by Candace Robb
But at least he would be gone for a time and Hubert could be alone with his mother. Unfortunately, since it was only hours till the early dusk of November he must spend the night there, with his parents. He’d sunk down with his back to the wall to await Aubrey’s departure.
Despite the cold, he must have fallen asleep for a while, for the sun had deserted him and when he’d looked out he’d seen his mother removing the chain mail from the rocker. He must have been very tired to have slept through that noise.
Taking a deep breath, he’d stepped out from the side of the house. ‘Ma!’
Ysenda had turned to him and pressed the chain mail to her breast. ‘What are you doing here, Hubert?’ Her words had been oddly pronounced, and as Hubert reached her he’d seen the cause – her left cheek was bruised and swollen, obliterating the pretty dimple.
He’d hugged her, then stretched up to gently kiss her injured cheek. ‘I wanted to see you.’
‘He’s home,’ she’d said.
‘I know. How long has he been here?’
She’d blown a strand of hair from her eyes, still clutching the chain mail. ‘Perhaps a week.’
‘And he’s already beaten you.’ Hubert had touched his mother’s cheek again, wondering how anyone could want to hurt her.
She’d taken a step backwards, frowning crookedly. ‘Did Master John send you home? Did someone accompany you? Is this what was in the letter? I’d no one to read it to me.’
Her questions and her faraway eyes confused him. ‘You’re not glad to see me?’ he asked.
She must have remembered the mail she had clutched to her, for now she shook it out. ‘Does this look clean to you?’
He dutifully ran a hand down it, trying to discern any flaws in it. The rings felt intact, but that did not mean they were free of dirt and rust. ‘The light’s faded too much to see,’ he said.
She cursed under her breath and tossed the mail back into the rocker. ‘I pray you, work on it a while longer, there’s a good lad.’ She bent to peck him on the cheek, a hand at the small of her back. ‘I am glad to see you, son. But I’m worried, as well, with your da being here. And you haven’t answered me. Did Master John discharge you? What did you do to displease him? I pray it isn’t anything your da won’t like. Did someone escort you?’
‘I came alone, and Master John doesn’t know I’m here. I was worried about you, all alone, with winter coming on.’ He’d hoped she would not ask for details of his journey. He did not wish to worry her.
‘Oh Hubert, as you see I’m not alone. And you were to learn and make something of yourself, not fret about me. What will Master John say?’ She’d pressed a hand to her swollen cheek. ‘I’m a grown woman. It’s not your place to worry about your mother.’ She’d massaged her temples and closed her eyes. ‘I’ll lie down for a little while.’
Hubert had watched her until she disappeared inside, hoping that she’d turn around and say she was glad to see him. But she had not turned, not to say that or to ask how he’d made his way alone from York, or comment on how thin and dirty he was. He had not wanted her to ask about his journey, but it hurt that she had not. He never should have gone away. He had not wanted to. He remembered how angry he’d been when she’d insisted he return to school. He’d gone mad, lashing out at a goose in his anger.
It had been a hot summer afternoon. The geese, ever-vigilant, had watched as Hubert crossed the yard, apparently sensing his mood. They were ready to attack if he showed any interest in moving towards them. He’d ignored them until he’d moved far enough in the opposite direction for them to lose interest; then he’d turned and, raising his arms above his head as he bellowed at the top of his lungs, he’d charged them, startling all into flight but one stubborn male.
He’d lunged towards the defender, who’d flapped his wings and shot his beak towards Hubert’s leg, almost managing a nip. But Hubert’s energy had been equal to the gander’s and he’d spun away in time. What happened next was what haunted Hubert – again he’d lunged for the gander with a temper so vicious he’d stopped himself just short of wringing the fowl’s neck – he knew he’d intended to do so – and he’d earned a painful bite on the wrist.
Holding his bleeding arm, Hubert had fled to the empty stable and crumpled down onto the hard ground long swept clean of hay, breathing so hard he’d thought he might burst; but in time he’d caught his breath and sat back to suck on his wound until the bleeding slowed. Out in the yard the goose had noisily dared him to try again. Through the chinks in the rotting wall Hubert could see it kicking up dust as it paced and fluttered its wings. He’d been grateful that his mother had gone to Sir Baldwin’s woods to collect firewood and had not witnessed his behaviour.
