The Unconventional Maiden
June Francis
SHE’D RATHER GO INTO BUSINESS THAN MARRY ANY MAN!After her father’s murder, headstrong Beth Llewellyn finds herself under the reluctant guardianship of Sir Gawain Raventon. Already chafing against the constraints put upon her sex under Henry VIII’s rule, Beth knows Gawain will have his own opinion about her unconventional attitude to marriage!Working with Gawain to solve the mystery surrounding her father’s death, Beth starts to realise that perhaps marriage to the right man – a man in whose arms she feels so safe – will bring a happiness she’s never dared imagine…
‘No doubt what I am about to say will vex you, but on your father’s death I became your legal guardian. It might seem strange to you, but he trusted me. I refused at first, for I did not wish to be burdened with finding you a spouse, but he persisted.’
‘But I do not wish to marry,’ Beth blurted out.
‘So your father told me—and frankly I do not believe it,’ said Gawain, with a shake of the head.
An angry sparkle lit her eyes. ‘You are mistaken. I presume he will have left his business to me? There is naught preventing me from taking control of it when I return to London. I will be able to support myself financially, so I have no need of a husband.’
About the Author
JUNE FRANCIS’s interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first novels were set in Medieval times. She has also written sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell-walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochy dancing with her husband. More information about June can be found at her website: www.junefrancis.co.uk
Previous novels by this author:
ROWAN’S REVENGE
TAMED BY THE BARBARIAN
REBEL LADY, CONVENIENT WIFE
HIS RUNAWAY MAIDEN
PIRATE’S DAUGHTER, REBEL WIFE
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The
Unconventional
Maiden
June Francis
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DEDICATION:
To my fellow author, the prolific Anne Herries,
for all her encouragement over the years.
This one’s for you!
AUTHOR NOTE
Perhaps it’s because my husband was a printer and I’m a novelist that the early days of printing should hold a fascination for me. It was William Caxton who introduced the printing press into England, and his first book was printed in 1477. By the time of 1520, when this story is set, the handwritten book was being superseded by the printed one at a rate of knots.
At first most books were religious ones, and Henry VIII had a bestseller on his hands when he wrote a slender volume in defence of the seven sacraments of the faith in response to the writings of the German priest and professor of theology Martin Luther. It was illegal to print and distribute leaflets of the teachings by him, and could be punished by death. During the Tudor period printing really took off, and more people wanted to learn to read. Their interests were not only in religion, but in such subjects as the classical period of the Greeks and Romans, hawking and, of course, Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales—the bestseller of its day. I have used a little poetic licence by having it printed before it actually was. Poetry itself was extremely popular.
There were, of course, those who considered it dangerous to make the printed word so readily available to so many people. Goodness knows what would happen if more merchants, artisans and even the masses were ever to learn to read and to think for themselves! It could lead to revolution!
Ladies in particular were considered by some to be too delicate and weak to cope with some of the material coming off the presses, never mind their actually writing for publication themselves. But of course there were women who wrote books—mostly religious, or to do with the organisation of one’s household—and of course there were those men and women who kept journals and reported on great events of the day.
Printed books were expensive, and it was to be some time before the masses were to be taught to read and write, but as we all know it eventually happened and books are now read by millions. But that makes me think about the revolution in reading habits that is taking place now. Some of us believe there is nothing so aesthetically pleasing as to hold a brand-new hardback borrowed from the library, whilst some love to snuggle up in bed with a good paperback. Others much prefer to download a whole load of eBooks onto a reader—especially when they’re going on holiday.
I’d like to finish by telling you about a small old book of almost six hundred pages that belongs to my husband. It gives me a special feel when I hold it. It was printed in 1824 and has a woodcut of William Caxton on one page. On another is the title Typographia or the Printers’ Instructions by J. Johnson, printer. It includes an account of the origins of printing. What’s so great about that? you might ask, but inside is printed a dedication to the Right Hon. Earl Spencer, KG, president of the Roxburghe Club and its members, who include the writer Sir Walter Scott. The Earl, of course, is an ancestor of Prince William—our future king.
June Francis
Prologue
London—May 1520
‘So what do you think of my Beth?’ asked Master Llewellyn, handing a goblet of ruby-red wine to Sir Gawain Raventon. ‘Would she not make the right man a wonderful wife? She has kept house for me since the death of her mother and she has proved to have a good head for figures and is thrifty, so I have allowed her to do my business accounts.’
‘You have a husband in mind for her?’ asked Gawain, who had met that young woman only a quarter of an hour ago and had found her extremely self-possessed. Master Llewellyn shook his head. ‘She is adamant that she will not marry. I tell her that she must get herself a husband. This whole matter concerning Jonathan has aged me and is keeping me awake nights.’ He sighed heavily as he gazed into the strong handsome face of the man sitting opposite him.
‘In the light of the evidence I uncovered I do believe your son Jonathan’s death to be highly suspicious,’ said Gawain. ‘Do you have any notion of who might have wanted him dead?’
‘A madman, for what sane person would want to kill my dear Jonathan?’ said the old man huskily. ‘He was well liked and did good business selling our services and wares. It is true that sometimes he would absent himself for days. I didn’t know his whereabouts, but he always returned with more business for us.’
Gawain frowned. ‘You have questioned these customers?’
A muscle in Master Llewellyn’s cheek twitched. ‘No, Jonathan dealt with them himself, although I did once meet … Now, I wonder …’
Gawain raised an interrogative dark eyebrow. ‘You have thought of someone who might know something?’
Master Llewellyn pursed his lips and he looked unhappy. ‘I could be mistaken and I do not wish to damage a man’s reputation. I would rather not name names.’
‘If you do not mind my saying so, remaining silent could prove a mistake if we are dealing with a possible murderer,’ Gawain pointed out.
The old man remained stubbornly silent.
Gawain was exasperated. ‘Does your daughter know aught about this person or anything that could help us?’
Master Llewellyn looked shocked. ‘She believes that Jonathan’s death was an accident and I want her to continue to do so. The truth might prove too much for her to bear. The fair sex are not as strong as us men,’ he added, taking a hasty gulp of his wine.
