The bailiff sighed. “Look,” he said, “you need to find ways of getting to know her. Ways to get her alone so that you can both talk. Maybe take her hawking, or just out for rides sometimes.”
“Is that how you won Margaret?” the knight said, his eyes clouded with anxiety and doubt.
“No, I simply asked her father.”
“Well, shouldn’t I…”
“No, Baldwin. I was winning a young girl. You’re trying to get a woman, one who knows her own mind, possesses her own household, has her own land and wealth. You have to win her, not her relatives.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Then why do you look so worried?”
“I’d rather be riding into a battle than trying to take on this role, old friend. That’s why!”
Simon laughed, but then his face grew serious for a moment as he gazed ahead with a pensive expression, chewing his lip. “We’re not far. Come on, we’ll drop in on her now.”
“No, Simon, I think…”
“Come on, Baldwin. To battle!” the bailiff laughed, and to the knight’s abject misery, he turned to the servants and called, “Hugh! Edgar! We’re going to the Trevellyn house first, before going back to Furnshill.”
The bailiff was still grinning as they clattered up the hill to the Trevellyn manor, and his good humour did not fade as he banged on the door with his fist. It was only later, after they had entered, that the doubts began to assail him, but the thought had its inception with the opening of the front door, the rest was merely the gestation period.
When the door swung open, Simon found himself confronted by a pretty maidservant, a slim young woman of maybe twenty, with pert breasts and a cheeky smile. Her face was prettily framed by curling brown hair, and her lips parted in a smile as she saw him. Acknowledging her, Simon led his friend through to the hall, where both waited for the lady of the house to enter. Their servants waited with the horses in the stables, feeding them.
Upon the arrival of Angelina Trevellyn, Simon glanced at Baldwin expecting to see him step forward, but seeing his friend transfixed, he instead took a half-pace back. The knight appeared to be tongue-tied, standing as if in a dream as she approached, and Simon was pleased to see the way that the woman’s face changed on seeing Baldwin. It was as if her features were lighted by a subtle glow, and her step quickened as though she was keen to be close to the knight.
Looking at her, Simon felt a warm delight. It was not only her obvious pleasure at seeing Baldwin, it was also partly the sight of a woman in the perfection of her youth. There was no hardness to her. Her face, her body, all were composed of soft curves. Under the rich-looking blue tunic, her body moved with the grace and elegance of a well-bred Arab horse, all controlled energy carefully harnessed. Her hair was pulled back and today she was bare-headed, emphasising her wide brow, unmarked by lines, above narrow eyebrows. It was the eyes that immediately caught the interest, though.
To Simon they looked like twin chips of emerald, glinting in the firelight, not with cold arrogance, but with a warm and calm joy. Self-confident, self-possessed, she radiated a distinct and deliberate sexuality, and even Simon found it difficult to take his eyes from her.
While she chatted inconsequentially, she kept her eyes on the knight, hardly seeming to acknowledge the bailiff, and led them to chairs before the fire. Then she ordered wine, and it was then, when the maidservant returned with a jug and three pots, that Simon’s eyes quickly hardened. It was then that the idea took root.
Suddenly the whole room felt full of danger and risk, the warmth of their welcome hollow and empty. The bailiffs eyes glazed for an instant as he reviewed every moment since he and the knight had entered the place, and then focused back on his friend. He was talking to her and stammering as he invited her to join him in a day’s hawking. The bailiff watched the maid as she walked to the door, having filled their pots. Picking up his own, he rose.
“Excuse me, madam, but I find it a little warm. I’ll just go out for some air,” he said, though the others hardly noticed him. Leaving the room by the screens, he saw the girl walking into the buttery, and quickly strode after her.
In the little room, filled with pots, jars and barrels, he found the maid drawing a pot of beer for herself. As he entered, she turned quickly, then, seeing who it was, she gave him a quick smile, shooting a glance to the door behind him.
“I wanted to speak to you. What is your name?“
Her eyes dropped demurely. “Mary, sir.”
“You seem a very happy girl, Mary.”
“Thank you, sir. This is a happy household.”
“It is now, isn’t it?”
“Now, sir?”
“When I first came here, you were very different, you know.”
Her fingers began to play with a cord dangling from the neckline of her tunic. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“Oh, I think you do, Mary. I think you do.” He sat on a barrel. “Did he beat you often? I suppose that was not all he did, either, was it?”
“Beat me?” Her eyes seemed to grow large in her face as she stared at him, but not with confusion. There was complete understanding there.
“When I first saw you, you were a nervous, shy thing, scared and fretful. Not now, not since he died. Not since he stopped hitting you, is that it? And what about his wife? Did he beat her too? She wasn’t sad to see him dead either, was she?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
He spun around. There in the doorway was Angelina Trevellyn.
“You can go, Mary.” When the girl had scampered past, relieved to be free, the lady turned back on to the bailiff. “Well? Do you wish to interrogate me here, or shall we go back to the hall?” She picked up a jug, filled it with wine, and motioned with her hand towards the door.
Entering the room, the bailiff found Baldwin standing before the fire, his back to it, and staring at the door hopefully. Seeing Simon, his face fell a little, but then he grinned. At the sight of Mrs. Trevellyn behind, his face cleared and he smiled again.
“Please sit down, Baldwin,” she said, and pointed Simon to another chair before filling their pots with wine. “I have some things to tell you; things you may not like.”
The knight’s eyes moved over her, then flashed to Simon, black with suspicion. She carried on softly, sitting and resting her hands in her lap with an almost deliberate attempt at composure.
“Your friend is most astute, Baldwin. He has noticed the change in my house since your first visit. It is not surprising, really, but I should have admitted it to you before. It was not fair to let you think…” She paused for a moment, as if in sadness. Taking a deep breath, she carried on.
“Anyway, he is right to think that we are all much happier now. My husband, Baldwin, was a monster! He was a brute. He took me when I was young, and forced me to marry him. He trained the servants well, and beat them often when they displeased him, but he treated me the same! He thrashed me as if I was one of his hostlers! When he wished to, he ignored me and took the maids to his bed – and they dared not refuse him, just as I dared not complain.”
Baldwin stared at her in silence, but Simon was sure that there was pain in his eyes.
“So, my friend,” she continued, “when you found his body, I think none of us here were sad. Oh, no! How could we be?”
Leaning forward, the bailiff gazed at her intently, but she kept her eyes downcast, refusing to meet his. “Mrs. Trevellyn, why did you stay with him? You could have left him and gone home again.”
She looked up at that, with an unmistakable look of sadness. “Could I? How? My home is in Gascony, a little to the south of Bordeaux, so yes, I am English, the same as any other Gascon. And my father was always loyal to the English king, so I should be able to get home. But when your husband owns ships and knows all the people in the ports, how can you gain a passage? And even if there was someone to take me, how could I pay? My husband,” it sounded as if she wanted to spit at the word, “kept control of all our money. He even refused me permission to keep my jewels. Oh, no. There was no way I could leave!”