My Lord, forgive me. Hubert hadn’t understood this anger. He’d seen his father wring the necks of animals out of anger, but in Hubert’s eleven years of life he’d never been driven to such an act. He’d prayed he would not grow up to resemble his father; Aubrey de Weston’s temper darkened the family’s life. Even the plague deaths of two of his children, Hubert’s siblings, had driven him to outbursts of anger rather than grateful affection for his wife and surviving son, leaving Hubert to comfort his mother.
But Hubert was home now. He pushed the memory aside and settled down to rock the chain mail until his arm tired, his mood careening from embarrassment to anger to disappointment to relief to fear, and then they all jumbled together. Nothing had changed at home, and nothing ever would. For the first time he understood that he was quiet at school because it felt good to be quiet, to enjoy the stillness that he felt, the peace – until he’d begun to worry about his mother. He supposed she might be right in saying that he need not worry about her.
Later, when Aubrey had returned, Hubert had made an effort to greet him with a smile and a show of joy that he’d survived.
Aubrey had made an approving sound. ‘Well, they’ve taught you something this time.’ He’d patted Hubert on the shoulder.
Encouraged by the reception, Hubert had asked, ‘Would you tell me about France? And the channel crossing?’
Aubrey had settled back with a cup of watered wine and began to speak in a low voice that Hubert seldom heard. He talked about the work they’d had calming the horses on the crossing, how many men were sickened by what were in truth merely moderate waves, how mild the weather felt as they travelled south.
Hubert had so enjoyed his father’s tales. It had been an evening filled with delights, unlike any other that he could remember at home, and he’d dared to hope that he had indeed learned something from his time at school, a way to cope with his father. Perhaps his maturing would ease the strife in the household.
But no sooner had Hubert gone to bed than his parents had resumed their arguments. He’d wriggled down under the covers as far as he could and still breathe, and wondered how soon he might return to school.
And now, a few days later, they were at it again, arguing about the amount of cider she had in the outbuilding. Hubert hated to hear his mother weep.
He liked to daydream that he was brother to one of his fellow students who lived in a house in the city or on a prosperous farm, but even more importantly he chose the ones who spoke of their fathers with affection and admiration. Then he’d have his imagined mother die in childbirth or something and his imagined dad would meet and fall in love with Hubert’s real mother, for he had no desire for any other mother. Her new husband would come home from travels with exquisite cloth and jewels to adorn her, and her eyes would shine with love as she looked on her happy family. God was omnipotent, so surely He’d created families like that. Hubert could not understand why God would create such a beautiful woman like his mother and then give her such a mean husband, as well as allowing two of her children to succumb to the plague.
His mother deserved happiness, not the misery Hubert was trying not to witness right now. He sat on the bench outside the kitchen, hands cupping his ears against his parents’ voices – his angry, hers tearful. Aubrey
de Weston was a heartless man, a man who trusted his lord, but not his family, particularly not his wife. Hubert avoided calling him ‘Da’; it felt better to him to think of his father by name rather than by relationship. Fortunately, Aubrey didn’t seem to notice. Hubert knew it was sinful to wish Aubrey had died at La Rochelle as Father Nicholas had reported, but he could not keep his thoughts from going there. If Hubert were older, stronger, he would have defended his mother’s honour with his fists whenever Aubrey accused her of lying so she wouldn’t be pushed to defend herself. Surely it was the humiliation she felt that resulted in the foul language she sometimes spewed, frightening Hubert.
