But the headstrong beauty had other ideas and after their early evening meal, when her father had gone off to the Guildhall to chair a meeting of the Guild of Leather Merchants, Christina made her own plans. Aunt Bernice was dozing in the upstairs solar, sleepy from the effects of a large mutton chop and cabbage, as well as some ‘medicinal’ mead that she kept in a small stone bottle alongside her chair.
The well-to-do Riffords had a large town house near the East Gate, next door to the church of Saint Lawrence. Pulling on her heavy winter cloak, Christina slipped out of the side door into the lane and walked down it into the High Street. There were still plenty of people about, but most were head down against the keen east wind, hurrying home to reach their own hearths. A few hardy peddlers were still selling roast chestnuts, hot pies and new bread at the sides of the narrow streets, as she happily stepped out to fetch her new bracelet.
Crossing the High Street, she lifted the hem of her cloak and kirtle as she daintily tried to avoid the worst of the mire, then dived down Martin’s Lane towards the cathedral Close. Her destination was the second narrow house on the right, the workshop and dwelling of Godfrey Fitzosbern. It was a tall timber building with a slate roof, almost identical to the one next along, which she knew was where Sir John de Wolfe lived.
She pushed open the heavy oak door, its riveted hinges creaking as she went into the shop. It was warm in there after the chill wind outside and she slipped back her hood and undid the shoulder-brooch that held her otter-skin cloak closed. The room was dimly lit by half a dozen tallow lamps set on shelves around the walls, but she knew the place quite well, after her previous visits. At the back sat Alfred, Fitzosbern’s senior craftsman, working behind a cluttered table with hammer and punch, a horn lantern alongside him to give extra light. Christina smiled at him and he grinned back toothlessly. She blushed as she felt his eyes undressing her and quickly moved hers away, to rest on the other workman, leaning on a bench to the left of the door. He was a large young man, whose name she did not know, and was slowly buffing a silver goblet with a long strip of soft leather. He, too, gaped at her, and deliberately altered the stroke of his polishing, somehow giving it a suggestively erotic rhythm. No doubt the two men thought her a vision of beauty and desire to lighten the dull routine of their long day, but she felt distinctly uncomfortable under their blatantly lustful gaze. On previous visits, Fitzosbern had been present and they had had to keep the eyes down on their work – except when his back was turned.
‘Is your master here? He’s expecting me.’
Alfred, a haggard Saxon in early middle age, tore his eyes from the swell of her bosom peeping through the open cloak. ‘He is indeed, mistress, and will be more than glad to see you, I’ll swear.’ In his thick Devon accent, he managed to imbue the simple words with lascivious meaning.
The younger man, dressed like Alfred in a long leather apron over his dull woollen tunic, ended his stropping to bang loudly on the wall behind him. ‘Master Godfrey!’ he yelled. ‘The young lady is here for you.’ He leered at her as if he had just announced the arrival of a new courtesan for the Caliph.
Christina was becoming accustomed to the ill-concealed lechery she attracted, although this made it none the less unwelcome. She turned to examine a shelf with silver jewellery on display, as a way of avoiding the eyes of the workmen and their murmurings.
A moment later, she heard a heavy tread beyond the curtain that screened the door at the back of the shop and the master silversmith entered. ‘Mistress Rifford, a very good evening to you. I see that you are alone.’
For a few moments, they indulged in polite conversation, then Fitzosbern led her by the hand to a stool set against an empty table on the right of the room. He was a large man, powerful and fleshy but not yet running to fat. In a few years, he would begin to look coarse and dissipated, but now he was still good-looking with a dark, heavy kind of handsomeness. Big features, clean-shaven and with a mass of wavy hair, there was an animal intensity about him that many women had found irresistible – and some still did, even though he was almost forty and twice married. He dressed well, and as he moved behind the table, unrolled a velvet cloth before Christina, she noted that he wore a surcoat of finest yellow linen that came to mid-thigh, showing the bottom of a knee-length green tunic, the hem and neckline decorated with delicate embroidery. His fine woollen hose ended in shoes of the latest style, with long toes padded out with wool to form curled points.
Godfrey unwrapped the velvet and carefully lifted out her bracelet. He took two wax candles, an expensive luxury in place of the usual tallow dips, and lit them at the nearest flame so that a better light could dance on the bright silver of her new bauble. ‘A beautiful thing, mistress, fit for a beautiful woman,’ he said, in his low, strong voice, which caused a little shiver to run down her back. Unchaperoned, she felt both vulnerable and a little excited at the almost palpably sexual atmosphere that the three men generated in the dimly lit room.
She murmured her appreciation of the bracelet, for it was a very pretty thing, the bright new silver glittering in the candlelight.
‘Here, let me try it for size.’ Godfrey picked up her hand and held it in his large fingers for an unnecessarily long time while he slid the bracelet over her white fingers and set it in position on her wrist. Still he held on to her and, indeed, placed his other hand on her forearm, pushing back the floppy sleeve of her kirtle to support her arm just below the elbow, the better to admire the set of the ornament.
She trembled slightly at his touch, as no man – not even Edgar – had touched any part of her without some other woman being within sight.
‘Perfect! Now that we’ve shortened it a trifle, it sits where it should, yet you can get your hand through without trouble.’
Christina’s cheeks had coloured and she was glad of the gloom to hide her embarrassment. She was not sure how she felt about Godfrey Fitzosbern – he had a certain reputation among the gossips of the town, but there was no doubt that he was good-looking, even if he was almost old enough to be her father. His own wife, Mabel, was only a few years older than herself, though the whispers said that they disliked each other as much as John de Wolfe and his wife Matilda.
Christina drew her hand from his, slowly, so as not to give offence. ‘It is very lovely, I like it very much,’ she said softly.
Fitzosbern leaned forward to pat her cheek. ‘You should thank Alfred and Garth there, as well. Though I made the design, theirs were the hands that fashioned it.’
Reluctantly, she turned and nodded to the two men, who had been watching her like hawks all the while.
Alfred touched a finger to his forelock. ‘Always a pleasure to do you a service, mistress,’ he said, in a voice redolent with double-meaning. ‘And I’m sure Garth here feels the same.’
Fitzosbern, catching their tone, scowled at the men, who hurriedly dropped their eyes to the benches, tapping and buffing at the white metal that was their life. ‘It’s a cold night, mistress. Can I offer you a cup of hot wine before you go?’ He motioned with his head towards the curtained door.
A flush ran up the girl’s neck again. She was still unused to handling unwelcome invitations from masterful men. ‘Thank you, sir, but I must go now.’
‘Nonsense, Mistress Rifford! The evening is bitter outside, you need something to warm you. I’ll not take no for an answer.’ Fitzosbern came around the table and took her hand again. Almost pulling her, he steered Christina towards the inner doorway.