forward and took hold of one shutter, pressing it closed on him and reaching for the other.
“Wait!” He slapped a hand on the wood. Without seeming to exert himself, he prevented me from closing it. I pressed harder. He pushed back.
“Wait, I beg you.”
One more effort and I gave up with a groan. “What?”
“Gifts. What shall I bring for your family?”
“I care not.”
He shook his head. “Nay, you must.” He shifted his hand on the shutter so it touched mine; I did not like the way my heart leaped in response. “They will be my family, too, come Sunday.”
I moved my hand. “I pity you that. A wiser man would go to Coventry and not return.”
“Nevertheless. Gifts.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Sweets, for Blanche’s mother. A pretty bauble to feed Blanche’s vanity. And for my father….” I paused. What for my father?
Oh yes.
“For my father, a hawk.”
“A hawk?”
“Yes. He speaks o
f little else when he returns from the larger towns. He sees wealthy men with a falcon on their fists and he chokes on his envy.”
Sir William was silent a moment. “Does your father have the smallest idea of how to keep one?”
“I think not. Is it difficult?”
He gave a short laugh. “The cost in raw meat alone, to a man like your father who does not hunt…. Does he have a proper mews? Does he have a trained falconer on his staff?” He leaned against the window frame, looking at me closely. “The birds are trapped wild, my lady, and they remain wild all their lives. They have sharp talons, and beaks like a mason’s chisel. A man like your father could not begin—”
He cut his words off sharply and pulled away. “A hawk. Indeed,” he said, backing down the ladder.
I stuck my head out the window, confused. Why this abrupt departure?
“Sir William?”
He waved a hand at me, not looking up, not pausing in his descent.
“Until Sunday,” he called.
I refused to watch him go. I slammed the shutter closed and stalked back to bed. But with my heart pounding so, I had a hard time finding my way into sleep.
Chapter 7
Friday
Dame Hutton arrived early on Friday morning to fit me for my wedding clothes. My eyes burned with lack of sleep, and my mind struggled to believe that this was truly happening. I was being pinned into the garments I would wear to marry Sir William. Dame Hutton moved around me with quick efficiency, her mouth full of pins, her hands pinching and tucking the fabric of a pink silk chemise that, until this morning, had belonged to Blanche.
In her bedroom across the landing, Blanche complained to her mother. “I’ll never get it back,” she said. “Why can she not wear one of her own?”
The Mountain made a noncommittal sound. “You know that none of her things are fine enough for a wedding,” she said, her voice like two boulders grinding. “Besides, your father will buy you a dozen more like it, and better, once she is gone.” She said “gone” like a child would say “Yuletide” or “sweetmeats.”
Dame Hutton glanced at me as she gathered the loose fabric at my right shoulder, but I kept my eyes focused on a dark spot on the plastered wall opposite me. Margaret stood patiently nearby, watching Dame Hutton work, my green satin kirtle held carefully in her arms.
Finding Kate Page 11