He hadn’t even been able to keep her pretty cross pendant safe. Its loss was unforgivable. He’d come home to see with his own eyes whether his carelessness had made his mother vanish as well. The fear had gnawed at him for almost a week before he’d worked up the courage to run away from school. He’d not confided in either Master John or Dame Agnes because he thought they would tell him that the loss of a trinket could not make his mother disappear, and would therefore refuse to give him leave to journey to Weston, and most assuredly not alone. But he could not sleep, could not eat, could not study, could not think of anything else until he saw with his own eyes that his mother was unharmed. He’d stolen the cross to have something of her near him, by which action he’d made it a charm. He knew of charms, and knew that they had power beyond the ordinary. It had been his responsibility to protect it, to keep it safe, and he’d failed. He hadn’t expected to see that man on the barges, and his questions about the scrip had frightened Hubert. That’s why he’d run, seeing the man his mother had always tried to keep away from Hubert.
The snowfall on the morning after Drogo’s drowning caused Edric and Jasper to be late in coming into Owen and Lucie’s hall for their morning bread, cheese and ale, for they’d first swept the snow from the threshold of the shop and the paving stones between the shop and the hall. Lucie was glad that the activity had warmed their relationship. Some mornings they arrived from their shared quarters above the shop in chilly silence, but this morning they were trading complaints about Sir Richard de Ravenser’s clerk Douglas and seemed quite companionable.
Alisoun had already brought Gwenllian and Hugh in from catching snowflakes on their tongues to warm up by the fire.
Seeing all the youthful faces bright with the crisp air made Lucie momentarily impatient with her awkward body, feeling confined and idle, but she caught herself and assured God that she loved and cherished the child who moved within her. She could not bear to lose another child, no matter her present discomfort. She’d fallen into such a terrifying despair when she’d miscarried the previous year, fearful that she was now too old to carry a child full term, fearful that Gwenllian and Hugh might be taken from her by illness or accident. Her mind had been so heavy and dark with fear – she thanked God every day for lifting her despair and blessing her with another child.
When Edric and Jasper were sated and warm, they came over to her as usual to join them in returning to the shop.
‘Not this morning,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait for the stepping stones to dry.’
‘We’ll escort you, Mistress,’ said Edric with an enthusiasm that almost coaxed Lucie to reconsider.
But Alisoun prevented any such change of heart. ‘Dame Lucie dare not risk a fall, Edric.’
Jasper leaned down and quietly asked Lucie if she would like him to escort her to the back of the garden later.
She shook her head. ‘This year I’ll keep the day in my heart. But bless you for remembering the anniversary. I am grateful.’
He kissed her cheek and pressed her shoulder. ‘I’ll come for you if we meet with a challenge that cannot wait.’
She nodded, too overcome with emotion to trust her voice. More than the clumsiness, she disliked her changeable, exaggerated moods when with child – and for a while afterwards. She dreaded most the darkness that had overwhelmed her when she’d lost the child the previous autumn, and prayed throughout the day and night that God would deliver her from such horror this time. She sensed that she’d almost lost Owen’s comfortable affection last time, that she’d almost driven his heart from her, though she knew he would never physically desert his family. His love and friendship were precious to her and she could not bear to lose either.
She took out her spinning and had regained her sense of well-being when a visitor arrived. It was her friend Emma Ferriby. Kate took Emma’s cloak and announced her, a funny behaviour the maid had taken up of late, amusing because voices carried quite clearly from the hall door to the interior, there being only a small screen blocking the draught, and no screen passage that might have muted the sound. Emma hugged Lucie with affection. She smelled of snowy air and lavender, and her silk gown richly rustled. Kate and Emma’s maid slipped away to the kitchen.
‘You look very well,’ said Emma, having stepped back to observe Lucie. ‘And I envy you. I should so love to have a chance at bearing a daughter to dress in Peter’s beautiful cloth.’ Her husband was a merchant and traded some of the loveliest cloth in York in his shop. Emma held out a package. ‘But since I’m not so blessed, I thought we might pass some time this chilly morning choosing some cloth for the two of us. No doubt you’ll want a new gown for churching.’
‘You are a dear, dear friend to think of that,’ said Lucie, her spirits definitely improving. It would feel wonderful to slip into a new gown once she was able to go abroad. ‘Come, let’s sit at the little table by the window so we can see the colours in daylight.’
