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“Have the Lady Mathilde taken hence, and Master Geddings also,” he said with a significant look at his steward.
It seemed Firmin was still in the dark as to who she was, for he received this in stoic silence, merely gesturing with his hand for them to follow him. Mathilde scrambled to her feet and performed a surprisingly dainty curtsey, in spite of the fact she was wearing a belted blanket and very likely, her feet hurt. Almost against his will, he found himself glancing at them again. He had no idea why it bothered him so much that her feet were discolored and bruised.
“You’ve provided them with plenty of blankets?” He heard himself mutter, and glanced away shame-facedly at Firmin’s startled expression.
“Aye,” his bewildered steward answered, for Guy did not usually show any interest in household arrangements.
“And a supply of logs for their fires?” Guy added, unable to stop himself. After all, he told himself, they had been half-drowned in the rain, and could very likely take their deaths.
“Of course,” Firkin said, still looking bewildered by this turn of events.
“And … some repast,” he said gruffly.
“That is very kind of you, my lord,” Mathilde said warmly. “I would greatly love a cup of spiced wine, and Rob is no doubt famished. They did not give us anything to eat in Wickhamford jail, so we have not eaten since yester’een.”
Guy started. “Not eaten?” he echoed. She shook her head, and he threw a startled look at her companion. Robin’s mouth was drawn into a grim line, he curtly nodded his agreement to this extraordinary statement. “Have supper taken to their rooms,” Guy ordered.
Firmin rolled his eyes, no doubt remembering fact half the servants were worse for wear, and he would be hard pressed to rouse anyone. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “But I’m not promising much better than bread and cheese.”
“Oh, but that sounds wonderful,” Mathilde said brightly, and if his thirty-one years had not taught him better, Guy would almost believe she meant every word.
That night Guy lay awake for a very long time, and when he finally did fall asleep, he dreamt the Yule-Father had brought him a gift. A gift, quite frankly, that was a mixed blessing.
V
Mathilde woke every hour on the hour. She found she had not managed unbroken sleep since she had left her mother’s quarters at the palace. On the road, it was hardly prudent. Here, everything was unfamiliar, the bed was hard and the chimney smoked. It did not help matters that she had heard the key turn in the lock behind her the moment she sat upon the bed.
She had not been given any water to wash in and so had been forced to get into the bed still covered in travel dirt. At least she had managed to get warm. For a moment the previous night, she had wondered if she would ever feel warm again, for the cold had seemed to creep into her very bones. But when she had finally managed to relax her shivering limbs, at last she had managed it. As for the lack of a wash, she could not hold that against Lord Martindale, for he had been otherwise most solicitous for their comfort, she reflected. After all, had not he given specific instructions for their fires, blankets and food? Her heart warmed to remember it. And truthfully, she was too excited to sleep. She had arrived on her husband’s doorstep on solstice eve. It felt right, like a good omen.
She wriggled her toes to which feeling had recently returned. They felt sore, so she stopped. Her thoughts turned to her mother at the palace. Today was a feast day. Doubtless her mother would not be feeling very festive. She would still be smarting at Mathilde’s act of defiance. But Mother never did feel like celebrating, Mathilde thought, turning over and hugging the thin pillow.
Lady Doverdale was a sober, dour woman of middle age. Even when her husband, Mathilde’s father had been alive, she had rarely cracked a smile. Somehow she seemed to drain the joy out of anything with her disapproving sourness. At any event, she was always the specter at the feast. Luckily Queen Armenal esteemed her greatly, and she held a great position at court as the queen’s Mistress of the Robes. Mathilde could only hope that matters at court would distract her mother from her own filial impiety. Perhaps with time, she would become reconciled to Mathilde’s new life away from her?
