That was when hopelessness overwhelmed her. She believed she would die too, and when she was told that the vill couldn’t afford to feed her — the food was needed to keep the men working — she accepted the decision without complaint. Taking her mother’s shawl and a knife, she walked into the rain. She was sure that she was walking to her death, and hoped that she would soon see her mother and father again in Heaven.
Her luck was about to change. A man met her on the road and offered her shelter at his inn if she agreed to service his clients. For a while at least she had food, if no rest or peace, but then the innkeeper evicted her — she ate too much, he said — and she was left to wander again. She sat mournfully at the roadside outside his inn, wondering what to do, once more anticipating, and almost welcoming, death.
But the idea took hold that she might at least see her father’s grave before she died. She set off eastwards, and soon was overtaken by a band of strangers. There were pedlars, pilgrims on their way to Canterbury, a brace of men-at-arms, and a friar, all seeking to escape starvation. Gladly she joined them, and the warriors shared a loaf with her, but later the friar tried to rape her. Fleeing, she ran into one of the men-at-arms, who protected her, but told her that she wasn’t safe. ‘The man’s desperate to have you, wench. You’d best be gone, ’cos by Christ’s passion, if you stay in the same group as him, he’ll take you, and you won’t be able to accuse him. No one wins by accusing a goddamned friar.’
His words made her want to seek safety away from the group, but she didn’t know how. Shortly afterwards, they happened to pass the castle at Cardinham.
It was mere good fortune. The rain started again as they left Bodmin, and Cardinham was the first place they reached. Although the Constable — this was before Alexander’s time — had said that they could sleep in the Church House, one of the pedlars had known of the castle and asked that the castellan be told of their plight. He hoped that not only would they be granted a warmer room to sleep in, but that they might also be given food and drink.
As soon as she saw this place, Anne had felt safe. It exuded stolid reliability in a way that she hadn’t known since her father’s death. She felt its all-encompassing sense of sanctuary like a warm blanket. Surely there must be a place for her here.
An old-fashioned strongpoint, Cardinham Castle was a simple tower on its own great mound of earth and rock, enclosed within a broad courtyard surrounded by a strong wooden palisade. The gateway gave out onto a long corridor that followed the line of the outer palisade to a barbican, which had its own doors at the farther end. Any man intending to break into the castle would have to force those doors, run the gauntlet of the corridor while weapons rained upon him, and then try to break down the second doors into the bailey. Not an easy task. This place had the appearance of a stronghold that was impregnable without a large force and heavy artillery, but on that day as she approached it for the first time, Anne saw only a place of serenity.
There was no one on the walls in this weather, with the rain tipping down, but at the southern entrance of the arched gateway there burned two torches, cheerily illuminating the gate. It made her feel glad just to see them, even though the rain drummed ever more loudly and the trickle of damp running down her back became a small torrent.
Inside was a gatehouse with a smiling, sympathetic keeper. He sent a boy for the castellan, and the man who was to be her husband came to meet them.
To Anne, Nicholas was a bearlike fellow, strong, hearty, sure-footed and calm. He looked a lot like her father, with the same bold features and quick eye, but was more cultured and more gentle. Anne noticed that he avoided her after a brief introduction. He glanced at her when they first arrived, he looked at her again when she was dried and when they sat down to eat, but for the rest of the time he spoke to only the men from her party. Even the pedlars were treated respectfully, which appeared to surprise some and scare others, but Anne was ignored, probably because she was nothing more than a bedraggled peasant. It wasn’t hurtful. Any great man would ignore the lowliest wench unless he wanted her to warm his bed. It was a relief in some ways, after her experiences at the brothel, and on the road with the monk.
Gervase, the steward at the castle, was different. She saw him on the first afternoon, when he arrived to offer the travellers dry clothing. There was a laundress with him, who took their old stuff to be dried on lines in the stables. As soon as Gervase saw her, he smiled broadly and began to make fun of her. Before long he had her laughing with him. It made her happy simply to be there, but being the target of such an accomplished flirt was delightful. For a while he made her forget her hideous existence in the brothel.
She could feel only gratitude that she was free of the friar’s insistent overtures. He tried to fondle her, but Gervase happened by, and the friar withdrew. Then he attempted to rape her once more just before the party left — and she stayed.
It was the day after the friar’s first attempt on her at the castle that she had met Nicholas walking in the yard. That had been a wonderful day, and a perfect night, and as they talked, the sky had darkened and then assumed an astonishing pink and golden hue that made her catch her breath. It was incredibly beautiful, and for love of it, she began to sob, reminded of evenings before she had been thrown from her home — evenings when her father and mother were both alive.
Even before her tears he had been quiet, after shyly mumbling his thankfulness for her arrival because it allowed him to show her his hospitality, which pleased him. Once more he avoided her eye, although she caught sight of his sidelong glances that flitted towards her and then away. She had wondered at it, thinking perhaps he knew of her past and was wondering whether to offer her money to lie with him. If he had, she would — she had no coins in her purse — but he made no such suggestion. And later, when they parted, she was aware of a sadness in her heart, as though she was reminded of her solitude and loneliness.
Later she had heard him marching slowly up and about the yard and walls. Even late into the night she could hear his steps, a steady, unhurried pace. They continued even as she dropped off and sank into a deep sleep. It was comforting, like a heartbeat.
Gervase was Anne’s closest friend during those first days. He brought her sweetmeats made by the cook, gave her access to the bath with the water already heated, and passed her a tunic that was hardly faded, let alone frayed or torn. She would never forget that tunic: it was a dull shade of red, and set off her features to perfection. So much nicer than the scraps she had owned before. Somehow Gervase procured a bone comb too, and she was at last able to care for her hair. Although she lacked the basic trappings of a lady, at least she could dress and present herself as one.
That first night with her new tunic, she sat up late simply looking at it, occasionally reaching out and touching it, stroking the material, tracing the line of the throat and the shoulders, even sniffing at it and burying her face in the softness of the bunched cloth. It was so lovely she could have wept for sheer joy.
By the next morning, she had realised what she wanted to do. She acquired some thread and a needle from a maidservant, and set to work. By lunchtime she had embroidered the hems and the breast with a small pattern of leaves picked out in white thread, and then set off to find Gervase.