understand it, mistress?”
Merielle sighed, smoothing the soft green fabric over her thighs. She had not meant to let that out. Preventing a further explanation, a diversion of sounds turned their heads towards the covered walkway that bordered the courtyard and Merielle swung her legs down, ready to stand at Sir Adam’s entrance, her hands already welcoming. The gesture was not wasted, but it was not the expected brother-in-law.
“Gervase. You’re back already?”
“I came immediately. Scarce had time to brush the dust off.”
Two lies at once, but she smiled her sweetest. “I’m flattered, sir. Welcome. Have you eaten?”
Gervase of Caen was one of those responsible for the supplies of food that passed through the king’s household each day. Such a man never went unfed for long, not in any sense of the word. He took her hands in his and kissed them individually. Slowly. Then her two cheeks. Then her mouth. His smile was intimate. “Enough to keep me upright, that’s all. What delicacies do you have to offer me, Mistress Merielle St Martin of Canterbury?”
An obvious answer sprang to her lips, but Bonard of Lincoln’s red scarf and baleful eye were rising over Gervase’s right shoulder like an angry sunrise and she would not ignore him. She swung their hands in his direction, prompting the handsome young man to remember his courtesies.
Gervase bowed. “Master Bonard, forgive my interruption, if you please. Another of your creations, is it? Ah, such talent. Will you continue?” Gallantly, he waved a hand, inviting the poet to resume his recital despite the discouraging retention of Merielle’s hand in his own. At twenty-six years old, his seniority over Merielle could have been taken for more than five years. His sleek fair hair curled obediently over the blue velvet silk-lined hood of his short tunic, a pleated and scalloped creation that did not, nor was meant to, cover his neatly muscled buttocks, or the bulge at the front. The pink and blue part-coloured hose clung to his legs and showed no sign of contact either with saddle or with dusty road, but his own fair skin was creased, and professed a world of experience in its folds which allowed him to ignore the attention-seeking red scarf and to quench his invitation with a subdued chatter against which the Latin stood no chance.
Merielle withdrew her hand, hoisting up the silver nutmeg by its chain, caressing its jewelled surface as they sat, pleased that the one who had given it should see it being worn. “You know that I’m expecting my brother-in-law, don’t you, Gervase?” she whispered.
“He’s not arrived yet?”
“No, I’ve been expecting him all this week. The second week after Easter, he said, and here we are, a week after Low Sunday and he’s still not appeared. I’ve been preparing and packing and tying up ends all day, but still no word.”
“Well, you won’t be travelling this side of Monday, will you? He’ll not want to set off back to Winchester again as soon as he’s arrived.”
“No, indeed. He’s not a young man, you know.”
He poked a finger at the silver ball in her hand, chuckling. “No, he’s not, is he? So there’ll still be a place for me, will there, even if you decide to marry him?”
“Shh.” She smiled and looked away, nodding to Bess to remove the wheel and the basket of fleece. The answer should have been a firm no, of course, but even after eight months of pondering the question, she was still undecided whether to accept Sir Adam’s informal proposal or whether to continue her pleasant life with her own flourishing business and a flattering supply of male admirers.
That Sir Adam Bedesbury was amongst these was in no doubt, but Merielle was not so oblivious that she could not see the advantages to him of marrying his late wife’s elder sister and thereby obtaining an instant step-mother-cum-aunt for his nine-month-old daughter. His grief had been genuine, but had not prevented him, only a month after his wife’s death from milk-fever in July last year, from suggesting to Merielle that she might consider taking her place.
Emotionally sapped by her sister’s birthing and death in quick succession, Merielle had almost given in to the potent urge to take care of the little creature who had shown such dependence upon her mothering, especially since her own recent losses. But she had not been able to overcome her doubts then, and had allowed Sir Adam to escort her home to Canterbury with only an assurance that she would give the matter some thought—how could she not?—and that she would return this year to see her niece, with an answer. His message had arrived before Easter to say that he would shortly be in Canterbury on some business for the king, whose Master of Works at Winchester he was, and that he would be happy to take her back with him as soon as it was concluded.
“I’ve never bumped into him,” Gervase of Caen said probingly.
“I don’t suppose you would.” Merielle removed the coiled end of her heavy black plait from his fingers, then the silk ribbon that bound it. “He spends most of his time at Winchester on the renovations to the royal apartments after that fire.”
“Which is why the king stays at Wolvesey Palace, I suppose.”
“Yes, I believe so. I expect the archbishop’s palace is as well appointed as any of the king’s are. But Sir Adam’s manor is outside the West Gate in the suburbs, with a large garden and orchards and green fields beyond.” Her eyes roamed the shadowed courtyard, seeing the greenness superimposed upon the stone. Here, it was solid, comfortable and convenient, and she had converted it to her own taste during her widowhood. But it had not been her choice. The lure of a country estate and clean air was strong, but there were those here who relied on her for their employment.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But what of him?”
Her sigh told him that the doubts of last year were still firmly in place, and the construction he placed upon it were typically masculine. “I can guess. The thought of having an older man in your bed instead of…”
Merielle’s eyes flashed wide open in alarm, showing him the startling blue-whites around the velvet-brown irises. “Shh!” She darted a quick look towards Bonard’s one searching eye. She knew his teasing. He would not have embarrassed her before her household.
Even during puberty she had never been the shy maiden but had suddenly blossomed like a luscious bloom and, at fifteen, had been eager for marriage, though she had wished that the man her father had chosen for her, a middle-aged but wealthy Lincoln merchant, had looked more like Gervase of Caen. In 1353, the same year as her January wedding, another outbreak of the terrible pestilence had swept across the country. Merielle’s father and husband had been amongst the first to go, leaving her rudderless but extremely wealthy and healthy with properties in both York and Lincoln and jointures she had not expected to have the use of for at least twenty years.
One who had come seeking Merielle’s glowing voluptuousness and statuesque beauty was Philippe St Martin of Canterbury who, although totally inexperienced in the ways of women, offered her youth, security, wealth and a comfortable escape from an unknown city of so many bad memories. Even now, Merielle could scarcely recall how the fumbling and inept young man had managed to father a child on her, though she could well recall his embarrassed jubilation at the news, and if that one act had been a disappointment to her, the thought of bearing a child made up for it.
Sadly, the future had come to a bleak halt when the overcome father-to-be left his newly pregnant wife to give thanks for the event on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, as if it had more to do with fate than the physical performance. That had been the last she had seen of him, receiving the news during the summer that he had died from a snake