‘Such as it is today,’ said Emma, following Lucie across the room. ‘I have never cared for snow. I never feel steady on my feet.’
‘But it has stopped snowing for now,’ said Lucie, ‘has it not?’
‘Yes it has, but the wind is rushing down the streets and keeping the shadowed pavements and frozen mud quite slippery. I was glad of my maid’s arm in several places.’
Before he continued his investigation Owen thought it best to tell Lucie and Jasper about the trip to Weston on the morrow. He found Jasper and Edric in the shop, both busy with customers. At the house he was unhappy to find Emma Ferriby. He was fond of her, but he imagined she was there to find out whether her brother-in-law was in trouble, and Owen could not honestly reassure her that all was well, having come away from Nicholas’s house with a gnawing feeling that the man had lied to him about knowing Drogo.
She and Lucie were bent over swatches of cloth. After the customary greetings Owen decided to do what he’d come home to do and hope that Emma kept her peace.
‘His Grace has offered me horses and men so that I might ride to Weston on the morrow, Lucie. I would take Jasper if you can spare him in the shop. He knows Hubert de Weston, he’ll recognise him if we encounter him. He might also be a comfort to the lad – someone familiar.’
Lucie had nodded her agreement halfway through his determined speech, and now asked only, ‘Do you know that the boy is in Weston?’
‘No, but Emma’s brother-in-law saw his father there on Sunday. Perhaps the boy learned of that and headed home.’ Owen glanced at Emma, expecting her questions to begin now.
But she said, ‘Thank God his father is safe. So Nicholas has been helpful?’ Emma was now sitting back and giving him her full attention. She was a plain, small woman who practised the art of making the best of her features with beautiful clothes well cut.
Owen valued her intelligence and absolute support of Lucie, and so although Nicholas had been helpful only because his brother William had betrayed him, Owen said merely, ‘He has.’
‘You don’t think –’ Emma glanced over at Lucie. ‘We’ve been talking about my husband’s brother, how Peter worries about Nicholas’s strange choice in situating his school, his childish enthusiasms.’ She shook her head as she would over the unfortunate antics of her sons. ‘But I do not think him capable of attacking that river pilot.’
‘Any man might attack another with cause,’ said Owen. �
�I cannot protect him, Emma.’
She looked hurt. ‘I hope you don’t think that is why I am here, Owen, to ask you to watch over Nicholas.’ She glanced at Lucie, who smiled and pressed her friend’s hand. ‘For your thoughts about his situation, yes, but my first purpose was to while away a gloomy day with Lucie.’
Her honesty beguiled him. ‘I do not know what to think of your Nicholas,’ Owen said. If he was innocent, why was he not straightforward? ‘Do you know of any connection he might have with the pilot?’
Emma shook her head.
‘That may be a good sign. Do you by any chance know Sir Baldwin Gamyll?’
‘Yes, though not as well as my mother does,’ said Emma. Less interested in the new topic, she went back to fussing with the cloth samples.
‘Do you know the son?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve not seen him for a dozen years or more – not since my wedding, I think. He was little more than a boy then.’
There was a guardedness in her response that Owen wondered about. ‘But you’ve heard of him since then?’
Emma glanced up. ‘My mother has spoken of him, and of course she would not mention him were his character above reproach. He is of interest for being sharp-tongued and wanton.’
‘Wanton?’ Owen was curious.
‘According to Ma he is ill-mannered and un-governed. He does not favour one sinful pastime over another.’ Her sudden grin was impish as she spoke the last words in her mother’s imperial tones.
Lucie laughed and clapped her hands. ‘And we know how you agree with Lady Pagnell.’
Emma’s father had been a knight. Marrying down – it was one of the things she and Lucie had in common, Emma marrying a merchant, Lucie the captain of the archbishop’s guard, and before that an apothecary.
‘So he is likely a bad sort, but no worse than many other idle young men awaiting their inheritances?’ Owen asked.
‘I recall hearing his name mentioned regarding some unpleasant matter,’ said Lucie. ‘I remember only because I thought what a contrast he must be to his father.’
