by Lisa Hendrix
“Oh, my. Forgive me,” said Nichola. “You are sopping wet. Come let’s get you out of those clothes. I should have realized. Hodde, a hot bath and dry clothes. And have some mead warmed and supper brought up. Immediately. Excuse us, husband.” She put her arm around Matilda’s arm and steered her toward the stairs as servants started scrambling.
“Of course, my heart. I will entertain Sir …”
“Steinarr.” He glanced toward Matilda on the steps. “Steinarr Fitzburger. Your pardon, my lord, but I have business I must attend. I cannot stay more than a moment.”
“In this weather?” said Lord Peter.
“I stopped only to find my cousin a safe place for the night. I did not know she would find a friend here, but I am glad she did. If—”
The door to the solar closed, cutting off the men’s voices, and Nichola’s servants surrounded Matilda, unlacing and stripping her quickly. One woman toweled her off and another wrapped her in a blanket while a third added wood to the fire and scooped coals into a brazier to warm the room more quickly. A tub was already in place near the fire, half full of water.
“Warm your hands,” urged Lady Nichola. “You must be chilled through. And that cough.”
“ ‘Twas only a tickle. A bit of dust. Oh, it is so good to see someone I know.” Matilda threw her arms about Nichola and pulled her close to whisper. “But you must call me Marian. Please. I will explain later, when we are alone.”
Nichola pulled back, concern wrinkling her pretty face, but she nodded. “And it is good to see you … Marian.”
Servants filed in and out, bringing warm mead, a change of clothing, and bucket by bucket, the hot water, fresh from the kitchen. Another pot was set to warm on the solar fire to provide fresh hot for later, and a screen pulled around to keep the heat of the fire close to the tub.
The servant, Hodde, supervised the addition of one last bucket of hot water, then stuck her arm in the tub to mix it in. “ ‘Tis ready, my lady.”
Hodde took the blanket and Matilda stepped into the tub and sank into the warm water with a sigh. “God’s knees, that feels good. How is it you can have a bath ready so quickly?”
“My lord husband intended a bath tonight and the water was heating already.”
“Oh, no. I do not wish to take his bath from him.”
“Too late,” said Nichola happily. She handed Matilda her mead. “Drink this, and we will have you warm from inside and out. And never fear, we will not waste the water. Peter can have his bath later, after we have you tucked into a warm bed. We should give that cousin of yours a bath, too. He is as wet as you.”
“He is already gone, I am certain. As he said, he has business.” In an odd way, it made Matilda feel a little better that he left her even here, when there were others around and he would not be expected to lie with her. It proved his nightly absences were not merely a way to avoid her. “Is your laundress to hand? I would love to have my hair washed.”
“But it is not the proper weather. It will take forever to dry.”
“It is already wet and dirty. I would rather have it wet and clean.”
“Fine, then, but no laundress. I will wash your hair myself. Hodde, bring the hair soap and the nettle vinegar. And more towels. And the—”
“I know what to get, my lady.”
Everything was brought and arranged at hand and the servants dismissed. As the door closed behind the last one, Nichola began working soap through Matilda’s hair. “Remember when we used to bathe Lady Amabel?”
Matilda sighed. “Aye. She had the thickest hair.”
“Not as thick as yours,” said Nichola. She worked her fingers through the long strands, then abruptly twisted them around her fist and gave a yank. “But I am going to snatch out every hair on your head, Matilda Fitzwalter, if you don’t tell me what the devil is going on.”
IT STOPPED RAINING sometime during the night, and by the time Steinarr was fully human again, the weather had broken, leaving a sky showing as much sun as cloud. With luck, it would continue to clear and warm up once more and his clothes would dry before the day was out. He wasn’t counting on it, any more than he was counting on the roads being passable, but there was at least hope for both as he rode into the yard at Hokenall. He left the stallion in the hands of the same stable boy who had taken the rouncey last night.
“Saddle both horses and load my gear. We will be leaving shortly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good morrow, monsire,” said the steward as he entered the hall. “Lord Peter awaits you in the solar, if you please.”
