“Without me,” said Emeline, standing and glaring at him. “You have no power to force me, and I choose not to return to my parents. I will go where I wish.”
“You will not, my dearest,” said another voice behind her. “You will ride with us to safety on the morrow,” Martha said, “as his lordship has instructed. It is right and proper, and you know it and will not argue, not with me nor with those who love you. And now, my own precious, you will eat a little, and cry a little if you must, and then come upstairs with me while I dress your hair and sing to you.”
White lipped, Emeline gazed back down at the scribbled message in her hand. “He says he’ll come and get me when he’s sure he’s all right,” she mumbled. “But what am I to do if he doesn’t come? Believe him dead in a gutter? Will I never know?”
“He has promised to send regular messages,” David said.
“Promised? I don’t believe his promises anymore.” Her fingers curled around the screwed paper. “If he can lie about this – of all things. So his mother died, and the other children. So he has terrible memories. But he didn’t die. He was there, but he survived. And so, I suppose, did Peter.”
“I understand, being the eldest son,” the squire answered, “the young Lord Peter was sent away at the first signs and went to stay with his father at Westminster. But it is true, Lord Nicholas remained and survived. I am told he was a little unwell but not for long. Then the pestilence moved on, leaving the child alone to mourn the passing of his family.”
“If he dies this time,” Emeline whispered, “I will never, ever forgive him.”
The journey west, laborious through mud and overflowing fords, improved a little as they headed into the setting sun and its steadily later hour. Finally the weather brightened and a mild spring breeze bundled the clouds into small fluff puffs across the blue.
It was Avice who first ran from the house to the busy stables, grabbing at her sister’s arm. “I heard you were coming, but I didn’t believe it at first. Then Papa said you were just hours away, so of course I knew it was true. So why did you leave the castle? He’s got rid of you already?”
The baroness stood at the doorway. “Avice, be quiet. Come indoors at once, Emma. Hippocras and oat cakes will be served in my chambers. Avice, you may come up too, but only if you promise to behave with dignity.”
“I don’t believe in promises anymore,” muttered Emeline.
“Which is just as well,” said Avice, dancing alongside. “Since I have a great deal to say, and keeping dignified and quiet would be quite beyond my power.”
Emeline stood gazing at her mother and sister, and knew she was crying when her mother stepped immediately forwards and embraced her. “My dearest, has it been so hard? Whatever has happened, remember this is your sanctuary and you are safe with us. At this very moment, your Papa is in the chapel, praying for you.”
“Praying I won’t stay too long.”
The baroness sniffed. “There’s no need for childish retorts, my dear, whatever problems you have been facing. You are not the only one to suffer you know. We have recently heard the most terrible news, for her sovereign highness the queen is dead these several days gone, and the court is deep in mourning.”
Emeline blinked. “Of the pestilence?”
“Oh, good gracious no,” her mother said, pulling away. “I believe it was the bloody cough, although we have not heard all the details of course and rumour rides a faster horse than truth. I met the dear lady on only two occasions, but she was most beautiful, and most gracious. I hear the king is devastated.”
“It is a cruel and wretched world,” said Emeline.
She was bustled indoors, her cloak taken, and led up the staircase, Martha close behind, and Avice calling, “If you shut the door against me, I will scream.”
Then the baroness, turning aside, said, “I must see to the arrangements first, my dear, and will be with you shortly. Wait for me upstairs, drink some spiced wine while it is still warm, and please rest.” There was a small fire lit and hippocras steamed in its earthenware jug, the shutters were down, a bleary sunshine searched the chamber’s distant corners, and Emeline sat on the padded settle close to the hearth, wiping her eyes on her sister’s proffered kerchief. She could not rest, but resisted Avice’s questions until finally her mother reappeared, and sat beside her. Clearly the baroness had been informed by the servants something of what had happened.
It was after a long but erratic explanation that the baroness leaned back in her chair and sighed. “A sad tale, my dear, but it seems young Nicholas has behaved with chivalry as he should. To bring you into danger would have been wicked. I trust we see him again soon.”
“But he wasn’t right, Maman. Everything was wrong.” Emeline shook her head a little wildly. “He was the one who explained the terrible danger and insisted on running away. Then he contradicts himself and insists on looking after two children he’d never seen in his life before.”
“Saving sick children! How noble,” breathed Avice. “Just like Sir Lancelot.”
“I’m sure Lancelot never did anything so silly,” sniffed Emeline. “Certainly not in the stories I’ve read. And anyway, Nicholas never saved anyone either. The children died. And now perhaps he will too.”
“Now use a little common sense, my dear,” said her mother, refilling Emeline’s cup. “You say the poor boy’s mother and siblings died right in front of him, and him just a child himself. The horror of that would certainly make him decide flight was the only solution when faced with the disease once again. Confronted with the pestilence, every man flees. But then to be confronted with two little children in such pain, and of course to remember his young brother and sister who he was unable to help at the time. It must have been a bitter test, Emma.”
“If you stop crying,” complained Avice, “you could come to my bedchamber and tell me everything. It all sounds like such an adventure.”
“I think I am going to cry forever,” sobbed Emeline.
“But I am certainly comforted,” her mother continued, once again taking her in her arms, “to hear how well you’ve accustomed yourself to marriage at last, just as you should. Now you must pray for young Nicholas to be saved. Besides, your father will wish to hear your story.”
“I don’t want to see Father Godwin.” She shook her head, laying it against her mother’s shoulder. “He’ll lecture me for hours. And I don’t want to see Papa either. He’ll lecture me too and I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m horribly miserable and I want sympathy, not lectures on doing my duty. If Papa needs explanations he can ask Nicholas’s body squire instead. David Witton is very self-righteous, but he’s incredibly loyal to Nicholas. I saw nothing of him on the journey, but he must be around somewhere.”
“Mister Witton never arrived, my dear,” her mother told her. “Indeed, I have been informed that once he saw you safely on your way, he left the party. Still following your husband’s instructions, I presume, and I imagine he set off at once for whatever meeting place was previously arranged. He might also carry the seeds of the illness I suppose, so could not come here. He must be staying with your husband, either to look after him while he is ill, or to accompany him back here when free to do so.”