She sighed, and turned her thoughts to happier subjects. She wondered how Lord Martindale’s household celebrated midwinter — nay, what was it they called it here? Yule? Her impressions of the place from the previous night were a little hazy. They had arrived in driving rain and darkness, but she had been able to make out that the place was very large and built on a grand scale. Inside had seemed imposing, full of dark wood and huge stone fireplaces. It had also seemed rather drafty, but doubtless she had been chilled to the bone by that point, so it might not be so cold as she had imagined.
As for Lord Martindale, he was a fine, if somewhat imposing figure of a man, she thought, conjuring his tall dark form to her mind’s eye. She bit her lip. It was true, she admitted, that her former self would have been reduced to a state of abject terror in his presence. It was no doubt a very good thing, she told herself staunchly, that the last month had filled her with so much experience and bravery. Perhaps after all, it had been fortunate that her mother had not permitted her to meet her husband four years ago. She would certainly have not been up to the task then.
But now, she thought, now she had lived as a boy, had travelled independently, bought her own horse and even been to jail! Now she was a woman of the world and was equal to anything! The notion was a vastly satisfying one, and silenced the niggle of remaining disquiet. While it was true that having to remove her clothes in front of Lord Martindale the previous evening had been a frankly awful experience, afterwards he had redeemed himself. He had even, she remembered, made her the present of his knife.
The thought cheered Mathilde. She reached out of the bed for the plain black sheath and serviceable dagger which she had laid on a rickety old chair. While it was true, it was not as fancy as the one her first husband had sent her for a betrothal gift, this one was wickedly sharp and had a good balance to it. Robin had started teaching her how to whittle wood, and the one Willard had traded with her had become somewhat blunted.
She set this knife down on the mattress beside her, and gazed at the gray light coming through the small window. It was doubtful that the jail would forward her horse and her knife today. After all, it was a special day and most folk would be making merry. However, if they did not appear upon the morrow, she would have to set forth to reclaim them, she thought determinedly. Her honor depended on it. Besides, the poor horse deserved to be treated well from now on, and she had vowed to be the one who saw to it. A man of noble character always kept his word and paid his debts, she thought. A noble woman, she corrected herself. Her eyes were drifting shut again now, and a small smile played about her lips as she slipped back at last into sleep.
When she woke again, it was much later. She could hear footsteps on the stair outside and sat up, rubbing her eyes. She heard the key turn in the lock and then a sharp rap on the door.
“Come in!” she called out, and heard a thud outside, followed by a smothered exclamation. The next minute, the door opened and a red-faced looking woman entered carrying a large jug of steaming water and a basin. She had her lips pursed, and a stony expression of disapproval on her face.
“Here’s water, for washing,” she said abruptly, and set them down on the table along with two large cloths she had over her shoulder. The entire time, she kept her eyes averted from Mathilde, as though she were somehow indecent. She turned about and marched back to the door.
“Thank you,” Mathilde called after her. “I don’t suppose —” But the door slammed shut and the woman was gone. Oh. Well, at least she could set about her wash, even if she had no clothing to don afterward.
Mathilde climbed out of bed, steeling herself against the brisk chill in the air. No one had laid her fire this morning, and she could see ice had formed on the window pane. The water was nice and hot though, and she sloshed around enthusiastic
ally, washing her face, neck and hair using a small ball which had been stuffed with soap leaves. She put off the inevitable moment she would have to divest herself of her blanket as long as she could. When she could delay it no longer, she shrugged it off and completed a brisk soaping of her whole body. Then she rinsed out her washcloth and washed off the soap lather.
Wrapping a clean blanket about herself, she made her way over to the frozen window, forced it open with some difficulty and emptied the soapy water out of it. Then she refilled the empty basin with rest of the water from the jug and dunked her whole head in it to wash out the suds. Only then did she grope about for the drying cloth and wrap it around her wet hair. At least now her locks took a lot less time to dry, she reflected. When it had hung down to her waist it had taken simply hours. Hurriedly, she made her way back over to the bed and grabbed another blanket to wrap about her shoulders. She felt clean for the first time in weeks! Sitting down on the bed, she pulled the headcloth away, and started to run her fingers through her damp hair in the absence of a comb. Another knock sounded on the door, more hesitant this time.