Remembering the firmness of Mistress Llewellyn’s chin, Gawain thought the other man underestimated his daughter’s strength. ‘You should tell someone,’ he said firmly.
‘When the time is ripe I will,’ assured Master Llewellyn, downing the rest of his wine and banging down his goblet. ‘But I would ask of you a boon, Sir Gawain. If I were to die before this matter is cleared up, would you be Beth’s guardian and take on the task of choosing a husband for her? I must have a grandson,’ he added fretfully.
Gawain could understand the old man’s need for a male heir to carry on his line. He thought of his own son, who had died when he was only two years old, and the pain was as fresh to him now as it had been then. Indeed, it had intensified in the weeks since his wife, Mary, had disappeared with their daughters and he had feared the boy’s death had caused her to lose her senses.
‘I do not wish to gainsay you, Master Llewellyn,’ he rasped. ‘But I know more about timber and shipbuilding, and even what is happening at King Henry’s court, than what kind of man would make a suitable and pleasing husband for your daughter.’
‘I think you underestimate your judgement,’ said Master Llewellyn persuasively. ‘I believe you to be sound and I entreat you to grant me this boon. Women so often do not know their own minds and need a man to guide them in the right direction. You will not lose by it, I promise. I will bequeath you shares in my company and I cannot say fairer than that.’
‘That is indeed generous of you,’ said Gawain, taken aback. ‘But surely you have a close friend to whom you can entrust this task?’
Master Llewellyn grimaced. ‘At my age I have few friends left and they are enfeebled. I have appreciated the manner in which you took my suspicions seriously and investigated Jonathan’s so-called boating accident.’ His voice trembled. ‘You have a strength of character I have seen in few men. Please, let me have your hand on it, so I can have my will rewritten before I leave for France next month.’
Gawain experienced a pang of pity for the old man; as he was to return to his home in Kent that afternoon, and had to make all speed to Dover Castle the next morning, he decided that the only way to terminate this conversation swiftly was by agreeing to do his best for Beth Llewellyn, if the need should arise. At least she would not be short of suitors—she would inherit her father’s thriving printing and bookselling business and his aunt could chaperon her if need be. ‘All right, I will do as you ask,’ he said.
He was rewarded by Master Llewellyn’s relieved smile and they shook hands.
Gawain drained his cup. ‘I also am bound for France at King Henry’s bidding. You go there on business?’ he asked politely.
‘Aye, I hope to meet an old friend in my line of business in Calais,’ replied the older man, his rheumy eyes bright. ‘Also, the king, who occasionally patronises my shop, has generously said I may attend some of the festivities on this occasion if I wish, so I have suggested to my daughter that she accompany me.’
‘Then it is possible I might see you there,’ said Gawain, taking his leave.
On the way out of the chamber he collided into Beth Llewellyn. He steadied her and was aware of the softness of her breasts pressed against the wall of his chest and the swell of her hip nestled against his thigh. For a moment her startled, luminous chestnut-brown eyes rested on his face with an expression in them that caused him to remain as if cast in marble whilst his heart thudded against his ribs. Then he snatched his hands away as if she was a hot brand. ‘I beg your pardon, Mistress Llewellyn!’ he said stiffly and hurried away before he gave way to the urge to taste lips the colour of raspberries that were parted as if she were holding her breath—no doubt fearing what he might do next.
Chapter One
France—June 1520
A strong hot wind blew from the south and dust clung to Beth Llewellyn’s perspiring face as she pushed her way through the crowd. She wondered what event it was this time that was being performed for the entertainment of those gathered in the place that some were already naming the Eighth Wonder of the World. Many from the surrounding district and further afield had flooded into the area to witness the glittering splendour of the kings of England and France.
Beth could hear the thud of feet on turf, wheezing of air in chests and whistling between teeth. A sudden roar from the throats of those who could see what was happening caused her to believe she might have missed the finale and she thrust herself forwards into the crowd. But no one was giving way, so she dropped to her knees and managed to worm her way between the forest of hose-clad legs, ignoring the curses and clouts that came her way.
At last she arrived at the front, only to find herself almost eyeball to eyeball with the black-browed, hard-mouthed Sir Gawain Raventon. She could scarcely believe it was him and her pulse raced. She prayed that he was far too occupied to notice her, never mind recognise her in her male attire!
He was obviously having difficulty breathing. Around his throat was a hairy, ham-size arm. His strong-boned, tanned face was tight with determination as his long sinewy fingers forced their way between that arm and his throat. The next moment he heaved up his body and threw off his opponent. She did not know how he managed it because it happened so swiftly: several moments later, he had the other man pinned to the ground. Then Sir Gawain sprang to his feet, eased a shoulder with a grimace before being declared the victor. His opponent stared at him sullenly as the Englishman was handed the winner’s purse, which he tossed to a young man standing a few feet away.
Beth knew at this point that she should retreat or at the very least avert her eyes. It seemed odd that only now did she become fully aware that Sir Gawain was half-naked and, as it was the first time she had seen a man’s unclothed body, she was transfixed. His muscular chest was coated with a sheen of sweat and dark hair curled downwards in a V to the waist of his snug-fitting hose. She remembered colliding into him the first day they had met and felt a similar sensation at the core of her being that sent heat darting through her. Having a need to cool off, Beth reached for the laces at the throat of her tunic. She should never have made that move because it drew Sir Gawain’s attention to her. Hastily, she attempted to back away, but he was too swift for her and dragged her upright.
‘Who have we here?’ he growled, lifting her off her feet.
Beth gripped the opening at the throat of her tunic in an attempt to bring the two edges together, only to get her hand jammed between his chest and her breasts. She gasped with pain.
‘That was a rather foolish move,’ he said, loosening his grip slightly so her hand could slide free, his penetrating blue eyes scanning her face. His orbs turned into dark slits. ‘We’ve met before.’
‘No, we have not,’ lied Beth, shaking her head vigorously.
That was her second mistake for the action dislodged her cap, freeing her bronze-coloured braids. ‘By Saint George,’ he muttered. ‘It can’t be!’
