Lindsay Townsend (4 page)

“Once, yes,” she replied, a curious answer which she
clearly knew was odd because she at once began asking him about the court, who
so-and-so was like and what Queen
Philippa
looked like.

He answered readily—no need to do other—and told her a
little of his own work, pleased when she asked him questions concerning his
craft. The creaking treadmill cranes of wine wharf was behind them by this time
and they were closing on a group of women washing clothes by the water's edge
when she stopped suddenly and turned about.

“We should go back. My family will be anxious.”

“Of course.” He offered his arm, which she did not
take straight away, perhaps because she feared he would guess she was alarmed,
but he could tell that already by the draining of
color
from her cheeks and lips.

She knows someone among those womenfolk and fears
being recognized, but why? They are all maids, drab as sparrows. There is a
mystery here, but it will keep until I know her better.

“Your husband was Richard?” he prompted, aware she had
told him that earlier but wanting to keep conversation flowing and intrigued
with what she might say. So far she had steered talk away from herself onto
him.

“That's right. I married him at twelve.” She tucked
her narrow hand through his arm and seemed as deliberately blithe as a skylark.
“A most trying age, I am told.”

“Seems too young to me,” he growled, sensing her
comment had been used too often against her.

She
colored
a delicate rose. “My husband, I
mean Richard… he did wait until I was thirteen.”

  
Thirteen. My God
.
Poor little lass. What
kind of man climbs into a maiden’s bed when she is only thirteen?
“My
Cecilia was closer to nineteen when we were wed.” He had been nineteen, a
stripling, lanky as a young birch tree despite his labour in the forges, but
merry then as a lark himself. “We were together ten years.”

“And content as any couple taking home the Dunmore
flitch,” Isabella observed shrewdly, referring to the custom in Essex of
awarding a couple who had lived together a year without quarrelling a side or
flitch of bacon.

“Aye, aye, we would have won that, had it been a
custom of Kent,” he admitted, lost anew in memories until he heard her say
quietly, “We were not like that, Richard and me.”

One of the watermen of the river yelled something so
coarse that, had the fellow been rowing closer, Stephen would have dragged him
from his boat and thumped him. It had the virtue of making her laugh, at least.

“Was she very lovely?” she asked, and then shook her
head, looking away from him to the barges on the river. “Forgive me, I am wrong
to pry.”

“Hush! She was beautiful and you worry too much.” He
took her hand in his, glad he had removed his glove, and swung it as they
walked. Her token, the small gold flower, was still snug in his other glove.

 “Please, you must take me home. I shall be missed,”
was all she said.

****

They moved swiftly then, to Isabella's relief. She had
been disconcerted to see her mother's maid by the riverbank, but fortunately
the maid had not approached her and Stephen seemed to have forgotten the entire
incident. As he put her before him on his horse which, as Amice had said, truly
was old, he was humming a tune.

“Yes, Ulysses is an antique, but nothing worries him,”
he said, catching her looking. “He is very good in processions and the like.
Just as well,” he added innocently.

He mounted behind her and she could not think of a
pert reply. Being cradled in his arms had been a floating, warm sensation, like
a wonderful bath, and she had felt safe and protected. With him pressed against
her—or was she against him?—she was conscious of him as a man. He was longer
and harder in the body than Richard had been. She liked that, but despised the
way she felt breathless, like a true maiden.

You cannot be stunned by his tanned good looks or the
feel of his warm strong limbs. You must do enough, be available, or you will
never see your son again.

“Shall I—” She broke off before she uttered the fatal
words
see you
, thereby betraying too desperate an interest. “I mean, may
I light a candle of thanks for your patron saint in my church? For your saving
me,” she blundered on, wishing she could see his expression but not daring to
turn for that would mean her thigh would brush along his. Each time Ulysses
wandered into a pothole and his harness jangled, her body jangled lightly
against Stephen’s and she almost forgot to breathe.

She felt his breath stir the top of her head. “Nay, I
shall be lighting the candle, or rather my sister or daughter will do so on my
behalf, for I have found you again.” He lifted one of her hands off the saddle
pommel and raised it, kissing each finger. “I am mightily glad I have, even if
our reunion was a little unconventional.”

