“Well, not if someone’s busy sulking and just determined to be miserable and ungrateful,” sniffed Avice.
Emeline said, “Papa is always lecturing us about greed and vanity, and he ought to know. Nicholas says Papa only arranged our marriage because he wants political power and influence but I don’t believe it. Dearest Peter told me much nicer things. I can’t see why Papa could possibly want power when he lives so far from Westminster, and has all those farms to watch over. Besides, he says the only power on earth is God’s.”
Tossing her curls and eyes to heaven, “So naturally, being so virtuous, you will decline any new gowns at all?” Avice sniggered. “And will either give them all to me, or send these gorgeous fabrics away at once?”
“I would never be so rude,” replied Emeline carefully. “And besides, I have to wear something. But Papa says –”
“If you think so highly of Papa, then you can go home with him and leave me here with all the wonderful new gowns and shoes and feathers and silk stockings,” objected Avice. “And don’t forget you owe me a good linen shift with a proper fitted bodice.”
“There won’t be time to have it made before you leave tomorrow. I’ll send it to you. Unless you come to visit me in the meantime. And I wish you would.”
Avice had shaken her head. “Papa would never allow such expense again for months. Though Sissy says I can come whenever I want to. She’s really nice. You’ll like staying with her.”
“She’s a fourteen year old baby, like you. That’s why you like her, and that’s why I probably won’t.”
Avice continued to shake her head. “I’m turned fifteen now, remember! But I still like her. Even though she says all those silly soppy things about Peter too, so you two can sit through the long evenings by the fire and sniff and sob together about what a wonderful person he was and how he was wickedly murdered.”
“At nearly twenty, I know a great deal about broken hearts,” Emeline had pointed out. “What could she know of true love? And Adrian is pompous, and has conceited ideas.”
“Just like you,” said Avice. “And like Papa too. Even bishops enjoy nice expensive clothes but Papa says it’s ungodly. Which reminds me, if Papa catches you looking at satins and brocades on a Sunday, he’ll start seething again. And I do so want a nice cheerful trip home, and not one of those awful glowering angry ones. Maman will be moaning about the horrid litter and the bumps in the road, and there won’t even be a sulky sister to keep me company.”
They had left in a bright shower of rain with the first shimmer of a rainbow. The earl, emerging only as far as the bailey, had wished them a speedy journey and returned quickly to the warmth indoors. Emeline had stood out beyond the drawbridge to see them ride off, but once their shadows had quite disappeared and the rickety trundle and splash of their progress had faded entirely, she hurried to the bedchamber she had been sharing with Avice, stared from the window at the newly sullen sky, and cried quietly into the gloom.
The following day Sir Adrian Frye and his sister had left with their much smaller retinue. It was still raining, the rainbow had long since given up the fight, and for saying his goodbyes and good wishes the earl did not even risk getting his head wet. “We shall see you again within two weeks, my lady,” Sir Adrian, already mounted, had assured Emeline.
Sysabel, water dripping from hood to lap and trickling from the horse’s mane, had nodded. “But I believe Nicholas seems much worse these past two days, and has probably relapsed. Such a fever, and some of those horrid sores reopened. The doctor blames Nick’s silly determination to get out of bed too early, and has warned him not to travel in case infection sets in, and then – well amputation would be the only way to save his life. It’s a warning to everyone,” she glanced dolefully at her brother, “not to indulge in foolish self-indulgence. I’m told Nicholas saved his father’s life, which I find very difficult to believe, but perhaps it was courage after all. But now, at the very least he’ll be scarred forever.”
“He’s already scarred for life,” Adrian pointed out.
Sysabel frowned. “All the more reason not to be scarred twice. Nicholas is always so irresponsible, you know.”
On the fourth day of March, being the feast of St. Owen, the Earl of Chatwyn left his suffering son and his ruined castle, and with a sigh of relief rode south towards Westminster and King Richard’s court. His smile widened as the battered shadows of his own home receded behind him and he began to hum to himself, ignoring the pained glances of his retinue. He left the castle depleted, for he took more than half his senior ranking household with him, half or more of the already diminished stores and in particular the best Burgundy. He also travelled with virtually all the castle’s remaining movable comforts. His clothes and luxuries had also been destroyed by fire, but he had time to order more, with every intention of acquiring a lavish excess once he reached London.
The empty spaces he left behind him shrank quietly into desolation. Repairs and rebuilding had begun, but with a slow plod rather than a busy bustle, for the dour weather made efficiency difficult and there was no lord to chase the workmen. Nicholas, sweating in an overheated chamber beneath a sticky layer of medications, lay increasingly feverish, barely aware of his father’s abrupt absence. He did not leave his bedchamber.
Emeline did not go to his bedside. She wandered alone.
The Keep, although no longer deserted at all times, still echoed with tumbling wood and plaster, and Emeline did not return there to search for any remaining belongings. Martha and her young maid Petronella had been left to attend her, but after a week of speaking only to servants and the castle’s timid priest, Emeline was finally informed that her husband intended travelling to Nottingham on the 16th day of March, weather permitting, and that she should make herself ready to leave early on that morning. There was no accompanying suggestion that she visit him prior to departure. She spent some days organising the packing, since there was little else to do, and she now had several gowns and a good collection of additional finery to carry with her, each item grander than the next. She had only worn two of the four new gowns, and gold damask was hardly appropriate for sitting alone in the small dining hall, creeping sadly through deserted passageways, nor while huddling in her bed to cry.
It was late in the afternoon two days before departure when the body squire David Witton came with a message, asking if the lady would be so kind as to attend her husband in his lordship’s private chamber within the hour.
She sat where she was with a lapful of stockings, garters and stomachers, looked up, immediately opened her mouth to say no, then quickly remembered her manners and changed her mind. She therefore appeared at the door to the bedchamber a little flustered and a little pink. The new gown she was wearing was also pink but Nicholas did not appear unappreciative.
“No more burn scabs I see, madam. Delightful, come in, shut the door and share my supper. You can’t avoid me forever, you know.” He was lying out on the bed, but relaxed and at ease, propped up against a welter of pillows and no longer beneath the covers. Indeed, he was dressed for the first time since the wedding.
Emeline gazed down at him. “You look better yourself, my lord.”
“I shall never look better, as you very well know,” Nicholas smiled. “But the burns are healed, except for a few remaining sores on my arms. Hopefully I won’t relapse again. So although my doctors don’ sanction it, I believe I’m now well enough to travel.” He paused, adding, “I’ve left you sadly solitary these past weeks. But since you’ve also avoided me, I doubt you’ve any objections.”