There came a sudden roar from behind him, causing her eyes to widen. ‘Look out!’ she cried.
Gawain dropped her and turned to face his disgruntled former opponent.
Beth scrambled to her feet, scooped up her cap and made her escape. She forced her way through the crowd, stuffing her hair beneath her cap as she went, praying that Sir Gawain had been unable to put a name to her face. Yesterday, she had watched him at the joust and he had been clad in armour from head to toe. She remembered imagining that beneath all that gilt-and-silver metal was a finely honed body.
But what was she thinking of, bothering her head with such thoughts? She must make haste to reach her father’s tent, not only to change her garb, but also to write down what she had just seen whilst it was fresh in her mind. Hopefully, when she returned home, her words would be read in the news sheet for the rising merchant-and-artisan class back in London that she printed secretly. Her father had scanned its pages recently and shaken his hoary head as if in disbelief. If he had known she was now its author, he would have soon put a stop to it and forbidden her access to the print room. She despaired when she thought of his lack of foresight. Why could he not see that, since the invention of the printing press, the numbers of those learning to read had increased enormously? She remembered Jonathan saying that they were greedy for anything they could get their hands on and not all of it educational or religious. Beth was determined to continue to provide for that market, despite her half-brother’s death, by writing about such events as this one and in the process making money for herself. She felt it was what Jonathan would have wanted.
Words buzzed in her head. He was a giant of a man, six feet or more and broad in the shoulder. He held himself well, with a sort of easy, well-knit movement that spoke of training and perfect physical fitness.
Beth relived that moment when Sir Gawain had flung his opponent to the ground. Never had she met a man who had made her so aware of the beauty of the male physique: its form, its strength, its grace. She had admired his skill with the lance and sword yesterday, but today he had used his body as a weapon in a way that had been utterly thrilling. She might have told her father that she did not wish to marry, but it was not because she had a dislike of men.
Her father would be horrified if it came to his ears that she had attended a wrestling match dressed in male attire. Jonathan would have pretended to be so, too, but in reality he’d have been amused because he’d secretly enjoyed cross-dressing himself. She had discovered that fact several years ago and mentioned it to her mother, but she had been hushed and told to keep it to herself. A sigh escaped her. Beth had been extremely fond of Jonathan despite his being their father’s favourite. The son who was supposedly so much cleverer than her and who would have inherited the business if he had not died so unexpectedly. Poor Jonathan!
‘Mistress Llewellyn!’ called a voice that she recognised.
Beth’s heart leapt and her step faltered, but then she put on a spurt, knowing it was best that she appeared not to own to that name. In her haste she did not see the guy rope of a nearby tent and was sent sprawling on the ground.
Before she could scramble to her feet, she was hauled upright. Her eyes were parallel with Sir Gawain’s chest and she could not help but notice that his doublet was unfastened and the ties of his shirt hung loose, exposing his bare throat. She fought back a temptation to reach up and touch his bare skin and struggled in his grasp.
Before she could gather her wits and act as if she had never seen him before, he removed her cap, causing her braids to once more tumble down her back.
He smiled grimly. ‘So I was right, it was you. By St George, what are you thinking of wearing such garb?’
Beth tilted her chin. ‘Why did you have to come after me? Couldn’t you have pretended that your eyes had deceived you?’ she said heatedly. ‘What I do is really none of your business, sir!’
‘Is it not?’ he said drily, grabbing hold of her plaits and stuffing them inside her cap. ‘You are a disgrace to womanhood and I could no more ignore your behaviour than fly to the moon.’
The colour in her cheeks deepened. ‘Do you not think that is rather an exaggeration? I have done naught wrong. I have hurt no one by my behaviour. But I do beg you not to mention this to my father. He has had enough to grieve him in the past few months.’
Gawain’s eyes held hers. ‘Perhaps I will do as you ask if you provide me with a worthwhile explanation. Otherwise, I must believe that the heat has affected your sanity.’
‘You are insinuating that I am crazed just because I wished to pass unnoticed amongst the crowds!’ She raised her eyebrows and gave him a look of disdain.
A short derisive laugh escaped him. ‘You call crawling on your belly into a wrestling ring going unnoticed? You are crazed, woman!’
‘I was simply curious!’ she protested.
‘Curiosity can get people into trouble.’
‘Obviously, but I am not the only person here showing curiosity. Why should I satisfy yours, sir? What is important is whether my father really needs to know the truth about a matter that would cause him embarrassment and make him angry?’
‘If you knew that, then why do what you did?’ he asked.
Beth said scornfully, ‘You wouldn’t understand because you are not a daughter.’
‘You forget your place,’ he snapped. ‘And that remark is a typical feminine excuse to avoid telling the truth.’
‘Men are not always honest,’ said Beth recklessly. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell me why you were wrestling half-naked.’
‘The heat?’ he suggested, raising his eyebrows.
‘Then you must have broiled alive in the armour you wore in the lists yesterday,’ she said unthinkingly.
‘Aye,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘But I did not notice you there.’
‘I was not amongst the ladies,’ she countered, wishing he would not look at her so. There was something about this man that caused her to be hot and bothered and it was not due to her concern about his informing her father about her alter ego.
‘You mean you were dressed as a youth then, too!’ Gawain swore softly and thrust her away from him. ‘I must be mad, but I will say naught about your disgraceful behaviour if you promise never to wear male garb again.’
‘Of course, if that is the price I have to pay for your silence,’ she said with a sudden meekness that he found unconvincing. ‘Now, if you do not mind, Sir Gawain, I must be on my way.’
He frowned. ‘You do realise that if you betrayed yourself as a woman in front of a priest, then he could have you clapped in prison. Your head would be shaved and you would be dragged through the streets in disgrace.’
Beth stiffened. ‘I deem you are trying to frighten me, sir.’
‘Not at all, Mistress Llewellyn. I am just pointing out to you the punishment that could be heaped on your lovely head if you don’t do what I say,’ said Gawain, exacerbated.
Hot words were on the tip of Beth’s tongue, thinking how there was one rule for men and another for women, but she decided to hold them back. ‘I’ve noted your warning, Sir Gawain, so may I now be on my way?’ She gave him a limpid look and a honeyed smile.