He has a daughter and he has told her about me
. A mingled pleasure and pain lodged in her chest and
she said quickly, “I have a son, Matthew, but he is away for the present. What
is your daughter called?”

“Joanna, after my mother. She is nine years old.”
Isabella felt Stephen’s long sigh right through her own body. “With being at
the court of the duke I do not see her as often as I would like, but I know she
does well at my sister‘s. How old is your son?”

“Four years.”

Stephen started against her and she guessed he was
frowning. “That is young to be away from his mother.”

“Yes it is.” She could say no more without fear of her
voice cracking.
Does he think me a wicked mother? Perhaps I am, for I cannot
have my son with me.

They were approaching the back yards and gardens of
the goldsmiths’ houses, including that of her own, if she could call where she
dwelt on sufferance a home.

She twisted about, the collision of their two bodies
sending tiny sparks up and down her arms and legs. “This is the place,” she
said awkwardly, pointing to the stout stone wall around it and the stand of
cherry and apple trees. “I can go in here, by way of the small gate.”

She tried to dismount but he held her easily in place
by means of an arm, gently but firmly. Instead he stepped down and came by his
horse’s flank to look up at her.

“This is the back of Richard
Martinton’s
workshop. So you are his widow? I had heard the fellow was married.”

She nodded, wondering how Stephen had known Richard
and whether he had liked him. It seemed unlikely from the little he had said
and the tone of his deep voice. Many people had disliked her late husband, who
was apt to be quarrelsome and spiteful, especially when drunk. Or worse,
Richard might have owed Stephen money, or a favour, or betrayed him in some way.

Please, if this man loathed Richard, let him not
loathe me.

Stephen was looking at her, studying her for so long
she wondered if she had a smut on her cheek. “That explains it,” he said
cryptically. He stroked his horse’s neck and she wished he might stroke her.

“You will be safe from here on? I would prefer to see
you right indoors.”

“Oh no, I will be quite all right,” she said swiftly,
aware that the longer they lingered the more likely a servant would report them
to her mother-in-law. She did not want her “family” questioning Stephen, not
yet. For the moment he was all hers.

Or is he?

Her mesh of thoughts broke and scattered as he dropped
his horse’s reins and lifted her straight into his arms. He held her aloft a
moment, then slowly, inch by inch it seemed, he lowered her until they were
face to face. “Then I must let you go,” he said softly, his voice a growl.

“You should.” When he did not, she tried to move and
her nose softly collided with his but otherwise she could not stir. Trapped in
his iron grip, her feet dangling in the air, she bethought herself of a ruse,
instead. “I think I hear someone come.”

He grinned at her. “I think you do not and even if you
did, mistress, I would have an answer before I go.” He tightened his hold slightly.

“To what question?” she asked tartly, praying he would
not notice how comfortable she felt within his arms, even with her feet
dangling.

“Fool that I am, I forgot to ask!” He kissed her
softly on the cheek. “May I see you again, Isabella?”

Her spirits leapt up like a blazing fire. She knew
that by all forms and manners she should not do it, but his lips were so close,
so inviting. Feeling reckless, light-headed, her feet dangling, she kissed him
gently on the mouth.

“I might take that as a yes?” he said, when her lips
left his.

“Yes,” she responded, quelling a
please
.

“Good.” He kissed her in return but still he did not
release her. Indeed he wove an arm beneath her bottom, so she was more securely
supported. “Was it by chance that you fell onto me?”

“What else?” she replied, hiding her face against his
dark hair. She heard him chuckle and then somehow his lips were on hers again.

“However it was, or is, we should make a kiss of
peace,” he murmured, his mouth claiming kiss after kiss.

“Stephen,” she began, unsure what she would say, only
wanting woman-like to be sure, to have a firm date, time and place so she could
march into that den of her mother-in-law’s and announce, “He is seeing me
here
and
when
do I see Matthew?”

But Stephen deepened his kiss, stroking his lips along
hers and easing his tongue into her mouth. She had never been kissed in such a
way before, so close and intimate and warm. Her body responded, heating and
softening against him. Before she knew it, her arms were around his neck and
her tongue was exploring his mouth. He grunted a sharp exclamation of approval,
bending her into his embrace.