“Come in,” called out Mathilde, looking up. A dark head peered around the door, wearing a heavy frown. Her spirits rose. “Good morning, my lord!” she cried. “Happy solstice! I mean, Yuletide,” she corrected herself a little self-consciously.
Lord Martindale blinked a moment, then he cleared his throat. “And to you,” he said a little gruffly. Perhaps he was not one that rose in good spirits of a morning.
“Come in,” Mathilde invited generously, as he was still hovering on the threshold. His gaze flickered over her a moment. No doubt she looked a little odd arrayed in blankets and drying cloths. Otherwise, she could not account for his hesitation. “I have just washed,” she explained, unnecessarily, but for some reason he made her nervous. Where once she would have sat as silent as a mouse, now her pride demanded she attempt to conceal this fact with empty chatter.
“Why is the window open?” he asked abruptly. “There’s a gale blowing through here.”
“I found the casement a little stiff to open,” Mathilde said guiltily springing to her feet. “Once I had opened it, I found I could not fully close it again.”
“Why did you open it in the first place?” he asked his frown deepening. He stared at the small trail of puddles of water that led to the window.
“To empty the washing water out of it.” Mathilde explained, realizing she had made a bit of a mess of it. She wrung her hands. “I have not yet had the chance to —”
He held up a hand, and she saw he was staring at the unmade hearth. Flinging back his head he yelled “Firmin!” Mathilde jumped, then had to suppress the ignoble urge to hide under the bedcovers as the older grizzled man from the previous night appeared in the doorway. “Send someone in here to light her—” He bit off his words. “To light this bloody fire!” he roared. “Then I want the wench who brought the washing water thrown out on her ear!”
“Thrown out?” echoed Firmin in bewilderment. He shot an accusatory look at Mathilde. “For what offence?”
“For not doing her bloody job!” Lord Martindale seemed to reign himself in with effort. He stood a moment, taking a deep breath. “Has anyone found her any clothing yet?” he asked in voice of ominous quiet.
“Not yet.”
Lord Martindale turned back to Mathilde. “Get back into bed,” he said shortly. “Your lips are turning blue.” Then he turned back to Firmin. “She needs woolen stockings and shoes. If someone has to ride to Wickhamford, so be it.”
“It’s Solstice morn…” Firmin objected.
“And what does that signify in this house?” Lord Martindale’s voice was harsh and brooked no argument. Firmin huffed and stomped off shaking his head.
Mathilde crept back under the covers. She was truly tempted to pull them up right over her head to block out the tension in the room. For some reason her husband had woken in a foul mood. From the sound of it, he did not even believe in keeping the feast day. Maybe he was annoyed she had mentioned it? She swallowed and peeped over the top of the blanket. He gave a muffled exclamation and strode over to the bed, scooping her up, bedclothes and all.
“My lord!” Mathilde squeaked as he bore her out of the room. “If —— if there are no women’s clothing to be had, I am more than happy to dress in boys’,” she suggested in a quavering voice. He muttered something, but she did not catch it.
Thinking it would be prudent, she lapsed into silence at this point. He was carrying her down a flight of stone steps with seeming little effort. Mathilde tried not to worry what anyone they came across would think of the peculiar sight she presented. However, any servants fled before them as Lord Martindale strode down a series of long corridors flanked with suits of armor, axes and crossed swords adorning the walls. Mathilde was just wondering if Robin was already up and about, when they rounded a corner and she recognized the large arched doorway that led to the Great Hall. She blinked when he strode right through it and crossed the vast room, not stopping until he reached the fireplace she remembered from the previous evening. A fire blazed there already.
“Chair!” he bellowed, coming to an abrupt halt. There was a scuffle behind them, and a scraping of something against the floorboards. Lord Martindale grunted, and then turned about and deposited her carefully into a chair.