He found himself once again comparing the colour of her lovely eyes with polished chestnuts and her lips with soft fruit. Would they yield to his tongue and teeth and release their sweetness? And what of her body? His thoughts shocked him. He was a married man despite having been informed that Mary had been seen arm in arm with another man in the next shire, information that had resulted in him lying through his teeth to the informer. Maybe it was due to the fact that he had not slept with a woman for six months that had resulted in him desiring Beth Llewellyn? If so, it had to stop!
Beth wasted no time hurrying away. She wondered what would be Sir Gawain’s reaction if she told him that it was her mother, Marian, who had first put the idea in her head to don a disguise if need be to gather interesting little snippets of news. It was Beth’s mother who had also encouraged her to jot down her thoughts and feelings about this and that. She had been a great admirer of the mystic, Dame Julian of Norwich, who was believed to have been the first woman to have written a book in the English language.
Sadly her mother had died four years ago when Beth was sixteen. If Marian had been alive today, then she would have insisted on her husband allowing their daughter to play an even greater part in running the business. Her father, on the other hand, was determined to marry her off to a man who would be his partner in the business, whilst she would be expected to keep house for them. It was why she had stubbornly refused to marry!
The thought infuriated her as she made her way into the next field, where thousands of tents of lesser splendour were pitched. Both Henry VIII and Francis I had determined to outshine the other, with tents, horses and costumes displaying accoutrements and jewels amidst much expensive fabric woven with silk-and-gold thread. The most elaborate arrangements had been made for the two monarchs and their queens, Katherine of Aragon and the pregnant Claude of Brittany. No doubt King Henry was wishing that it was his Katherine who was expecting a child, as he was desperate for a legitimate healthy son, according to rumour.
She hurried between the tents and, as she approached her father’s tent, thought she caught sight of a whisk of a red skirt as it vanished behind the next tent. No doubt it belonged to one of those loose women she had seen disappearing into the gloom the other night. Cautiously she drew back the flap of her father’s tent, praying that he was still talking business with his old friend in Calais.
Her prayer went unanswered.
Lying on the ground was her father with the jewelled hilt of a dagger sticking out of his back. Her heart began to pound in her chest and she felt sick as she fell on her knees beside his body. Her first instinct was to remove the dagger and see if he was breathing. But as she reached for it, there came a sound behind her. She whirled round, fearing that the murderer had returned, and saw Sir Gawain standing in the tent-opening.
For a moment she could not speak and then she cried, ‘Help me!’
Scowling, he took her by the shoulders, hoisted her to her feet and set her aside. Then, gritting his teeth, he hunkered down beside the body and searched for a pulse before looking up at her. ‘I am sorry, Mistress Llewellyn, but your father is dead.’
‘But—but he can’t be dead,’ she stammered, scarcely able to believe his words nor her own eyes.
‘Did you catch sight of anyone lurking outside as you approached?’ asked Gawain.
‘I—I thought I caught a glimpse of a woman’s scarlet skirts, but I cannot believe my father would have been—’ She fumbled for a camp stool and sat down. ‘Who could have done this?’ she asked in a bewildered voice.
Gawain remembered Master Llewellyn mentioning someone who might have wanted his son dead, but had refused to name names. Could he have confronted this person with his suspicions here in this tent and met his end at that villain’s hand? ‘Do you recognise this dagger at all?’ he asked, getting to his feet.
Beth stared at the elaborately decorated weapon and shuddered. ‘No, but I would wager that it is not the instrument of a hireling.’
Gawain agreed, frowning as he took a cloth from a pouch at his waist and wiped the blade. He wrapped the dagger in the cloth and placed it on the small table nearby. ‘Whoever did this must have been in a hurry to leave such a distinctive weapon behind. Perhaps he heard you approaching and made his escape via the back of the tent.’
Beth glanced at the canvas wall that divided the living area from the sleeping quarters. She opened her mouth to speak, but already Gawain had walked over to the dividing canvas wall and stepped through the opening. She hurried after him.
He was kneeling by the billowing outer wall of the tent; at the sound of her entry, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘The murderer most likely did make their escape this way. See how the bedding has been pushed aside and there are scuff marks on the ground and a couple of tent pegs have come loose. Perhaps the woman you caught sight of might have seen who it was and would recognise him again.’
Beth took a shaky breath. ‘Should we try to find her?’
‘Aye. Where are your servants?’ he asked abruptly. ‘You need someone with you.’
‘They were given leave to see the sights and were to return this evening.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat and added in a husky voice. ‘Jane and Sam have been with our family for years and this will be a terrible shock to them.’
Gawain rasped his unshaven jaw with a finger and his dark lashes hooded his eyes as his gaze washed over her and the froth of feminine garments sprawled on her bedding. ‘Perhaps someone tending a cooking fire nearby might have noticed whoever entered this tent. You will stay here and change your garments whilst I see if I can discover if that is so.’
She moistened her lips. ‘What if the murderer returns for the weapon?’
Gawain hesitated, then said reassuringly, ‘I will keep this tent in my sight, so I will see if anyone approaches it.’
She thanked him.
He brushed past her and vanished from her sight. For a moment she considered running after him, not wanting to be alone. Then she tilted her chin, knowing she must depend on herself for so many things from now on. With her father dead, she would now inherit his business. Even so it made sense to obey Sir Gawain’s order and change her clothing. Swiftly she stripped and donned a cream-coloured high-necked chemise, stockings, garters and a long-sleeved dark blue gown that fastened at the waist to reveal the underskirt of the chemise. The front of the gown was cut to an arch over her bosom and the neckline was fashionably square. She searched for the shoes with buckles that her father had insisted on having made for her in London before they came away. He had never bothered much about her appearance and she guessed that he had only done so recently because he was determined that she should attract a suitor. Well, his plan would come to naught. She would not marry, but run his business herself and make her mother proud of her. God grant that she was in heaven and able to look down on her. Father, too, now, she added forlornly.
