by Jenny Kane
Receiving a cacophony of positive sounding guinea pig squeaks in reply, Daisy slipped the paper into her pocket. ‘I wouldn’t normally spy on Grace, boys, but right now she’s all heartbroken. This means that I need to take charge, and if that means being sneaky, then so be it!’
Glancing around the bedroom, feeling like a benevolent spy, Daisy said, ‘Now, do any of you boys remember if Grace took her mobile with her, or if she left it in here somewhere?’
Chapter Thirty-one
‘Have you been ill, Grace?’ Ashley pulled the sage bridesmaid’s dress in an extra inch at the waist, ‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘No, I …’ Grace turned to Daisy, ‘I’m so sorry, Daze!’
Sensing the concern in Grace’s voice, Ashley quickly calmed the waters. ‘Don’t worry. I can easily fix this. That’s the beauty of choosing a dress with lace ties at the back.’
Grace sighed with relief, ‘Thanks. I’d have felt awful if I’d ruined things.’
‘Daft woman, of course you won’t ruin things.’ Daisy smiled at her bridesmaid as Ashley indicated that Grace should take off her outfit so she could make a few instant adjustments.
It had been over a week since Grace had come to stay with Daisy, and although she had been a great help, had mucked in, mucked out, made up the guest room for the pet-sitters due to arrive later that day, and had re-written and edited her story in every given spare moment, at no point had Daisy seen Grace check her email or glance at her mobile phone.
No mention had been made of Rob at all, and although Grace seemed to have got her smile back over the past couple of days, Daisy had noticed that her friend had pushed food around her plate at mealtimes rather than eating it. It was the fact that Grace was more or less existing on biscuits dunked into mugs of tea that had spurred Daisy on to bring the dress fittings forward a day earlier than planned, for she had suspected that Grace was losing weight. Daisy would have been jealous if her friend hadn’t been so obviously unhappy.
More worryingly, Grace hadn’t made any reference to Robin Hood. Not one. This was seriously odd. Daisy had never known Grace to have any lengthy conversation without bringing in at least one outlaw reference. She hadn’t even taken her habitual walk from Daisy’s home to the alleged burial site of Robin Hood’s right-hand man, Little John. Legend had it that the giant man was entombed in a stone casket not more than three miles from Daisy’s backdoor. Even though whenever she got to the grave Grace talked for ages about the gullibility of tourists and how John could no more be buried there than the Queen of Sheba could, she always made time to take the short pilgrimage. But not this time.
Daisy had the feeling that Grace was acting her socks off, playing the role of the woman who was ‘determined to be all right without a man.’ Any day now her brave-face mask was going to crack. Privately cursing Rob for not having had the courtesy to at least let Grace explain about Malcolm, and cursing Grace for being too stubborn to email or call him, Daisy took off her wedding dress, allowing bubbles of excitement at the thought of her forthcoming nuptials to overtake her sympathy for her friend as she lovingly hung the only dress she’d ever loved on its hanger.
‘Only two days of being Miss Daisy Marks left then!’
With Daisy’s Land Rover packed to the rafters, and the pet sitters installed in the small holding with so many lists of instructions they could have been bound and made into a substantial book, Grace raised her glass of lemonade in a toast to her friend, as they took temporary refuge in the local pub.
‘This ought to be a glass of wine, really, to see you on your way to becoming Mrs Daisy Stevens!’ ‘I promise we’ll have a glass as soon as we get there!’
‘You’re on!’ Grace ate half a chip and put her fork down again. ‘You feel OK though, don’t you? Not sorry you’re not out getting drunk on a hen night rather than sat with your history-obsessed friend munching fried potatoes?’
Daisy laughed, ‘Can you really see me tottering around Sheffield in high heels and a tiny dress, with a learner sign on my back, a sloganned sash, and a pink cowboy hat?’
‘Thankfully, no I can’t! I’m actually surprised you knew that the pink cowboy hat was a hen night essential these days!’
‘I’m surprised you do!’
‘Leicester has its fair share of drunken young women on Friday nights, you know. I always feel a bit sorry for the hen. I can’t imagine that many of them want that sort of launch into marriage, but it’s sort of expected these days.’
