him with cheers and questions, Hester stepped back and took a long, hard look at him. Yes, she could see the resemblance now, even though he was smiling as he shook hands and returned good wishes. It was a broad, warm smile, taking the place of the scowls, fury and mockery which were the only expressions she had ever seen on his face until now.
Hester could not share in this joyful scene. She felt numb and terribly alone. Mechanically, she turned away and allowed her feet to lead her towards the house. Suddenly she felt like a stranger in her own home, superfluous, unwanted. The unfairness of it all stabbed at her chest. After all, he was the one who had deserted them. She was the one who had kept Abbascombe alive during the long years of the crusade. How could they welcome him back after the way he had betrayed them all?
In a daze she wandered into the kitchen. She often came here first after a cold day out of doors. The warmth and delicious smells suffusing the little stone outbuilding, separated from the main house for fear of fire, always seemed so cheering and welcoming. Today, though, the normal busyness had become a frenzy of activity. Fritha, the cook, had been expecting to be feeding a hall full of hungry labourers after their day’s work in the fields—and suddenly she was faced with the return of her long-lost lord. Normally level-headed, it was no wonder she was a little flustered by the news.
‘Oh, isn’t it wonderful, my lady? Maud says he’s just like his father was at that age.’
‘Does she? Of course, I can’t judge.’
‘Oh, my lady. And to think we all believed he might be dead, begging your ladyship’s pardon. But after all those years and not a word.’
‘That’s quite all right, Fritha, many crusaders will never return from the Holy Land. It was always possible that my lord might have been one of them.’
Oh, why, why did he have to come back and spoil everything she’d worked for? Just when the worst was over and she could start to enjoy life at Abbascombe, her Abbascombe. No, not hers anymore. His Abbascombe. She’d have to get used to that. By law, everything belonged to him. Even she herself belonged to him, Hester thought with a shudder.
How could anyone call that justice? He didn’t care for her or for the manor. He’d made that clear when he deserted them both. He had left her behind to struggle and strive, to dirty her hands with the Abbascombe soil, to cover them with blisters and chilblains from hard work out of doors in all weathers. She had earned Abbascombe. By rights it was hers. And if he thought she would give it up easily, he had a lesson to learn.
No doubt he intended to lock her up indoors with tapestry work and harp-playing, while he strutted about the fields—her fields. Of course, he’d be sure to make a mess of everything again. He would leave misery and destruction in his wake as he had ten years before.
‘My lady? Which would you like, my lady?’ Fritha was asking, looking into Hester’s face with a frown.
‘Which?’ Hester repeated absent-mindedly.
‘The venison or the beef?’ Fritha suggested, her tone making it clear this wasn’t the first time of asking. Hester looked blank.
‘For my lord’s dinner tonight. Of course, it will mean dinner will have to be served later than usual. If only he had arrived earlier in the day, I could have prepared something really special.’ Fritha had obviously been running through all the options, while Hester’s mind had been churning.
‘But we’re saving those meats for Easter, aren’t we?’ Hester returned.
‘But, my lady—’
‘No, no, don’t break into the stores, Fritha. That bruet we had last night was perfectly good. Haven’t we got any of that left?’
‘There’s plenty left, my lady, that’s what I’m giving all the villagers. But you can’t give that to his lordship on his homecoming. It’s not good enough for him.’
‘We looked on rabbit bruet as a great treat three years ago, have you forgotten?’
‘I know, my lady, but—’
‘If it’s good enough for all of us, it’s good enough for him. The bruet will be fine, Fritha.’
‘But—’
‘I will not break into our stores for him and his uncouth friends,’ Hester snapped, her sharp, angry words making Fritha jump. ‘Rabbit bruet is more than they deserve.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she shouldn’t have said them, but she couldn’t help herself.
Feeling Fritha’s surprise heavy in the air, Hester turned her back and strode out of the kitchen, giving the cook no more chances to cajole or argue. She paused for a moment in the covered walkway which linked the kitchen to the hall. There was the hiss-hiss of whispering, which had begun as soon as they believed her to be out of earshot.
She couldn’t make out the words, but she guessed the purport. What’s wrong with her? Not pleased? Didn’t she want her husband back? A man other women would do anything to please—and no doubt many had. But she wouldn’t step an inch out of her way to please him. He could go back to his paramours in the Holy Land for all she cared. In fact, she wished he would.
Hester continued on, along the passageway, through the buttery and into the great hall. She paused at the entrance, glancing up at the timber beams arching high above. The hall was deserted, but soon the dark rider would be here, presiding over his homecoming feast. Hester marched purposefully across the rush-strewn floor. As her feet fell on the soft rushes the scent of herbs wafted up. As she had ordered the day before, new rushes had been laid with sweet-smelling herbs from the garden. He would find nothing slovenly in her housekeeping. A thought flitted across her mind: she hoped he would not think the new rushes had been laid in his honour.
Of course, the perfect lady would have ordered the best of everything and hidden her feelings, Hester thought as she strode up the stone staircase, which rose at one end of the hall, leading up to her solar and the other chambers on the first floor. She knew full well that she wasn’t anyone’s idea of the perfect courtly lady—these years of coping alone had seen to that. Why should she pretend to be one of those soft, pliant creatures, when the world had forced her to become as hard as the Abbascombe rocks in order to survive the buffets of the stormy years?
What did she care if everyone knew the truth? Why should she pretend to be something she wasn’t? And why should she pretend to care for him after the way he had treated her?
Hester needed to be alone and the only place was her solar. With its sparse furnishings and magnificent view down over the fields to the sea, it was the only refuge now from all the flurry and excitement of this hollow homecoming.
As she reached the solar, though, she stopped short on the landing outside. The door was open and inside two of the girls were hurriedly changing the bedlinen, while two more were attempting to attach to the wall a moth-eaten old tapestry which she’d banished years before. It was a picture called The Betrothal and showed a knight kneeling to a lady in a garden of roses. Its sentimentality annoyed Hester intensely. In the middle of all this activity, Maud was behaving like a whirlwind, pulling old gowns from the chest, holding them up for examination, then discarding them on the floor.
‘What on earth is going on?’ Hester demanded, flinging back her plaits with a toss of the head, which reminded her that her hair was still caked with dried mud.
‘Oh!’ Maud jumped, turning to see her mistress. ‘We’re just doing