Who could have killed him and why? She wiped her face with a drying cloth and then, with a shiver of apprehension and praying that Sir Gawain was keeping his promise, hastily coiled her braids beneath her headdress, the front of which was shaped like the gable of a house. Then from a box, inlaid with different kinds of woods, she took the simple cross of amethyst on a silver chain that had belonged to her mother and placed it about her neck. She smoothed down the conical-shaped skirts of her gown before picking up a blanket and leaving the sleeping quarters.
She gazed down at her father and then kissed his cheek. With trembling fingers she covered him with the blanket and then shot to her feet at the sound of footsteps outside. She gazed towards the tent opening with a racing heart and then sagged with relief as the flap lifted and Sir Gawain ducked his dark head and entered the tent.
‘Thank God, it is you! Did you discover anything?’ she asked.
‘A woman was seen entering this tent,’ he said curtly.
Beth was stunned. ‘I—I don’t believe it!’
Sir Gawain’s frown deepened. ‘She was wearing scarlet, so it seems likely that it was the woman of whom you caught a glimpse. Apparently she was tall for a female, so she could stand out in a crowd and be easily recognisable.’
‘I—I still don’t believe my father would entertain a woman alone in this tent,’ she said fiercely. ‘Maybe it was a man in disguise?’
‘I suppose that is possible,’ said Gawain slowly.
‘It’s also possible that it could have been just an opportunist thief who made the mistake of entering the tent, not realising Father was here.’ She seized on that idea because it was less frightening. ‘It could even have been an accident.’
Gawain did not look convinced and she guessed that he thought she was deceiving herself. ‘You’ll have to go through your possessions to see if aught is missing,’ he said.
Beth reached for the cross at her throat. ‘This was not taken.’
He stared at the lovely column of her neck and felt an unexpected urge to press kisses on her white skin and was stunned that he could feel such thoughts at such a moment. He had a need to clear his throat before saying, ‘Whoever it was must be found. I have initiated a search, but the men are also seeking the youth that one saw enter this tent shortly before I did. They gave me your description,’ said Gawain tersely.
‘You—you mean they think I could be responsible?’ gasped Beth.
‘Hush, woman, keep your voice down,’ growled Gawain. ‘We do not want folk knowing that you dress up as a youth. I told them that he must have escaped by crawling beneath the back of the tent as soon as he heard me enter.’
She sank on to a stool and chewed on her lip. ‘They will wonder why I did not see this youth and scream.’
‘Most likely they will believe that you returned while they were elsewhere. I asked another man to find a physician.’ He paused, ‘You’ll need to get rid of the male clothes you wore. Best give them to me to dispose of. Go, fetch them now.’
Beth hesitated.
He glowered at her. ‘Mistress Llewellyn, if you still have it in mind to continue with this charade, then forget it. You will never again don that costume while I am responsible for you.’
Beth’s head shot up. ‘But I am not your responsibility.’
Gawain hesitated, uncertain why he felt so reluctant to tell her that her father had made him her legal guardian. ‘Someone has to take care of you,’ he muttered.
‘I am able to bear the responsibility for myself,’ said Beth, squaring her shoulders.
Gawain scrutinised her pale, tear-stained but proud face. ‘I would not dispute that you are an extremely capable young woman. Having said that, I deem the circumstances in which you find yourself in right now would prove difficult for anyone. You will need my help to deal with the rigmarole involved in a suspicious death. This will have to be reported to the proper authorities and I will need to hand over the weapon. If fortune is with us, then someone will recognise it.’
They both looked towards the table where he had left the dagger wrapped in its cloth. It was not there! ‘The murderer must have come in and taken it whilst I was changing and you were outside!’ cried Beth.
Gawain frowned. ‘They’d have to be invisible or hellish quick.’
‘Of—of course,’ stammered Beth. ‘Perhaps it is on the ground!’ She dropped to her knees and Gawain hunkered down beside her. They bumped heads, both winced and hastily drew back.
‘Did I hurt you?’ asked Gawain, reaching forwards and straightening her headdress.
‘N-n-no!’ She felt breathless. ‘Did I hurt you?’
He smiled grimly. ‘I have a hard head.’
‘You’d need to have with all the fighting you do,’ she said, without thinking.
‘My fighting days are mostly over,’ he muttered, getting to his feet.
‘It must be here somewhere,’ she said, continuing to search whilst wondering what he meant by his words.
‘I’ll have the servants make a thorough search.’ He held a hand out to her and pulled her to her feet.
Beth saw him wince. ‘What is it? Are you hurt?’
‘It is nothing!’ He was not about to explain that he was suffering for his foolish behaviour in accepting the challenge to wrestle earlier. Why did he feel this need to prove his manhood just because Mary had been seen with another man? Especially when he knew it could result in more than a few bruises and strained muscles? It was not the same sense of rightness and pride that had resulted in him resigning his position in Henry’s Gentlemen of the Spears, whose duty it was to look to the king’s safety on the field of battle, at court and on ceremonial occasions such as this one.
‘I don’t believe you,’ blurted Beth. ‘You are obviously in pain.’
‘It is nothing,’ he repeated through clenched teeth. ‘I will need to report your father’s murder to Cardinal Wolsey.’
‘No! Father—’ She paused to swallow the tightness in her throat. ‘He—he did not like Cardinal Wolsey,’ she added weakly. ‘Could you not investigate my father’s murder instead?’
Gawain hesitated. ‘It wouldn’t be right. I could be a suspect.’
‘Why should you be?’ She was aware of a sense of unreality and felt sick, then added faintly, ‘I cannot believe this is all happening. It is as if I was taking part in a masque.’
‘You’re not about to swoon, are you?’ he asked, taking her arm and lowering her on to the stool, praying that she would soon recover her composure. ‘Come, you showed such strength earlier,’ he said encouragingly. ‘I did not mean that I really was a suspect. You can trust me.’
‘Then why say what you did? You might as well say I could be a suspect, too. I have much to gain by my father’s death,’ said Beth, shivering.
He realised that what she said was true, but surely she would not have killed her own father? There came the sound of voices outside the tent. ‘Go into your sleeping quarters and remain silent,’ he hissed. ‘I’d rather you left this to me.’