“No more, or it shall not be enough.” Chuckling, he
lowered her, touched the tip of her nose, kissed her face again and took a
careful backward step. “I must quarrel with you soon, if that is your kiss of
peace.”

He mounted his small
gray
horse and cantered off, waving and calling, “Until tomorrow!”

He was gone. Dazed, Isabella hugged herself and leaned
against the garden wall, glad of a moment alone before she must face the
family. So far, surely so good, but had she done enough? Did that sweet,
amazing kiss of peace mean more?

I should have asked him for a token, for Sir William
may not believe me otherwise
,
she thought, but afterward she found
herself smiling. Tomorrow would be her proof.

Tomorrow, and hopefully the day after that, and after
that.

Then, please God, I shall see my son again
.

“You will flirt and be pleasant—most
pleasant— to other men. If you do not, you will never see Matthew again.”
Sitting on the dais in the family great hall with his favorite jewel box placed
on a small table beside him, Sir William fingered his gaudy costume and then
the glittering inlays of the box. “Do you understand?”

Torn between fury and despair, Isabella
clenched her fists. “No, I do not,” she answered, ignoring the hiss of
displeasure from her mother-in-law, who stood alongside her on the hall tiles. “I
have done what you asked. I have secured Stephen’s attention. I am winning his
affections. He has a young daughter and I have my Matthew. They could be
play-mates.”

Sir William picked his nose, a deliberate
insult. Isabella heard the anger pounding in her ears, felt it prickle in her
hands and feet. She longed to smash the heavily ornamented jewel box into her
uncle’s bored and haughty face. Hit him and keep on striking.

“Be quiet, girl,” muttered Margery, trying
to seize her arm. Isabella whirled back. One part of her, the sensible
Isabella, was clamoring for her silence.
Careful. If you speak too bluntly they
will not let you visit Matthew.

She thought of her son in his brave blue
coat and spoke again, determined this time to wrest a concession from her
tormentor.

 “I do not understand why you have suddenly
changed what I must do, changed it seems on a whim. I have done what you
demanded. Now let me visit Matthew.”

Sir William yawned. “Visit Matthew,” he
mimicked. “I grow weary of this complaint.”

Beside her, Margery her mother-in-law
scowled afresh. “You do not understand, girl. There is more than my grandson at
stake here. We have the seals—”

“Not now, Margery,” warned Sir William,
gripping the jewel box in clear alarm and irritation. Her mother-in-law fell
silent at once.

Isabella remained fixed to the spot and
refused to be diverted. “Is it because I am being successful? Are you so petty?”

Sir William shrugged, swinging a leg as he
settled more deeply into the master’s chair. “We have set our sights too low
with Stephen Fletcher. You must aim higher.”

You did not expect me to win his interest
so swiftly.
Had Matthew
been with her, Sir William’s implied admission would have been gratifying.  As
it was, Isabella experienced a familiar frustration and a rising shame. “Stephen
is visiting me today. He is a good man, decent.”
And you cannot stand the
idea of an honorable man being attracted to me, or of my being a little happy
in his company.

Sir William stroked his beard, then the
jewel box, then his goldsmith’s livery again. “Go out with him, then. Take Mary
and John with you.”

Isabella, guessing Sir William expected her
to protest, slammed her teeth together and said nothing. Mary and John were her
uncle’s servants and spies in this house. Mary especially would report
everything she did, or did not do, including how she behaved with Stephen and
with other men. The idea of sour-faced, grasping Mary and her slack-bellied
husband John being with her, watching her, listening to her conversations with Stephen
was not to be borne. “No,” she said.

Sir William snorted. “You seem to think you
have a choice.”

“Beat her.” Margery held up a broom. “Beat
her, teach her to obey.”

“Oh, no,” replied her kinsman, clearly
enjoying the moment as he smoothed and tweaked his beard a second time. “We
have done that before, cousin, and the wretch learns nothing. No, I shall not
touch her.”

He smiled. “I will beat Matthew instead.”

