‘Not truly, no, but now and then, I have dreams, and, on occasions such as this morning, a sense of being threatened. You don’t find that… heretical?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t have the gift myself, but my mother did, a little. She kept it a secret from everyone but me, for fear that she might be branded a witch.’ There was silence for a moment or two while I munched my way through yet another oatcake.
When I had swallowed the final crumb, I said, ‘Now it’s my turn to pose a question. What grudge does that villain hold against you?’
I thought for a moment that she might refuse to answer, or tell me that it was none of my business, that breaking bread with her did not give me the fight to pry into her affairs. I believe, indeed, that she did momentarily entertain the notion, for she closed her lips tightly and shot me a speculative glance from beneath lowered lids. But almost immediately, she relented, opened her eyes wide and smiled.
‘When my father died five years ago, I allowed Innes Woodsman, somewhat against my better judgement, to live here, in return for his work about the holding. As I told you, he had helped my father in his latter years and knew the running of the place. I had not lived here myself since my ninth birthday, shortly after the death of my mother. Understandably, I suppose, Innes thought himself well set up for the rest of his days, and, indeed, I should probably have left him here, undisturbed, if only because I was too lazy to dispose of the property.’ She took an oatcake from the dish and began to nibble it, absent-mindedly, her face grown suddenly sombre. ‘At least… Perhaps that was true for a while, but of latter years …’
Her voice tailed away into silence, and she stared past me, lost in thought, lost to her surroundings.
‘Of latter years?’ I prompted, when my curiosity could no longer be contained.
Grizelda started. ‘I’m sorry, Chapman, my wits were wool-gathering. What was I saying?’
‘That you let Innes Woodsman stay here as tenant because you were at first too lazy to get rid of the holding, but that after that…?’
‘Ah, yes. After that,’ she added, deliberately lightening her tone, ‘I think I must have experienced one of your premonitions, or something like. It was almost as if I knew that one day I should need to return here again.’
‘Which you did.’
‘Yes. Some three months since, it became necessary for me to do so.’ The smile she gave me was palpably false, and the slight quaver in her voice indicated suppressed emotion. ‘I had, therefore, to turn Innes Woodsman out, and I’m afraid that I did not do it very gently. I was not in a… a gentle mood at the time. He found himself forced once more to sleep rough, bereft of the shelter he had come to take for granted.’
I could see that she felt guilty about what had happened and hastened to offer what comfort I could. Leaning my elbows on the table, I said, ‘But the holding belongs to you, as it belonged to your father? It is not held in fief from some landlord?’
This time, her smile was genuine. ‘Do I say yea or nay to that? Yes to your first question, no to your second.’
‘Well, then!’ I encouraged her. ‘You were within your rights. There is nothing to blame yourself for.’
She shook her head, still smiling. ‘As I said just now, I could have treated Innes with greater kindness, shown more consideration for his plight.’ She rose from the bench to fetch me a mazer of ale from the barrel which stood in one corner.
‘You are too severe on yourself’ I answered. ‘There was nothing you could have said or done which would have made him less resentful. All in all, it was probably kinder to be blunt with him than try to sweeten the unpalatable.’
She laughed, returning to the table and setting the brimming mazer down in front of me. She did not resume her seat, but stood at the end of the table, watching me while I drank.
I was thirstier than I knew and drained the bowl in one go, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘That’s good ale,’ I said, when I had finished.
Grizelda took the mazer to refill it. ‘Oh, you’ll get none of your inferior brews here, and no sallop, either.’ She glanced disparagingly around her. ‘This place may look what it is, Chapman, a hovel, but I’ve been used to better things’ Her tone was mocking, but also slightly bitter.
I replied gently: ‘This is no hovel, believe me I know. I’ve seen plenty on my travels.’
She made no answer, going to the door and looking out while I drank my second cup of ale. Seen in profile, she looked a little older than she did when face to face, but she was a handsome creature, for all that. I experienced the familiar stirring of attraction, but hastily suppressed it. I was too recently a widower to bed another woman, and felt that it would be a betrayal of Lillis’s memory to do so too soon.
Self-enforced continence was a sop to my conscience, but it did not prevent me from wanting Grizelda Harbourne.
Becoming aware of my scrutiny, she half-turned her head to look at me. After a moment, she came back to the table, smiling faintly, as though she had guessed my thoughts.
‘I have to thank you, Chapman,’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve done nothing,’ I protested. ‘I would have done more, had you allowed me to have my way. I would have had Innes Woodsman in custody by now, in the castle gaol.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ She fidgeted with the fringed ends of the leather girdle about her waist. ‘I know I must have said things which have aroused your curiosity, but you have curbed the desire to ask questions, and it’s for that that I’m grateful. Mine has not been an easy life. There have been events …’ Here, her voice became suspended by emotion, and it was a while before she was able to go on. But at last, she had sufficient command over herself to continue, ‘There have been events which I find it too painful to discuss. And recent months have been the blackest of all.’
She had grown extremely pale, and for a moment, I was afraid that she might faint. I rose quickly to my feet, ready to support her if she fell, but my assistance was unnecessary.
She recovered herself almost immediately, blushing for her weakness. As the tide of colour surged up beneath her skin, I noticed again the scar on the right side of her face, the thin, white line running from eyebrow to cheek. Conscious of the direction of my gaze, she put up a hand to touch it.
‘I fell out of a tree as a child, cutting my face open on a branch as I did so. Such a trivial accident for which to bear so permanent a reminder.’
‘You could have broken your neck,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t call that trivial.’
She shrugged. ‘I was young, not above thirteen summers, and you fall easily at that age. Bones are greener. But you’re right. I could have suffered more hurt than I did. However, all I have to show for my carelessness is the scar, and that, I flatter myself, is not too noticeable.’
‘No, indeed.’ I regarded her admiringly. ‘You are a handsome woman. You don’t need me to tell you that. But, forgive me, why have you never married? I can’t believe that the men of these parts are so blind that not one of them has asked you.’
She gave a deep, throaty laugh, not displeased by my temerity. But her tone was astringent as she answered, ‘What dower do I have, Master Chapman? Who’d have me?’
‘You have this holding, an attraction to many men I should have thought.’
I saw at once that I had offended her, and recollected her contempt for the place – her reference to it as a hovel – and her claim to have known ‘better things’. I realized then that her aspirations in marriage would be equally lofty, and that she would be unwilling to settle for any cottar or woodsman, not even, perhaps, for a respectable tradesman. And failing any offer from a higher rank, she preferred dignified spinsterhood.