Beth hesitated, but then, still suffering from that sense of unreality, she decided she had to trust him and wasted no time in doing as he bid. She gathered together the clothes she had worn earlier and stuffed them inside her pallet of straw and lay down. She could hear the murmur of voices, but could not make out the words. She wished she could leave this tent now and never return. Yet somewhere outside lurked her father’s killer.
Beth did not know how long she lay on her pallet, waiting for Sir Gawain to call her. It seemed an age before the voices trailed off and she heard him call her name. Then she rose and went out to him and saw that her father’s body had been removed. ‘Where have they taken him?’ she asked.
‘To the village church until he can buried in the morning,’ said Gawain.
‘So soon,’ murmured Beth. Yet she understood that it was the only sensible action to take in such heat. ‘I—I will go there later and speak to the priest about having masses said for his soul.’
‘If that is what you wish, but in the meantime I must inform Wolsey what has happened.’ Gawain’s voice brooked no argument. ‘He organised this whole event. He would think there was something amiss if I did not report the matter to him.’
‘You know him well?’
‘We are acquainted due to my having spent time at court,’ said Gawain.
The colour in Beth’s cheeks ebbed and she thought how there would definitely be an enquiry now by the Cardinal. She hated the idea.
‘Did your father not have a business meeting this morning in Calais?’ asked Gawain.
She hesitated. ‘Aye, but what has that to do with this? Monsieur Le Brun is but a master printer and he and my father have done business together for as long as I can remember. He would never hurt him.’
‘Your father wouldn’t have considered him a suitable husband for you?’
‘What!’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘He is an old man. Besides, he has a wife and three sons.’
Gawain was relieved. ‘It was just a thought. Yet his conversation with your father earlier today might provide some clue to his murderer. With his being an old friend he might have spoken to him about matters he would not have told others. Do you know his whereabouts in Calais?’
Beth mentioned the name of a street.
‘Then I will go there,’ said Gawain. ‘But first I must speak to Wolsey.’
He drew back the tent flap and ushered her outside. Immediately the strong wind caught her and almost blew her off her feet. She clung to his arm as her skirts were whipped about her legs and she felt him stiffen. Obviously he did not want her touching him, so she released her hold on him and was aware of curious glances as they made their way past the tents.
‘I wish we had never come here,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But Father was adamant that I should see some of the places that he had visited with the king’s father when he was a penniless fugitive.’
‘Perhaps it will be worth mentioning the link between the Tudors and your family to Wolsey.’
‘I do not doubt he already knows of it,’ said Beth. ‘My Welsh great-grandfather fought beside the king’s great-grandfather, Owain ap Twydr, at Agincourt, but that did not mean much to Wolsey. He and Father met and they disagreed on matters of religion.’
‘I see,’ said Gawain, wondering if the Llewellyn menfolk had been involved in the printing of illegal religious tracts at any time and, if so, maybe that could have had something to do with their deaths? ‘Anyway, I am hopeful that when I explain the situation to the Cardinal, he will speak with the king and he will allow me to escort you back to England as soon as possible.’
‘Why should you want to do so?’ asked Beth, surprised. ‘Would you rather not stay here?’
‘I deem it my duty to see you safely home,’ he said firmly.
‘I still do not understand why you should feel responsible for me,’ said Beth. ‘I have my servants to accompany me.’
Gawain frowned. ‘Do not allow your pride to get in the way of common sense. Because of my position your passage will be more comfortable. Besides, you will be safer with me. Allow me to help you, Mistress Llewellyn.’
Beth did feel safer knowing that he was at her side, despite his overbearing and disapproving manner earlier. ‘I will do so for now, Sir Gawain, but do not feel that I will acquiesce so easily another time,’ she murmured.
‘I am not such a fool that I have forgotten our earlier exchange, Mistress Llewellyn,’ he said, then changed the subject. ‘Now, tell me your opinion of our king’s temporary palace.’
Beth saw that they were heading through the crowds to that edifice and could not help but marvel at what the old king’s money had built here in Balinghem. The palace was in four blocks with a central courtyard. The only solid part was the brick base and above that were thirty-foot-high walls made of cloth on timber frames, painted to look like stone or brick. The slanting roof was made of grey oiled cloth and gave the illusion of slates. There were huge expanses of expensive glass windows.
‘One cannot accuse our king of tightfistedness,’ said Gawain drily.
‘Do you like him?’ asked Beth in a low voice.
‘What is there not to like?’ parried Gawain.
Beth would have argued that was not a proper answer, but Gawain had turned away now and was talking to one of the guards. Once inside, it struck her that he knew a lot of people as he spoke to several of those there. ‘How will you find the Cardinal in this great edifice?’ she asked, glancing about her at the luxurious fittings and the profusion of golden ornaments.
‘A messenger has been sent to inform him that I seek an audience with him.’
‘Then you know for certain that Wolsey is here,’ she said, her fingers reaching for Gawain’s sleeve as he led the way to a bench, flanked by flowering shrubs in pots.
‘Aye, it is not unusual for him to work from dawn to dusk on the king’s behalf whilst his Majesty and his court enjoy themselves.’
She nodded, having heard it was so from Jonathan, who’d had acquaintances at court.
Gawain was soon summoned to the Cardinal’s presence. His dark blue eyes held Beth’s for a moment. ‘Do not fret. You are safer here than alone in your father’s tent. Only a lackwit would risk harming you with so many witnesses present.’
Beth nodded, wondering why he should think anyone should want to harm her. She carefully arranged her skirts as she sat down and watched him cross the sunlit space with a loose-limbed stride until he was out of sight. Then she freed a pent-up breath and prepared for what she guessed could be a long wait.
The time passed slowly and she was seized again by that sense of unreality. She felt set apart from the folk who came and went in colourful costumes, like so many peacocks, jays and magpies, chattering and shrieking with laughter. Now and then she was aware of glances being cast her way and wished that Sir Gawain would return. There were questions she wanted to ask him, such as why he should have even mentioned his being considered a suspect? Could it be possible that he had cause to want her left all alone in the world so that she might depend on him? Well, he was mistaken if he thought that was so because she could look after herself. She rose and crossed to one of the windows and gazed out on the courtyard where the fountains of wine flowed freely. Some people had already imbibed too much and were staggering about and carousing in voices that made her wince.