“Fetch a small table and some repast!” he bellowed at the pale servant who was hovering nervously nearby. Mathilde, reached for her slipping blanket, but he was there before her, tugging it up to cover her shoulders. “You’ll get warmer presently,” he muttered in a low voice.
“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you, my lord,” she added, sinking back into the seat.
“Draw your feet up under you,” he said gruffly. “You’re small enough.” That was true, thought Mathilde, for the chair was huge, but it was hardly dignified. With difficulty, swathed in so many blankets, she rearranged her limbs so her legs were folded underneath her on the seat.
A little table appeared beside her, bearing bread and butter, honey and a soft-boiled egg. “Thank you.” Glancing around, she saw that she had been given a selection of the items on the large table in the center of the room. “Will you not join me in breaking your fast?” she asked, looking up at her husband. He shook his head, and she saw from his expression that he scorned the practice. In truth, it was not a widely eaten meal, but she had been used to having it at court.
“I ate a rich meal last evening,” he said grudgingly.
“Oh? Did you entertain for solstice eve?” she asked, reaching for a napkin and knife.
He snorted. “No.” At her swift enquiring glance, he added. “I attended a wedding.” His grim expression stopped her from asking after the wedded couple.
“How nice,” she said instead brightly. A heavy silence greeted her words. Perhaps not. To her surprise he did not move away, but instead stood a brooding presence at her side. Hastily, she set to buttering her bread. It was not white, like the loaves they served at court, but was much darker with seeds and grain embedded in it.
Feeling eyes on her, she let her gaze wander around the hall. A handful of servants straggled about the place, ostensibly fetching and carrying, but Mathilde could see her appearance had caused something of a stir. She was just dipping her knife into the honey, when she noticed Robin sat tucking into a plateful over at the main table. She raised a hand in greeting, and he returned the gesture with raised eyebrows. She gave a faint shrug. There was no explaining away her current situation. “Clothing” she mouthed at him. Robin glanced down significantly at the new burgundy tunic he was wearing.
Mathilde was just opening her mouth to explain she too had offered to wear boy’s raiment, when Lord Martindale growled out, “Eat your bread!” Obligingly, she lifted it to her mouth. The texture was rather chewy, but the flavor not unpleasant.
“Very nice,” she said. He grunted again. She picked the shell from the egg and ate a bite of that. “About that servant,” she started, tuc
king her hair behind her ears. For some reason, now that it was shorter, it seemed to have a very pronounced curl. When it had been long, there had been no suspicion of one. It was most strange.
“What about her?” Lord Martindale asked, seeming to come to a decision. He drew up a chair opposite her and sat sprawled in it, regarding her moodily.
“I do not think it quite fair to dismiss her like that. After all, it was I who could not shut the window…”
“She should have seen to it,” he said dismissing the subject abruptly. “What happened to your travelling party?”
Mathilde blinked at the rapid change of subject. “Travelling party?” she repeated doubtfully. He gave a short nod. “It consisted of just myself and Robin.”
He looked frankly disbelieving. “I understood the Doverdales to be an influential family at your fancy southern court,” he said flatly. “You can scarcely expect me to believe that.”
No, that probably was expecting a bit much, Mathilde acknowledged, setting down her boiled egg. “Um,” she took a deep breath. “I … I decided that it was high time we met. After all, we have been married some four years now...” She looked up hopefully, to see how he had received that news.
His black brows drew together. “You’re saying,” he said slowly. “That you took this step unsanctioned?”
Oh dear. “After all,” she carried on desperately. “You are my husband, and does not your will overrule my mother’s in this regard?”
Lord Martindale sat staring at her. “Do you mean to tell me —?” he started, sounding disbelieving, and Mathilde had just steeled herself against his thunderstruck tone when the door to the Great Hall burst open and two men walked in, one burly giant with gray streaks in his beard, and the other who was younger and blonde, looking rather the worse for wear.