Steinarr nodded to the steward and trotted upstairs. Just get her out of here and hope she’s figured it out, he told himself. No mucking about. He paused in the arch of the wide-open door.
“Good morrow, my lord. Lady Nichola.” And then, to Marian, who sat by the fire in a fresh blue gown, just having the final ribbons tied into her plaits. “Cousin. You look well rested.”
“Call her something else, monsire,” said Lady Nichola. “She is no more your cousin than I am.”
Pillocks. “Your pardon, my lady, but she—”
“First things first.” Lord Peter waved forward a servant who had come to the door behind Steinarr. “I had the steward find some dry clothes that should fit you. They are not fine, but they will do. Help him change, Fulk.”
The servant stacked the clothes on a nearby chest and put out his hand. “Your sword and belt, monsire.”
Wary, Steinarr looked to Marian.
She smiled and nodded. “Go on. If you keep your wet things, I will be soaked again within a mile.”
He unfastened his belt and handed it to Fulk, then peeled off everything down to his breeks.
“Those, too, monsire,” said Lady Nichola. “We have all that you need.”
“Give me that shirt first.” He pulled on the loose linen chainse and made sure it was long enough to cover his privates before he turned his back on the women and untied his laces. Moments later, he wore fresh braies, a warm woolen chainse, and a green wool gown which might not have been fine to Lord Peter, but was better than any he’d had in years. As he sat down to pull on the good, thick hose Fulk handed him, he sighed with the pleasure of being in clean, dry clothes. A shame he couldn’t have a bath as well. Marian had had one; he could smell the soap and perfumes on her from here, and her hair shone like a well-polished crown. A part of him desperately wanted to make the time to enjoy all that sweetness, no matter the delay. He had to tear his eyes away and think of other things to cool his blood.
“Put his boots by the fire before you go, Fulk. They can dry a little while we talk.” Peter snapped his fingers at the maids working on Matilda’s braids. “You, too. Begone. And shut the door behind you.”
“Yes, my lord.” Fulk chased the maids out and vanished behind them, pulling the door firmly shut.
Lord Peter turned to Steinarr. “We know.”
“Know what, my lord?”
“All of it. Your lady told my wife what you two are about, and then together they told me as I bathed last night—hoping I would be so content I would hear it more happily, I think.”
Lord Peter paced back and forth in front of the fire, then stopped to give Marian a hard look before he turned back to Steinarr. “I cannot say I approve, but I do understand why you work on her brother’s behalf. That fool Fitzwalter should have done his duty, fixed his mind upon an heir, and made his choice clear, not left it to young Robert to chase around the countryside. And so I said to both him and Edward when they came through setting out the riddles, but they thought it all great sport and would not hear me. And now they have gotten the lad hurt.”
Steinarr’s head spun as he tried to take it all in. “You know, er, knew, Lord David?”
“Only a little, but the king and I often hunt together when he passes this way. He is the one who told me what they were doing.”
“Then do you know what the riddle means, my lord, or where the next one lies?”
&nb
sp; Peter shook his head. “They shared none of it with me. But I know it must be something to do with the solar. They locked themselves in here for a full day, then came out the next morning and rode off. Headed north,” he said before Steinarr could ask. “Laughing like boys off on some grand jape.” He turned to Matilda, who was pinning a fresh headrail into place. “Tell us the riddle again.”
She looked at the timbers overhead and recited from memory, “ ‘In the Vale of the Leen, regard the lady of Torcard at work. The way to travel will be clear.’ Have you thought of anything yet, my lord?”
“No.” He looked to Steinarr. “Does it mean anything to you, monsire?”
Steinarr shook his head. “ ‘Regard the lady at work’ must surely mean you, Lady Nichola. Where do you do your work?”
“Most often here by the fire.”
Steinarr and Lord Peter started poring over the hearth and chimney and nearby walls, looking for loose stones, markings, or any other sign that might show where Lord David or King Edward had hidden something.
Matilda crossed to her friend. “What about when you sew, Nichola?”