‘Mistress Llewellyn,’ said a voice behind her.
She turned swiftly, surprised by the strength in the surge of relief she felt, collided into Sir Gawain and was knocked off balance.
‘Careful,’ he murmured, fighting against the sensations caused by the swell of her breasts against him. He found himself imagining their pale softness with their rosy peaks and forced himself to hold her off at arm’s length. Beth Llewellyn’s father had deemed him her protector; until he found her a husband, that meant he must keep faith, whatever temptation she put in his path.
Chapter Two
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Gawain, seizing Beth’s hand and hurrying her towards the outer door.
Beth thought he looked grim and her heart sank. ‘What—what happened? Did the Cardinal suspect that I am responsible for my father’s death and will not agree to my leaving France?’
‘Why do you think I should have put such thoughts into his head?’ said Gawain, glancing down at her pale face. ‘Is it that you overheard my conversation with your father that day we met in London?’
‘No!’ she cried, tripping over her hem in an attempt to keep up with him. ‘Please, of your courtesy, Sir Gawain, if you would just slow down! Your legs are so much longer than mine and I cannot keep up with you.’
Gawain begged her pardon and attempted to set his pace to match hers. It was not easy and he was impatient to reach his tent, hoping he would find his man, Tom Cobtree, there. He must not be alone with her.
‘Why do you ask about your conversation with my father and where are you taking me?’ she demanded.
‘To my tent. If fortune is with me, then my man will have returned and we will have something to eat and drink.’
‘What of my servants?’ asked Beth. ‘And will you tell me exactly what passed between you and the Cardinal, as well as my father?’
‘I told the Cardinal the facts and deemed it necessary to inform him of my suspicions concerning your brother’s so-called accident.’
Beth took a deep breath. ‘My brother’s so-called accident! Are you saying that Jonathan’s accident was no accident?’
‘Did your father not speak of it to you? Despite his reluctance to do so, I had hoped that he might have done,’ said Gawain.
Beth stopped in her tracks. ‘He has not spoken of it to me. Are you telling me now that my brother was murdered?’
‘I suspect it was so,’ said Gawain.
‘I don’t understand,’ she cried. ‘And how is it that my father should have involved you in the matter?’
‘If you’ll allow me to answer one question at a time, Mistress Llewellyn, instead of throwing them at me like spears, I will endeavour to do so.’
‘Likening my questions to spears is an odd way of referring to two simple questions,’ she retorted.
‘I felt you were suddenly beginning to regard me as your enemy. Your voice was getting shrill.’
‘My voice is not shrill,’ she denied.
A smile eased up the corners of his mouth. ‘It was certainly not dovelike, but let us not quarrel, Mistress Llewellyn.’
That unexpected smile did strange things to her and she found herself answering it with one of her own. ‘All right, I will calm down, but you must understand how difficult all this is for me.’
‘Of course I understand,’ said Gawain, his smile fading. ‘I will answer your first question. I had the boat your brother purchased raised and dragged ashore at low tide. Holes had been drilled into the hull.’
‘What!’ She was aghast. ‘Who would do this and how did Jonathan not spot the damage?’
‘I can only believe that the plugs were loosely put back into place; once it was afloat, the water forced them out. I had recently taken charge of the yard where the boat was built and your father came to me in great distress, searching for answers to why a newly made boat should sink.’
Beth was hurt that her father had kept such important information from her. When he had introduced her to Sir Gawain back in London, she had believed him to be just a new customer. ‘So you are a boat builder, as well as a knight,’ she said.
‘I am no boat builder. I own land in Kent where I rear sheep, as well as a whole swathe of forest on the Weald. I supply timber to several ship- and boat-building yards at Smallhythe and Greenwich.’
‘Does the king not have a palace at Greenwich?’
‘Aye. He takes a great interest in shipbuilding, as did his father. He is building a navy and that is how I came to Henry’s notice,’ said Gawain. ‘But we are digressing. Your brother …’ He paused.
‘I don’t understand. Why should a boat builder hold a grudge against Jonathan?’ Her voice shook.
Gawain raised an eyebrow. ‘We have no reason to suspect that the craftsman who built the boat killed your brother. Anyone with a knowledge of boats would be quite capable of drilling holes in the bottom. Maybe your brother wronged a shipwright’s wife and he was intent on revenge.’
‘Jonathan could be very cavalier in his treatment of my sex, but he would not seduce another man’s wife,’ she said firmly.
Gawain stared at her thoughtfully. ‘How can you be so sure?’
She returned his stare. ‘I knew him well and it was not in his nature to seduce a married woman. You will just have to take my word for it.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I will do so unless I discover you are wrong.’
She hesitated. ‘All right, I accept that because you didn’t know him. Anyway this is not helping us discover who killed my father.’
‘It could be that he had an inkling of who might have done away with Jonathan and he made the mistake of confronting the person he suspected.’
‘I—I see.’ She was silent a moment and then her eyes widened suddenly. ‘Do you think my father could have been killed by a religious fanatic?’
He marvelled at the way her mind so quickly grasped hold of possibilities. ‘It has occurred to me that he might have been involved in printing some of the teachings of the heretic Martin Luther,’ he said cautiously.
‘Father was religious, but Jonathan was not. And I cannot believe that Father would be so foolish as to become involved in such a dangerous activity.’
‘People can behave out of character when they strongly believe in something. Especially when they are grieving and deeply disturbed in their minds.’
She had a strange feeling that he was not only referring to her father, but someone else he knew, and wondered who it could be. ‘That could easily apply to the murderer, too,’ she said, moistening her lips that suddenly felt dry. ‘If so, they could have a grudge against my family and I could be their next target.’
Gawain hesitated before saying, ‘It is possible, but I gave my word to your father that I would take care of you if aught were to happen to him and I will do so.’
She gasped. ‘Why should you make such a promise to my father when you were barely acquainted? What did he offer you?’ she demanded suspiciously.