‘Well, this does me just fine.’ Daisy shovelled up a portion of jacket potato. ‘Thanks for your help this week. I honestly don’t think I’d have been ready without you.’
‘Marcus would have come to your rescue.’
‘Well, yes, but you being here meant he could concentrate on getting the practice safe to leave.’
‘You must have missed him, though?’
‘Yes, but I’ll have the rest of my days to catch up on what I’ve missed, and not having seen him for a while will make it extra-special when I see him on Friday.’
The content expression on Daisy’s face made Grace’s insides contract. Not for anything would she ruin the most important few days of her best friend’s life by sharing her own regrets.
Surely she should be feeling less heartbroken by now? But somehow, now Grace had finally admitted to herself that she had fallen in love with Rob, she felt worse and not better.
‘What’s the plan of action when we get to the hotel, then?’ Grace slugged back her drink and put down her cutlery.
‘Check in, grab that glass of wine, and go to bed. Tomorrow we’ll get going on the wedding planning. Tonight we’ll rest. I have a feeling we are going to need it!’
Daisy fished the keys for her Land Rover from her pocket, ‘Come on, last one to spot the hotel’s front door buys the wine!’
The setting was perfect. Built under the instruction of the formidable Bess of Hardwick in the 1590s, Hardwick Hall was a stunning Elizabethan mansion, hidden away in the Derbyshire countryside. As Daisy was introduced to the resident wedding organiser, Grace took her chance to walk around the magnificent entrance hall, unusually devoid of its usual horde of tourists. Hung with beautiful sixteenth-century tapestries, the air of the space hung with echoes of the past. Grace had no trouble picturing men and women from history meeting, greeting, plotting, and planning in that very space, while Bess of Hardwick herself showed off her latest wall hangings to everyone who passed through her doors.
It was a dream wedding location. Fifty or so chairs were already in position for the ceremony the following day, and in Grace’s mind, she could see herself walking down the aisle space left between the chairs behind Daisy and her father. On her own. Not that Rob would have actually walked with her, but for a short while she had dared to imagine herself with a proud onlooker in a seat to one side.
She swallowed down her sigh. Grace was beginning to get cross with herself about the sighing. She seemed to be doing an awful lot of feeling sorry for herself lately. It would have to stop. Heartbreak might help the waistline, but it played havoc with her self-confidence, which, beyond the medieval, was pretty shaky anyway. Five more hours, Grace told herself as she examined the unicorns so intricately woven into the tapestry nearest to her, I can have five more hours moping and that is enough. Then it’s new start time. You never know, there might be someone nice coming to the wedding tomorrow who may have a thing about spinster historians dressed in Lincoln Green.
‘Grace, what do you think?’ Daisy was pointing up to a balcony where no doubt Bess had once ordered minstrels to serenade her. ‘Marcus and I were going to have a recording of the ‘Wedding March’ and stuff, but apparently the string quartet that plays here when they have special functions is available tomorrow. Should we have them?’
‘Definitely!’
‘You don’t think Marcus will mind?’ Daisy peered over her shoulder towards the main door, ‘He’s supposed to be here by now to go through the order of service and have a m
ini-rehearsal.’
‘Of course he won’t mind. Anyway, you could get all modern and ask him.’ Grace mimed using her phone.
Daisy grimaced and held up her mobile. ‘No reception, and we need to decide now or they’ll get offered to someone else.’
‘Why not use mine, oh …’ Grace hooked her phone from her pocket to find she had the same problem.
‘Sorry, ladies,’ the wedding planner whose badge announced she was called Wendy, smiled, ‘No reception anywhere up here. I’m really sorry to have to put you on the spot, but I only just heard they had a cancellation, and it is a bit now or never.’
Grace looked up at the gallery. She could already see the musicians guiding Daisy up the aisle. ‘Go for it Daze. It’ll be so romantic; in perfect keeping with this place.’
‘Oh why not.’ Grace turned to Wendy, ‘we’ll have them. Can they play the music we’d asked for?’