“By the window, of course, else I could not see a single stitch. Even so, I can only sew on the brightest days.”
“Show me.”
Nichola dragged her embroidery frame over before the open window, pulled a stool into position, and sat down. “Right here.”
“So you sit here even in winter?” asked Matilda.
“Aye. Peter bought me a real glass window. He tired of gowns with missing stitches. You must see it.” She stood up and pulled the shutter closed. At first glance, Steinarr couldn’t see why she was so proud, but then she swung open a smaller shutter within the shutter, revealing a rose of glass about as wide as her forearm was long. The outside edges consisted of many pieces of glass, leaded together like a church window, but the center was a single round of plain, water-like glass.
“Clear,” breath Matilda. She nudged Nichola out of the way to peer through the window. “The way will be clear.”
“Oh, my,” said Nichola. “My lords!” But Steinarr and Lord Peter were already there.
“I had just put that in when Edward and Fitzwalter were here,” said Peter.
“I remember,” said Lady Nichola. “The king commented on what a pleasant thing it must be for me to have such a well-lit place to work, even in winter.”
“Do I see a tower?” asked Marian. “What lies on that hill, my lord?”
“I set the glass where it would light my wife’s spirit as much as her stitchery, even though she cannot make it out at such a distance,” said Lord Peter. He closed the smaller shutter and opened the larger one, then pointed to the tip of a bell tower just rising above the swirl of low clouds. “There lies the abbey at Newstead—and that is the way I last saw Edward and Fitzwalter riding.”
“Then we go to Newstead,” said Matilda, excited, but her smile faded in the next instant. “But without a new riddle, how we will know what to look for when we get there?”
“You might ask the abbot,” said Nichola. “Edward kept repeating the abbot’s name that morning: Abbot Talebot. He had turned it into a sort of song. Abbot Talebot. Abbot Talebot. I was at the window watching as they left, and heard them sing it as they went up the road. At the time, I thought he found the rhyme of it amusing, but now I would wager my best needle they were trying to draw my attention. I think they went to the abbot with the next of your riddles.”
“And I think you are right. You have done it, Nichola.” Matilda threw her arms around her friend. “You and your windowglass and your deer’s ears.”
Laughing, Nichola kissed Matilda’s cheek. “I am so glad you came to us, even calling yourself Marian. It has been too long since I was told I have deer’s ears. Now, let us break our fast and get you two on the road.” Arms linked, the two women headed downstairs.
Steinarr looked to Lord Peter. “Are we of any use here at all, my lord?”
Grinning, Peter shook his head. “They will think of something for us to do. You’ll want your boots.” As Steinarr sat to pull on his still-damp boots, Peter leaned back against the doorframe. “When next I see you, I expect to hear that you have married Marian. Maud. Whatever her name is.”
“Marian,” said Steinarr without thinking, even as the young lord’s words sliced through his gut like a hot blade. He yanked on the second boot and rose. “I am only her escort, my lord. When this quest is done, I return her to her brother’s charge and am released.”
He started to leave, but Peter put an arm across the doorway to block him. “Balls. You care for her. ’Tis clear in your eyes whenever you look at her. And in hers when she looks at you, or even merely speaks of you.”
In hers? “Is it?”
“Aye, even half-blind, my wife sees it. Or perhaps she hears it in your voices with those deer’s ears.” He chuckled. “Marian has it right, you know. Nichola hears things most do not. But whether she saw or heard, she knows you care for each other, and she said I should warn you that if her friend turns up with child and you do not wed her, I will have your balls. And I will, monsire, for I both trust my lady’s counsel and have a taste for her smiles.” He straightened and gave Steinarr a friendly cuff on the shoulder. “As you do Marian’s, I think. Now, let us join our ladies before they decide to set off for the abbey on their own.”
Steinarr followed him downstairs, where Marian and Nichola were holding court at the high table. The green-clad young man sat at the next table down, staring at Marian as she nibbled at a slice of cheese. Steinarr took a stool beside her and took some pottage and a thick slice of cold beef. The taste of beef after so long nearly took his mind off what Lord Peter had said.