“Do not—You must not!” Isabella ran at him
but a scream from her mother-in-law had three servants, including John, rushing
into the hall. Before she could touch or even argue with Sir William, the three
men grabbed her, John slapping his hand across her mouth with such force that
she saw stars and her teeth rattled.

“Remove her,” said Sir William, with a
languid wave of his hand. “She knows what she must do.” Abruptly his face and
manner hardened. “Get the mewling bitch out of my sight.”

Isabella was hauled away.

****

Riding from his sister’s house, Stephen
told himself that it was good his daughter Joanna was at ease and sleeping
through the night. He told himself it was good that work at the forges went
well. He told himself—

No. No more telling. It has been seven days
now and Isabella is different. I do not understand what has happened, but she
is no longer easy with me.

He could not believe that she had changed
in her feelings toward him. They had begun so well. Yet, the very day after he
had caught her, saved her and taken her home, the very next day after they had
kissed, she had visibly cooled in her manner to him. At the same time yet more
weight had dropped from her so she looked older. Even her bright gold hair
seemed dulled.

She always agrees to meet me, yet is
subdued in my company. At times I see her looking at nothing, as if staring at
something else.

Yesterday he had asked her bluntly what
troubled her. “Nothing, ‘tis only a stomach-ache,” she had answered, glancing
at the two servants who were always with her these days, a mildewed-looking
pair. And today, when he had planned to take her to his home to visit his
daughter she had cried off, saying she must work. Then, contrary-wise, she had
begged him to visit her in the evening. “We might spend time with my friend
Amice the spice-seller, at her home.” She had then added in a lower voice, “Amice
knows Matthew, too.”

“Agreed,” Stephen had said at once, for he
wanted answers. Perhaps, away from her family and the miserable servants who
shadowed her every step, Isabella would be disposed to supply them.

What is she about?
The only times she had been truly animated
had been when she spoke of her son and when she questioned him closely about
Kent and the houses and villages there, asking for the names of the
land-owners.
What has gone wrong for her? Why does she not tell me? Why are
those servants always with her?

It did not matter to him that he and
Isabella scarcely knew each other or had only just met. It did not matter that
she was less charming. His sister, had she known, would have scolded that he
wasted his time, but Stephen sensed there was more to Isabella’s contradictory
behavior than a simple change of heart. He was determined to discover more, and
he was becoming increasingly determined to win her. He knew she was in trouble,
in pain, and he longed to help her— if she would let him
.

Stephen meanwhile was aware that he was filling
in time before their next meeting that evening. He had played hide-and-seek
with Joanna, mended a trestle leg for his sister, spent several hours at the
royal armories. Now he took a wherry to the Savoy, the palace of his lord Henry,
the Duke of Lancaster, to discuss a commission of armor for the duke.

The king of France was staying at the Savoy
as an honored prisoner and hostage. Duke Henry wished the king’s stay to be as
pleasant as possible and, as he was admitted through the riverside gate to the
palace, Stephen was not surprised to see the whole place busy.

The duke, it turned out, could not see him
that day. Returning by way of the rose garden back to the river, Stephen
reflected on the wishes of the powerful and lamented having to leave his
daughter Joanna for a wasted journey. Still, it was a bright, sunny day and had
his mood been less distracted he would have smiled at the brightly-garbed figures,
strolling along the graveled walks
. I must bring Isabella and her son here,
with Joanna
.
And why have I not met Matthew? There is some mystery
there.

“I will not do that.”

His train of thought interrupted, Stephen
turned, seeing only a wall of huge rosebushes, not yet in flower. Whoever had
protested was behind that living screen.

“No! I said no. I shall be no man’s
plaything.”

The anger in the young woman’s voice had
Stephen pushing his way through the thorns.

Through the other side of the great
rosebush he half-expected to see a maid struggling with a gallant but to his
utter shock he found Isabella instead. Her surly servants were remonstrating
with her, both at once, the maid hanging onto her arm to keep her between them.

“You must, for ‘tis what Sir William
ordered,” the maid was saying, while the man added, “You know we must make
reports. If you do not do this we are all undone.”

