“For a man who tells me he loves me,” Emeline mumbled, looking down at her toes, “You’re very pessimistic, my love. But you’ll find a nice man, won’t you, for Avice? She’s such a sweet and trusting little thing, and is so hopeful.”
She had seated herself on the side of the bed where the rumpled covers were thrown back a little in acknowledgement of the warm afternoon. Nicholas reached out and clasped her hand. “I’ve a couple of decent men in mind. Avice has a dower to attract half the kingdom, making her suddenly as beautiful as a princess.”
“Maman will want to supervise the final choice. But,” Emeline remembered, “Avice has some very odd ideas about Maman.”
“Avice has some odd ideas about everything. I shall buy her a blue velvet cloak lined in sable and trimmed in gold thread. She’ll be happy for evermore.”
Emeline shook her head. “But poor Sissy says she’ll never be happy again.”
The sun through the half closed shutters was in his eyes. “I’ll find her a good man, and eventually she’ll love her children. In the meantime, my sweet, we’ll be back at Chatwyn, and awaiting our own first child.”
Emeline whispered, “And will you truly love me after that then, Nicholas.”
He looked down at her, leant, and kissed her forehead. “Oh, my love. Listen to me.” She peeped up, his breath warm across her eyes. His face was creased into pale lines of pain, tiredness and concern, but his bright blue eyes were earnest with care and sincerity. Then he smiled, and much of the pain seemed to fade. “I can’t kiss you properly,” he murmured, “or my bandages will blind you and I’ll drip blood onto your very small nose. I can’t caress you, for I have two fingers less for the task, and those that remain are as numb as a frozen trout. I certainly cannot make love to you, for I’ve a knee that won’t bend or hold me up, I can’t walk and I’m as dizzy as an impotent drunkard. So sadly I just lie here like a useless slug, bemoaning my fate.” But he grinned, belying his own words. Then he gave the lie further, leaned down and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “But I swear to this, my beloved. I have learned to adore you, to treasure you, respect and admire you. You have saved my life both with your kindness, and with your courage. But more importantly, you’ve saved my life by being my wife, and by loving me when few others do.”
Emeline blinked away sudden tears. “Oh, Nicholas.”
“You’ve no idea,” he continued softly, “how much I missed you on that last mad ride down to the south coast.”
“Oh, Nicholas my love,” Emeline repeated, clutching at his unbandaged hand and entwining her fingers with his. “It is wonderful – just glorious – to hear you say such things. But however much you missed me, my dearest, can have no comparison – none whatsoever – to how much I missed you.”
“There is a poker, I believe,” he told her, the smile lighting his eyes, “over there by the hearth, for I remember one of the pages poking at the fire before you turned up and I sent them all away. And I certainly remember how dangerous you can be with a poker in your hand. So arm yourself, my sweet, and we can battle over who missed who the most.”
“I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep,” she insisted.
“A lie.” Nicholas shook his head and the bandage slipped. “I have never known your appetite to diminish for any reason, and you sleep like a child in its crib, muttering in your dreams every might. I refuse to believe that even total misery could make any difference.”
“Oh Nicholas,” Emeline smiled through her tears. “I always dream of you.”
Mistress Sysabel Frye lay very straight on the bed, her back flat to the feather mattress, her arms crossed over her breasts, her eyes closed. It was how she had last seen her brother. Gazing at him in the open lead lined coffin, she had wanted to lean over and kiss his cheek, but had been afraid, and done nothing. She had been crying for a long time.
Sysabel wondered if Adrian had ever known what she truly thought of him, and how she had never admired him as much as he surely deserved. She then wondered about her parents, whom she could barely remember, but hoped had loved her. She wondered about her own unborn and massacred baby, a little girl she had secretly called Sara, but which had never been baptised, nor had lived to know that her mother missed her. She wondered whether an unbaptised child would wander forever in Purgatory, as the priests had once told her. She wondered if she would ever have other children, and be free to love them as a mother should. But, since it would be the hated Nicholas and Uncle Symond who would find her a husband, she wondered if they would purposefully find her a vile man who would beat her and bring her more misery and no joy.
Most of all she wondered about Peter, and what life would have been like had they married, brought up little Sara as a Chatwyn beauty, inherited the grand castle and shared the joy that she now knew she would never know.
The tears which she had wept for many days continued to streak across her face, dampening her pillows and making her nauseas. So she wondered whether, once she was able to stop weeping, she might have the courage to murder Nicholas, and send him unshriven to join the brother he had wronged, and the cousin he had deserted.
But she knew, as she lay very still and stared into the back of her eyelids, that she would never have the courage. Not even to kill herself.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The castle’s stark granite, aged plaster, old oak and wide moat welcomed home its masters. No stench of fire, smoke or ashes hung in its winding passages or spoiled the new clean lime wash. Repairs blended, though less invisible perhaps where bright brick now jutted against the original grandeur of limestone, buttresses were pristine hewn, glass shone sunshine bright as new oriel windows jutted far larger than the tiny unglazed insets of before, and doors were fresh built and brass hinged. The household was waiting beneath the portcullis, excited, giggling and nudging one to the other, watching Lord Nicholas and his young wife come riding home, their entourage dazzling behind them.
Half a mile of baggage, servants and mounted guards with trumpets and banners trailed through the Leicestershire villages to the cheerful interest of the villagers. Sunbeams sought out the glint of bridle and spurs. Harry, Rob and Alan rode in the train, not as part of the armed guard but as retainers, their weapons tucked beneath their capes.
David Witton had remained behind, taken into Jerrid’s service, although only while his lordship completed his recovery. “It will only be for a week or two,” Nicholas told him. “But for now my uncle has need of a man he can trust.”
“And you do not, my lord? Forgive me, but you still cannot walk unaided, and they say there may soon be war. There’s talk of a French invasion, and I’ve heard that his highness already expects it.”
“Expects it and has denounced Tudor as the traitor that he is,” Alan Venter interjected. “Though most folk dismiss the danger as too small to worry over.”
Harry, heel out of his hose, was hopping from stable to stall, collecting his belongings for the journey. Rob, seated on an upturned barrel, regarded his brother. “War? Who’s worrying? We’s ready. I never fought in them battles at Tewkesbury and thereabouts. I’ll be keen to show my metal, my lord, and so will Harry.”
Nicholas leaned on the crutch he still used. “There’ll be fighting of some sort if the French have anything to do with it. They’re holding Dorset hostage and there’s clearly a reason for that.”
“Payment will be the satisfaction of seeing England in disarray,” muttered David.