Whichever ancestral Norman built this, Adelia thought, had been a nicer person than its late owner-the unlamented Lord Wolvercote’s taste would have run to a spiky grandeur.
“Don’t know as I’d mind having that ol’ cottage if as they’d give it me,” Gyltha said.
Adelia agreed; usually, she didn’t care where she lived as long as it was clean and functional and safe, but the charm of Wolvercote inspired in her a sudden and unwonted envy of Emma for possessing it.
They had come here instead of going straight to Glastonbury, partly because the road from Wells, to which their route from Wales had led them first, practically passed the manor’s approach, but mostly because Adelia was impatient to see Emma and tell her of the happy coincidence that would make them neighbors for a while. Also, she wanted to check on Roetger’s heel. It was June now, and they’d said good-bye in May.
The sky remained cloudless, and in such fields as could be seen over fruiting hedges, brown-faced, sweating men and women were cutting hay, causing an itchy, sweet-smelling dust to join that sent up by horses’ hooves meeting the dried surface of the roads.
Anyway, it would be getting dark by the time the cavalcade could reach the Pilgrim Inn at Glastonbury, which, for all the luxury Henry Plantagenet claimed for it, could hardly provide the comfort to hot, dusty, hungry, and thirsty travelers that Emma would extend to them.
King Arthur, Adelia thought, could wait; he’d waited some six hundred years-another day here or there wouldn’t hurt him.
She nodded at Captain Bolt to lead the way over the bridge. So that she’d be safe on the journey, the king had given her a military escort of half a dozen men, which included a trumpeter to blow a fanfare announcing her coming wherever she went. She’d be arriving in style.
The gatekeeper of Wolvercote’s lodge was suitably impressed and, when Bolt ordered him to tell the lady of the house that the Lord Mansur, Mistress Adelia, and their train wished to be received, went scampering across the moat’s pretty little bridge with his instructions.
His manner on his return was constrained. Awkwardly, he announced, “My lady will be pleased to admit my lord Mansur and Mistress Adelia, but their escort must remain here.”
Odd, Adelia thought. Perhaps Emma was being careful and wanted to be sure that the soldiers were friendly.
The gatekeeper winced slightly as Adelia gestured to Gyltha, who had Allie bouncing in her horse’s pannier, to follow them; she wasn’t going to leave those two behind.
A steward with a wand of office bowed the four of them into a hall as pleasantly proportioned as the house’s exterior.
Here, sun came only in shafts through the high windows. The thick stone of the walls, which was so warm outside, cooled the air, giving the room the greenish tint of a rock pool. A lovely oak staircase and fireplace, the furniture, and the setts of a rush-free floor gleamed with the deep patina of a century’s careful polishing. Perhaps too many scarlet and silver Wolvercote battle flags, some of them tattered, hanging from the timber-and-plastered ceiling took away from the room’s peace, but, presumably, Emma hadn’t yet had time to get rid of them.
“My lady begs you to wait,” the steward said. “She is employed in the solar going over the accounts with her cellarer but will attend you shortly.”
Again, odd, very odd. The Emma of old would have come rushing downstairs to meet them. Surely she wasn’t still jealous?
Adelia gave Gyltha an interrogative look. Gyltha shrugged.
They were left alone. After about a quarter of an hour, the steward appeared with cups and a jug of cooled ale on a tray, begged them to refresh themselves, and left.
More minutes went by without Emma’s appearance, or anybody else’s. Allie employed her time by climbing on an oak settle and jumping off it. There was no sign that another child was in the house; the only sound was the swish of a blade as somebody outside was cutting the grass.
Adelia became cross; this was deliberate rudeness. She went to the stairs to go up them, but at that moment a door at the top opened. A man with an apron came hurrying down, a ledger under his arm, doffed his cap to Adelia, and went out.
Another figure emerged onto the landing above. “Yes?” asked a female voice.
Adelia gave a brief bow and introduced herself and her companions. “Since the lord Mansur speaks little English, I am his interpreter, mistress,” she said. “We are here to see Lady Wolvercote.”
“I am Lady Wolvercote.”
“Ah.” This was the mother-in-law, then-a somewhat younger, well-dressed, and very much more formidable figure than the doting grandmother who’d taken shape in Adelia’s optimistic mind. Emma herself must be out somewhere.
That the woman coming down the stairs was mother to the rebellious murderer Henry had hanged, there was no doubt. She was nearly as tall, with the same imperious, handsome features. Dark eyes exactly like those of the man who had once dubbed Adelia a witch looked down at her now, and with something of the same distaste.
Adelia remembered that though Emma had never met her husband’s mother, she’d been impressed by her Norman ancestry, which went back to long before the Conquest. “She’s descended from Rollo the Ganger,” Emma had said admiringly.
Adelia hadn’t seen what was wonderful about descent from a Viking who had harried and pillaged Normandy until it was surrendered to him, but Emma, being the child of a tradesman, though a rich one, set store by noble heredity and seemed to think it added value to young Pippy’s descent, especially as it came down to him via the female line and not by way of his hated father’s.
This woman set store by it, too. Her look made Adelia conscious of the clothing she herself had managed to acquire on the journey-certainly better than that of the Welsh chieftain’s wife but still of very ordinary quality. However, she said politely, “I address the dowager Lady Wolvercote, do I?”
“You do not. I am the Lady Wolvercote. There is no other.”
“I mean your daughter-in-law, lady.”
“My daughter-in-law died five years ago.”
That was partly true, of course; Wolvercote had been previously married before forcibly wedding Emma, though the wife had died without bearing him any children.
Oh, dear, was this woman, too, going to oppose Emma’s claim to the manor? God prevent there having to be another trial by combat.
“I mean Emma, Lady Wolvercote,” Adelia persisted.
“I know of no such person.”
Adelia tried to be patient; the woman still wore mourning for her son, though her black silk bliaut allowed a scarlet underdress to peep through at the neck and skirt, echoing the colors of the Wolvercote battle flags.
“She sent you a letter… a sweet letter, I saw it… from Aylesbury. To say she would be coming.”
Lady Wolvercote inclined her head. “A letter arrived a while ago from a creature claiming to be my son’s wife-some whore, no doubt, trying to extract money.”
“No,” Adelia said, quietly, “she was not. She was bringing your grandson to meet you.”
“Then she would have wasted her breath. I receive no bastards in this house.”
The woman used the words “whore” and “bastard” without anger, as if she was merely stating facts. At no point did her expression change to wrinkle the excellent skin of her pale face, nor did her bejeweled folded hands make any gesture; her voice was as level as if she was giving everyday instructions to a servant. It was like exchanging remarks with a speaking statue. When she turned her head to look at Allie, who was making another attempt on the settle, Gyltha hurried forward in rescue, as if afraid the gaze would petrify the child into stone.
“Are you telling me that you didn’t receive her?” Adelia asked. “When was this?”