Stephen stepped closer. “Release my lady at
once,” he ordered. “Away with you!”

The servants took one look at his face and
fled, hurrying off in the direction of the vegetable gardens. Stephen remained
where he was, rooted to the spot. Relief and anger warred in him. He unclenched
his fists and Isabella flinched.

“You need not cringe from me,” he said
quietly. He had not meant to say more but somehow the accusation slipped out. “You
told me you were working.”

Isabella did not blush. She said nothing,
but backed off and turned to follow her servants. She had lost still more
weight, he noted, and though her dress and shoes were neat, her hair was
spurting out of its net in a foaming cloud and her eyes were as mad as a berserker’s.
She looked wild, and dangerous.

“Wait.” He strode after her, going past her
and barring her way. “Why are you here? You told me you were working.”

“I lied.” She hurled the words while
staring beyond him, looking ready to claw her way through more than thorns. “I
lie, Stephen, do you not know that yet? But you must let me go. I must catch
Mary and John, else all is lost.”

She darted to one side to lunge by him but
Stephen was faster. He caught her hand in his. “I know a short-cut. This way.”

****

He was helping when she had expected him to
berate her or worse, to stop her altogether. Panting and with her heart and
feet pounding, Isabella followed Stephen, putting her faith in him even after
he had realized she had played him false. They ran past a kitchen block and a
workshop with a thatched roof  and then scrambled through a small postern to
the great street of the Strand outside. A swift glance in both directions told
her that, short-cut or not, they were too late. Mary and John were nowhere in
sight.

Too breathless to moan she sank to her knees
and rocked herself.
It is over. Mary and John will rush to Sir William and
tell him everything. Tell him I refused. I will never see Matthew again
. A
keening wail built in her throat and her chest tightened further, her vision
darkening as the shadow of her fate overwhelmed her.

“None of that.” Stephen lifted her up,
snapped his fingers at a lingering musician with a viol. With the blood still
hammering in her chest and ears, Isabella did not hear what he said to the lad
but he turned her toward the river. “We take a boat and out-run them that way.”

“Why?” she gasped, when she could speak.

Stephen did not pretend to misunderstand
her. “Because I care and I can and I never liked your waste of a husband or his
kin.” His face was as keen as a blade. “Now do you come or do I carry you?”

“Run,” she wheezed, ignoring the stitch in
her side. “Hurry.” She lurched from his arms and staggered a few steps.

In an ungainly mass of whirling legs and
arms they rushed back to the river, Isabella jumping so recklessly into the
waiting wherry that the whole boat rocked furiously and the waterman cursed
her.

“Save your breath and row,” ordered
Stephen, coming alongside her. “Row to London, man, and hurry!”

He sprawled beside her, catching his breath
a moment, then took her hand again. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me it all.”

She glanced at the ferryman, reluctance and
eagerness flickering across her face like the reflections of the water skimming
beneath them. Stephen lowered his head. “Whisper to me,” he said.

“Or pay me double to keep quiet and shout
it,” said the waterman with a grin.

Doubtful as a hind approaching a baited
trap, Isabella leaned away from both of them.

“You need help,” Stephen said steadily. From
all his time spent in the forge and the armories he sensed that this was the
moment of decision between them. Isabella would share her truth fully with him
now or they would not truly meld together. He tipped up her chin. Her face was
as gray as the weather was bright. “I want to help you.”

She leaned into him, against his shoulder. “We
do not know each other,” she whispered.

“We know enough of each other.”

“We met only a few days past, not even a
month ago.”

She argued even while she was pressed up against
him and unconsciously sought comfort and counsel. Her wariness was one of
habit, not desire, Stephen guessed. He put his arm about her. “Does that
matter?” he asked. “You are a woman of London and the world. I am sure you understand
my character most clearly.”

Isabella said nothing but Stephen felt her
settle into the crook of his arm.
Her body trusts me so that is a start
.
The ferryman was occupied with navigating their wherry through the arches of
London Bridge, a tricky, dangerous maneuver, especially for a single waterman, and
one to which he bent all his attention. Isabella watched him and closed her
eyes, her limbs becoming as taut as harp strings.