‘They can play anything you want!’
Beaming, Daisy thanked Wendy, who instantly headed to her office to make arrangements via the landline, calling after her, ‘If you’re worried about Marcus, feel free to come and use the office phone.’
‘Thanks, I will if you don’t mind,’ Daisy turned to Grace, ‘you be OK a minute? I won’t be long, then I’ll show you the East Colonnade, where we’ll have the drinks reception before the meal.’
‘It’s OK, I’ve been here a few times, I know where it is. I’ll head out there, and you can join me when you’ve spoken to Marcus.’
Sitting on a bench in the East Colonnade, Grace stared out at the panoramic view of the gardens, the early August sun shone down on her face. She hoped this summer weather would hold out for the actual wedding. Although they had the use of the Long Gallery and High Great Chamber for photographs after the ceremony, Daisy had wanted her wedding pictures taken outside in the gardens.
Grace couldn’t stop visualising her own wedding here one day.
She sat bolt upright.
That thought had to be dismissed right now. Deciding that Daisy would probably be a lot longer than she imagined, and not wanting to allow any more time for unproductive thinking, Grace pulled her ever-present notebook from her bag. ‘After all,’ she told a nearby statue, ‘if this isn’t the ideal place to write a spot of historical fiction, then where is?’
The woodland surrounding Hardwick Hall had been there for centuries, and in her mind’s eye Grace saw the medieval landscape mapped out before her. Without a single pylon, cable, or motor vehicle to spoil the view, it wasn’t difficult to picture Mathilda and Robert pushing through the trees before her. In fact, right at that moment she wasn’t that far from where the imagined encounter she was currently plotting would have taken place. In reality she doubted the Folville brothers would have bothered indulging in such midnight subterfuge, but this was her story, so if she wanted it to be more cloak and dagger, then it would be.
Right now Grace’s writing felt as though it was the only thing she had control of in her life – and she was going to take as much refuge in it as she could.
The voice came out of the night, its hollow echo bouncing off the trunks of the closely packed trees. Mathilda tugged her palfrey to an abrupt halt and strained her eyes and ears. The words she was sure she’d heard could have come from any direction, and although she felt the presence of another person – no, other people, there was more than one set of eyes trained on her, she was sure of that – she couldn’t work out where they were concealed. Would they appear in front of her, or would they creep up on her from behind?
Hoping that Robert was as close as he’d promised to be, the voice came again, clearer this time. ‘Mathilda of Twyford?’
It was more of a question than a statement, and hoping that the fact they knew her name meant that they were expecting her, and must therefore be the Coterels and not the sheriff’s men, she summoned up her courage, ‘Yes, my Lord, I am Mathilda of Twyford.’
There was a faint rustle of leaves to her right and the stately figure of Nicholas Coterel came striding through the trees. Mathilda was surprised he was on foot, and immediately supposed that the other person she’d sensed in the area a probably a groom, and would have his stallion held at a safe distance. ‘I’m pleased to see you looking well, Mathilda. I feared Master Hugo might mistreat you after our prank at his expense.’
Having taken comfort in the reassurance from Robert that she wouldn’t have to say anything during the exchange, Mathilda found herself unprepared for pleasantries, and gabbled ‘Thank you, my Lord, I am well.’
‘Good. Not that it matters now that leech has been hurried to hell. Tell me, was he surprised by your prompt return to the market after our last encounter?’
Mathilda felt a surge of hope in her chest. If Coterel was saying Hugo had double-crossed her, then maybe Robert would finally believe the truth of it. ‘He was my Lord, thank you.’
‘So, to business.’ Nicholas gestured towards the girdle Mathilda wore around her waist, before calling out, ‘Robert, you may as well come forth; we have scoured the area, a hue and cry has not been mustered to hunt Hugo’s killer this deep into Charnwood tonight, and there isn’t a soldier for miles.’
Robert stepped from the shelter of the trees. He was without his horse as well. Inclining his head to his Derbyshire neighbour, Robert held out a hand, helping Mathilda from her mount so she could remove the girdle.