But not quite. A child was a possibility; he’d known that from the start. He recalled with shame his intention to pass his get off as another man’s. But if she turned up breeding, what would he do? He knew what he wanted to do—precisely what Lord Peter urged—but he also knew what was possible and what was not. Then again, a fortnight ago, he would have sworn it was not possible for this aggravating woman to own his heart. He glared at the green man until the fellow stopped staring at Marian.
They finished the simple meal and, after a brief Mass in the chapel, said their farewells, which consisted of many hugs and promises for visits between the two women as both men looked on, smiling. Lord Peter directed them toward an old track that ran directly between Hokenall and Newstead, and they headed out with his assurances it would not be as muddy as the road.
It wasn’t. The track was used little enough that grass covered much of it, keeping the mud down, but often enough that the bushes were held back. It made for easy riding. But what should have been a pleasant morning was caught up in thoughts of Lord Peter’s half-joking threat, not in fear of Peter, but in fear for Marian and the impossibility of doing anything that would be right by her.
She rubbed her palm over his chest, bringing him back. “You are quiet this morning, monsire. What occupies your thoughts?”
“You. How sweet you smell. It is like riding with a rose-bush behind me.”
“You should have stayed for a bath last evening. Nichola and I would have scrubbed you, as well, and I could have shaved you.” She ruffled her fingers along the growth of whiskers on his chin. “You, too, could smell of roses.”
“Thank you, no. You helped bathe Lord Peter?”
“Of course. Nichola and I washed many a visiting nobleman together when we were fostering with Lady Amabel. He is a well-favored man,” she mused, as though he cared to hear this. “I think Nichola much enjoys the marriage bed.”
She laughed as he spluttered. “I would not think I could shock you more, my lord.”
“An unmarried woman should not be bathing strange men.”
“An unmarried woman should not be tupping strange men either, but you made no complaint of that.”
“That is different.”
“Aye, it is.” She gave him a squeeze. “Ladies in waiting bath
e men all the time. Have you never been offered a bath when you visit a noble house?”
“No.” In truth, he had so seldom visited a noble house that there had been no time for bathing. “And it is not our custom at home. Men and women bathe apart.” Or they had, last he knew.
“Well, here, all the ladies help, married or not. ’Tis a way of honoring guests and, I think, of getting husbands for an excess of daughters, by the amount of bathing that took place at one of our neighbors.”
“Why?”
She chuckled. “They had eight daughters.”
“Eight!” He grinned, remembering another gaggle of girls. “I had a friend who had six, all with red hair like their mother. I saw them once when he brought them through on the way to London to the Curia Regis. I doubt he let them bathe anyone.”
“I wager he did. Father always said red-haired women bring bad luck.”
“These brought nothing but good to my friend. Especially his lady wife. Her name was Alaida. I only ever saw her the once, but even graying and gone plump from bearing all those daughters, it was clear why Ivar treasured her so deeply.” To this day, she was the woman whose image Steinarr clung to for hope, the way the Christians clung to their Virgin. He had long ago stuffed that hope down deep, where it could not torture him, but now it welled up again, this time wearing a face with strawberry lips and a crown of glorious golden hair.
“He loved her very much,” said the owner of that face in a soft voice. “I can tell it from the sound of your voice.”
“He did indeed.”
“Then she was as fortunate as he.”
They settled into a silence that had lasted only a few dozen yards when the stallion suddenly pricked up his ears and swiveled them to the rear. The rouncey nickered and did likewise, and Steinarr sat up straighter. “We are being followed.”
“We are?” She started to twist around to look, but Steinarr gave her arm a squeeze.
“Be still,” he said as he unhooked his bow from where it hung by his knee and pulled an arrow from the quiver next to it. “Hold tightly and be prepared for anything.”
He had just nocked arrow to string and was calculating how quickly they could reach the abbey when hoofbeats sounded, coming up behind. Marian squeaked and grabbed on, and Steinarr whipped the stallion around and drew his bow.
