‘I really should be leaving! I have to meet someone – at the cathedral.’ She used the first location that came into her mind.
‘I’ll wrap this bracelet in a piece of silk and put it in a small casket for you, while you sip some wine. Come through.’ This time, Fitzosbern’s arm slipped around her slim waist as he almost lifted her up the step into the room beyond. As she reluctantly passed through the doorway, she saw the gap-toothed leer of Alfred and the loose-lipped stare of Garth watching every move that their master made, jealous longing stamped on their faces.
The inner room was another workshop, now in darkness apart from the glow of a damped-down metal furnace. Wooden stairs at the back led up to the silversmith’s living accommodation on the floor above. Reluctantly, but now committed too far to refuse, Christina allowed him to escort her upstairs. Here, a good fire burned in a hearth and more dips and candles gave a mellow light. At a long table, a glass flask of wine sat with some pottery cups. Godfrey released her waist with obvious reluctance and poured two generous measures of wine, then went to the fireplace and brought a kettle that was simmering on the hob. He added some hot water and held out a cup to her, touching his own to hers. ‘Here’s to a happy Yuletide to you, Christina – and may you enjoy your excellent present!’ He gave her a broad wink and held up the bracelet.
The young woman sipped the wine reluctantly, not wishing to appear ungrateful for his hospitality but uneasy at the intimate overtones.
‘Is your wife not at home this evening?’ she asked, rather pointedly. ‘I spoke to Mistress Mabel at service in St Lawrence only last Sunday.’
Fitzosbern’s heavy features drew together slightly in a frown. ‘She’s out visiting some poor sick woman or some such thing,’ he replied shortly, then changed the subject. ‘Your man Edgar – that lucky fellow – told me to give you the bracelet when it was complete, but said that you should keep it unopened until he visits you with his father on the forenoon of Christ Mass.’ Going to a shelf, he took a small wooden box and placed the bangle inside, wrapping it in the square of red silk that was already lining the casket. He gave it to her, and pressed Christina to have more wine, sit near the fire, before going out into the winter night.
This was too much for her and she shook her head decisively. ‘I heard the cathedral bell just now, I must be there very soon.’ Pushing the little box into a pocket inside her cloak, she improvised quickly on her excuses. ‘I wish to pray at the shrine of St Mary for the success of my marriage. I am meeting my cousin Mary there,’ she lied. Closing her cloak around her, she thanked Godfrey Fitzosbern for his kindness and for the excellent workmanship on the bracelet, then turned, walked resolutely downstairs and through the door into the workshop.
The silversmith followed her so closely that she could feel his heavy breath on her neck through her thin veil. He grasped her elbow, as if to help her down the step and kept it tight until she reached the street door. Once again, she was acutely aware of the intensity of the inspection that the two silver-workers focused on her, but her inborn good manners made her stumble out some parting words. Alfred chattered out a response she could not catch, while Garth merely made some sucking and blowing noises through his teeth.
Fitzosbern opened the heavy door and steered her through it, his arm tightening on her waist for a last squeeze as she escaped. Pulling her pointed hood up over her head, she thankfully scurried away down Martin’s Lane, obliged to go towards the Close for her fictitious appointment.
John de Wolfe pushed open his own front door, which was never locked as someone was always about the place. Matilda was usually to be found embroidering in her solar upstairs or gossiping with her friends around the fire in the hall. If she was out, then either Mary, the buxom cook-housekeeper, or the poisonous Lucille, his wife’s handmaiden, were somewhere in the house or in the yard at the back, where the cooking, brewing and washing took place.
Tired from a day in the saddle, the coroner shrugged off his heavy black cloak and hung it on a peg in the vestibule. Ahead of him was a passage to the back yard, and on his right, an inner door to the hall, a gloomy vault that rose to the roof-timbers, the dark wooden walls hung with sombre banners and tapestries. He looked inside and saw a small fire burning in the large hearth, but the settle and chairs around it were empty. The long trestle table was bare of dishes, food or drink.
‘A fine bloody welcome for a man after a long day’s ride,’ he muttered to himself, even though he was half relieved that his scowling wife was not there to berate him. He walked wearily through to the yard and found Mary sitting in the lean-to hut that was her kitchen and sleeping place. She was busy plucking a chicken by the light of the fire, his old hound Brutus wagging his tail at her feet. She jumped up in surprise, laying down the chicken and brushing feathers from her apron. ‘Master John, I didn’t hear you come in. We didn’t expect you tonight.’
Mary was a good-looking woman in her late twenties, a strong and energetic worker with a no-nonsense outlook on life. The bastard daughter of a Saxon woman and a Norman squire, John had bedded her a few times in the past. They were genuinely fond of each other, but these days she kept him at arm’s length, as she suspected that her arch-enemy Lucille was trying to betray her to John’s wife. ‘The mistress is out – she’s gone down to St Olave’s to some special Mass. There’s nothing ready cooked, but I can get together some bread and cold meat for you.’
John sighed. ‘No matter, Mary. My wife’s soul must be more important to her than my stomach. She spends more time in that damned church than I do in taverns.’
Mary grinned at his self-pity and risked giving him a swift kiss on the cheek, with one eye on the open door in case Lucille was spying. Matilda’s maid, a French refugee from the Vexin north of Paris, lived in a small shed under the outside staircase that went up from the yard to the solar. This was a room built out on timbers from the upper part of the hall, where John and his wife slept and where Matilda spent much of her time.
‘I think I’ll go down to the Bush for a bite to eat and a jar of ale,’ he said.
Mary prodded him in the chest with a strong finger. ‘Make sure that’s all you get from Nesta tonight! The mistress is working up for one of her moods so be on your best behaviour when you get back.’
‘Tell her I’ve had to go to the castle to see her damned brother, will you?’
As he retreated down the passage, she murmured under her breath, ‘You’re treading on very thin ice, Master John. One day you’ll fall right through.’
Two quarts of beer and a leg of mutton later, John felt more at peace with the world. Having spent half his life on the back of a horse, the twenty-two miles back from Torre that day were soon forgotten as he sprawled in front of the roaring logs in the large room of the Bush. His long, hawkish face with the big hooked nose was relaxed for once and the arm that was not holding the big pot of ale was comfortably around the shoulders of the innkeeper.
Nesta was a vivacious Welsh woman, with red hair quite a few shades darker than Gwyn’s violently ginger thatch. Twenty-eight years old, she was the widow of a soldier from southern Wales, who had settled in Exeter to run a tavern, then prematurely died. Her round face, high forehead and snub nose were attractive enough, but a tiny waist and spectacular bosom made her the object of secret fantasies for half the men in Exeter. John had known her husband at the wars and had been a patron of the inn before he died. Afterwards, he had covertly given her money to help her continue the business. Her hard work and steely determination had made such a success of the venture that after four years it was the most popular tavern in the city.