Keeping her face as neutral as possible, not wanting either of the men to see how much she disliked handing over the belt, Mathilda wordlessly passed it to Nicholas.
Holding it up to what little moonlight there was, Nicholas then closed his eyes and ran the tips of his fingers over the lattice pattern. ‘I believe I was informed correctly.’ Then, calling into the trees behind him he said, ‘Tell me, Oswin, what do you think?’
Mathilda’s heart soared as her youngest brother strode into the small clearing. Although slimmer than when she’d last seen him, his face was its usual circle of good-naturedness, and she couldn’t prevent herself from running into his outstretched arms.
‘If I could have your attention, Master Twyford!’ Coterel clipped his words out, and Oswin, his face a shock of embarrassed red, came to his lord’s side.
‘Is this as we suspected?’
Oswin’s chunky fingers stroked the carved leather as if it was of the finest ceramics. ‘No question, my Lord.’
Coterel’s brow creased, ‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive, my Lord.’ Oswin went to give the girdle back to Nicholas, but Coterel waved it back in Mathilda’s direction.
‘Never let it be said that I deprived the beautiful woman of an ally of her finery.’
Robert’s face darkened, but he made no comment on the subject as Mathilda clipped the belt back in place. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you are both talking about? I was under the impression that you wanted the finery as a token of trust. Why did you wish to see the belt up close only to return it? ‘
‘I will tell you on one condition.’
‘Only one?’ Robert’s sarcasm was as thick as honey, but Coterel ignored him.
‘I will share what we suspect if you will agree to assist in the matter we were going to discuss before that damn leatherworker got up enough people’s noses to get himself murdered and delay our clearing-up of the judicial corruption in this area.’
It was clear from Robert’s expression how difficult he was finding it to not to mention how much the corrupt nature of the legal system often worked to their benefit, ‘My brothers and I are in total agreement. Our families will act together on that matter. Eustace suggests a gap of three to six months for planning and to let the dust settle on Hugo’s death.’
‘Four months maximum.’
Robert paused before saying, ‘Agreed.’
Obviously satisfied with whatever agreement had been made, Nicholas then addressed Oswin. ‘You may return to Ashby Folville with your sister as discussed and share our thoughts about the murder with her and her curren
t household. However, if you do not return to me by dusk the day after tomorrow as agreed, there will be consequences. Yes?’
Mathilda turned to Robert, her face full of wonder, ‘Oswin is the item we are to collect?’
‘Your brothers are obviously as important to you as mine are to me.’
Speechless, unable to keep up with Robert’s changeable nature where she was concerned, Mathilda turned her attention back to the two men who’d travelled from the Peak District.
Giving his sister a look which told her plainly to ask no questions for the time being, Oswin took hold of Mathilda’s bridle, and made ready to lead her palfrey back along the forest path.
‘You may tell them everything once you are in the safety of the Folville manor, Oswin.’ Then disappearing into the forest, Nicholas called over his shoulder ‘I’d make that girl yours fast, Robert, before I’m tempted to steal her from you.’
Chapter Thirty-two
Mathilda’s head buzzed with dozens of questions, which swarmed in her brain like an angry hive of bewildered bees.
Her need to ask Oswin why he was working with the Coterels was losing out to her desire to ask Robert precisely what his intentions towards her were. On the other hand, she was desperate to find out more about the significance of Oswin and Nicholas’s examination of her girdle, not to mention wanting to share her own mounting suspicions about the leatherworker’s murder.
Mathilda was convinced that the dagger had been placed in her cell by the rector, and the more she thought about it, the more convinced Mathilda was that the holy Folville brother must be mixed up in Hugo’s death. Yet it seemed ridiculous to think Richard would kill Hugo. For a start, he was a cleric, albeit one with a history of violence behind him. But an attack on Hugo was an attack on Robert, and why would he want to hurt his brother? It made no sense. Mathilda had a feeling Robert would scoff at her idea, and probably be furious with her for even having it in the first place. And she really didn’t want to upset him after his recent act of extreme kindness in ensuring Oswin was returned to her, if only briefly. And yet she couldn’t shift the notion that the rector had something to hide.
