“Iseult,” Nicholas said, “go and tell Edith that someone is here who wishes to talk to her.”
Hugh realized with a mixture of amusement and approval that the boy had no intention of leaving him alone.
Without answering, the little girl ran back toward the lobby. Hugh was familiar with this type of house and knew there would be a solar on the other side of the lobby, and over the solar, a loft with private bedrooms.
It was some minutes before Iseult returned, accompanied by a heavyset middle-aged woman with gray-blond hair and pale blue eyes. She was dressed in brown homespun and looked exceedingly weary.
“This is the man I told you about,” Iseult said in English.
Hugh smiled reassuringly at Edith and spoke to her in the same language. “My name is Hugh de Leon and I have come from Lincoln in search of John Rye. The children tell me he is not here, but you appear to have trouble, and if there is anything I can do to help you, I will gladly try.”
Edith said, “Run along, children, and let me talk to the gentleman.”
The boy scowled. “I’m not a child! I know Mama is very sick. You don’t have to keep trying to hide things from me, Edith!”
Hugh looked at Edith’s weary face and said quietly, “Take your sister outside, Nicholas. I will talk to you later.”
Nicholas’s eyes searched Hugh’s. Then he nodded curtly and held out his hand. “Come along, Iseult. We had better go and let Benjamin out of the stable.”
The children went out, and Hugh turned to the serving woman. “Shall we sit down?” he said kindly. “You look worn out.”
She nodded and moved to one of the benches that was pulled up in front of the meager fire. Hugh sat on a bench opposite her.
“So,” he said, still in that gentle tone. “What is going on here?”
The woman spoke English with a thick Lincolnshire accent, but Hugh had grown up hearing such speech and understood it effortlessly.
“Three days after Sir John left Linsay, Lady Berta got sick,” Edith said. “I thought she had the smallpox. She had a high fever and her face broke all out in spots.”
Hugh had rather suspected something like this. The threat of smallpox was more than enough to scare away a household.
“Have there been other cases of smallpox in the area?” he asked.
“None that I know of,” Edith replied. “At any rate, news of Lady Berta’s illness soon spread around the manor, and one by one, everyone ran away-the men Sir John had left to protect us, the serving maids, the grooms. Everyone.”
Hugh looked grim. “Why did you remain?”
Edith looked down at her lap and did not reply.
“Edith?” Hugh said.
The woman shrugged her broad shoulders. “I took care of Lady Berta when she first come down with the fever, so by the time the spots come out, I reckoned I was sure to catch it. I could not bring such a terrible sickness back to my family, so I stayed.”
Hugh regarded her gravely and did not reply.
Edith looked up from her lap. “The strange thing is, my lord, now I am not sure if Lady Berta has the smallpox after all.”
Hugh lifted his brows. “Why do you think that?”
“She is getting better, my lord, and the spots seem to be fading. They never turned into pustules, the way the smallpox do.”
The fire was almost out, Hugh noticed. He would have to do something about it. “That is unusual,” he agreed.
“I don’t know what it is, but I do not think it is the smallpox,” the woman repeated.
Hugh stretched his legs in front of him and regarded his boots. “You said that Lady Berta became ill after her husband left?” he asked casually.
“Aye, my lord.”
He glanced up at her. “She was not ill when he returned from his duty at Lincoln Castle?”
Edith looked surprised. “Nay, my lord. She were fine then. She did not get ill till three days after he left to go to Roumare.”
Hugh’s expression never changed.
“Oh, did he go to see his cousin, then?”
“Aye, my lord. He went the very next day after he returned from Lincoln, and my lady did not get ill till later. He would never have left his son here if he knew of Lady Berta’s illness.”
Hugh forebore to comment upon the implication that Rye would not have shown the same concern for his small daughter.
Instead, he smiled into the woman’s worn face. “You have been magnificent, Edith, but I rather think you could use some assistance. If you like, I will remain here at Linsay and do what I can to be of help.”
The woman looked almost pathetically grateful. “I confess I would feel safer if there was a man around. As things stand now, we are completely unprotected. And God knows these times are dangerous.”
“That is settled, then,” Hugh said. He stood up. “You must let me know what you need: wood, water, meat…”
“I didn’t mean for you to work for us, my lord,” the woman protested, clearly horrified by the thought. “Just your presence will be a comfort.”
“Nonsense,” Hugh returned briskly. “I was brought up by a very careful housewife and I can assure you, Edith, I know my way about a house and a kitchen.” He sniffed and looked around the hall. “The first thing I am going to do is get rid of these disgusting rushes.”
Edith’s pale blue eyes regarded him with fascination. “You are?”
“Aye. The children can help me.”
For the first time since she had come into the room, Edith smiled. “It will be good for them to have something to do. I have kept them away from their mother and I know they have been fretting.”
“I can think of a number of things we can do around here,” Hugh said, recalling the unkept state of the stable.
“How…how long do you think to stay, my lord?” Edith asked timidly.
“I won’t desert you until your master returns,” Hugh promised.
The woman heaved a great sigh of relief. “Thank you, my lord! You are very kind.”
“Not at all,” Hugh replied a little grimly. “Now, let me go and find those children.”
Three days later John Rye finally returned home. Lady Berta was sitting up, much recovered, and Hugh and Edith had stripped all the rugs off the walls of her bedroom and taken the blankets off her bed.
It had been Hugh’s idea to air out the rugs and blankets. Adela had been a great believer in the cleansing benefit of fresh air and sunshine.
He and the children were in the process of hanging these articles out in the cold sunshine when the master of Linsay came riding up to his manor and found the gate locked against him. He yelled to be let in.
Nicholas recognized his father’s angry shout. “It’s Papa,” he said to Hugh. He dropped the rug he had been holding and ran to unbar the gate.
As soon as the wooden door swung open, a brown horse, shaggy with winter hair, came trotting into the courtyard. John Rye scowled down at his son. “What the devil is going on here?” he demanded loudly. “Why was the gate locked?” He looked around. “And where is everyone?”
Hugh left the rugs and began to walk toward the horseman in the courtyard. Iseult stayed close beside him.
“Papa always yells,” the little girl confided in a worried voice.
Nicholas was trying to explain things to an angry Rye, who was not listening. Instead, he was glaring suspiciously at the approaching Hugh.
“Who the devil are you?” the manor’s owner demanded as soon as Hugh was within twenty feet of him.
Hugh moved a little closer to the horseman, then stopped. He looked into the man’s angry blue eyes and said softly, “My name is Hugh de Leon.”
The effect of these simple words was galvanic. Rye’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open.
“Hugh de Leon?” he echoed in utter astonishment.
“That is what I said,” Hugh returned composedly.
Nicholas shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “Hugh has been helping us, Papa,” he said. “Mama got sick and everyone ran away. Then Hugh came.”
John Rye ignored his son, nor did he ask after his wife’s health. Instead, he said to Hugh in a hard voice, “What the devil are you doing here?”