Gawain knew that the moment had come to tell her the truth. ‘Shares in his business, but that is neither here nor there as I am not a poor man, Mistress Llewellyn. No doubt what I am about to say will vex you, but on your father’s death I became your legal guardian.’
She was taken aback. ‘Why should he ask you to do that? There were other people he could have asked. His lawyer and man of business, for instance.’
The muscles of his handsome face tightened. ‘I asked your father that same question. It might seem strange to you, but he trusted me. I refused at first, for I did not wish to be burdened with finding you a spouse but he persisted.’
‘But I do not wish to marry,’ blurted out Beth.
‘So your father told me and frankly I do not believe it,’ said Gawain with a shake of the head. ‘Especially now your reason no longer exists.’
An angry sparkle lit her eyes. ‘You are mistaken. I presume he will have left his business to me, so there is naught preventing me from taking control of it when I return to London. I will be able to support myself financially, so I have no need of a husband.’
‘Impossible,’ he stated, coming to halt outside his tent. ‘It was your father’s wish that you marry and you will do so. Nothing you say will persuade me otherwise. Now inside before you attract even more attention to yourself than you have already done.’ He untied the flap and drew it back and ushered her inside.
‘I—I will not s-stay here with you! I will not marry you!’ She flung the words at him, making a bolt for the tent entrance, wondering whether Sir Gawain had designs on her himself and if he wished to have complete control over her, having killed her brother and her father?
Gawain seized hold of her and swung her against him. ‘Where did you get that crazy notion from? I already have a wife, so do not be thinking me responsible for your father’s death in order to get my hands on his business through you.’
Beth was stunned. ‘A wife! You have a wife? Where is she? Is she here with you?’
A flush darkened his cheeks because he knew that he was going to have to lie to her. ‘It really is none of your business, but, if you must know, she is tending an elderly sick aunt back home in England.’
‘I—I see,’ said Beth, wondering why she was having difficulty visualising him as another woman’s husband. After all, he was handsome and strong, extremely attractive and possessed land and money. ‘May I sit down?’ she asked abruptly, her knees giving way.
He seized her arm and pulled forwards a stool. ‘Naturally you are upset by the thought of having to obey a man who is almost a complete stranger to you, but it was your father’s wish.’
She clenched her fists. ‘It was wrong of Father to make arrangements for my future without discussing it with me. Why could he not treat me as he would have Jonathan?’
‘I am sure you know the answer to that,’ said Gawain, pouring wine from a barrel into a pitcher. ‘You are not stupid.’
‘Aye, because I am a daughter and not a son,’ she said bitterly.
‘Perhaps he also knew you well enough to know that you would argue with him if he told you the truth.’
She jerked up her head and glared at him. ‘As I will argue with you. Do not think I will fall in with your desire to get me out of the way. I will not marry and become some man’s possession, having no say in my own business.’
He said calmly, ‘We do not need to discuss this now. Will you take a cup of wine, Mistress Llewellyn, and some bread and cheese? It is all I can offer you at the moment.’
The calmness of his manner frustrated her because she so wanted to vent her hurt and anger on someone. ‘You said earlier that you came to the notice of the king. Why do you not eat at Henry’s table?’ she muttered.
‘If you must know, I’ve had a surfeit of rich food since I’ve been here. Besides, those who fawn around the king these days are not to my liking. When I was at court it was because I had trained as one of the king’s Gentlemen of the Spears, his élite mounted bodyguard.’
‘Then what were you doing wrestling half-naked if you held such a position?’ she asked.
‘I used to wrestle with Henry but now I cannot.’ He glowered at her.
‘Why not? Because you would defeat him and the king is not a man to suffer defeat lightly?’ she surprised him by saying.
Gawain shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t admit that, but the truth is that whilst fighting here in France a few years ago, my shoulder was dislocated. Now the joint has a habit of coming out of its socket when put unduly under stress and the pain can be debilitating. It does not happen often, but enough to embarrass me in front of my king and peers. Besides, I could no longer be relied on to defend the king if he were in danger, so I had to beg leave to resign from my position.’
‘That must have been very upsetting for you,’ said Beth, struggling with conflicting emotions. ‘You must miss the life of a warrior.’
‘Hardly that of a real warrior,’ he said stiffly. ‘Although life at court could be amusing, as well as exciting. As it is, Henry summons me to play board games or dice with him. He is an inveterate gambler and I have some skill.’
‘That is why are you here now? He invited you to play with him?’
Gawain nodded. ‘And there is no need for you to tell me that I should not be performing at the lists or wrestling with my disability. I have a wife to tell me that,’ he added harshly.
‘Is that the real reason why she is not here?’ asked Beth. ‘Because of your male pride being hurt? That is foolish.’
He handed a cup of wine to her. ‘How well you understand me, Mistress Llewellyn,’ he said sardonically.
‘By St George, you took a risk,’ she said, taking a sip of wine.
Their eyes met. ‘You would say that pride comes before a fall, but I say a man needs his pride,’ said Gawain.
‘He could have flattened you,’ said Beth. ‘But I admit I found it admirable that you were able to throw that Breton wrestler.’
He shrugged and winced, determined not to show the pleasure her remark gave him. ‘Shall we change the subject?’
She nodded, curious to know more about him. ‘Tell me about your wife. Have you children?’
Gawain gazed into her attractive little face that was alight with interest. He imagined how her expression would change if he told the truth—that Mary had deserted him, taking their daughters with her. It would perhaps give Beth more reason to be against marriage. Of course, he could have told her how he had spent weeks searching for them, believing that his wife’s wits were deranged after the loss of their son, fearing for the girls’ safety and that of their mother. This had been after Mary’s father’s death when Gawain had taken on new responsibilities. Then he had struck lucky or so he had thought, only to discover that Mary had made a cuckold of him and when he had rode to the place where she had been observed, it was too late. She had vanished again. Then the king had summoned him to court and he’d had no choice but to abandon his search.
‘I have two daughters: Lydia, who has seen seven summers, and Tabitha, who is three years old.’ He found it too painful still to mention the loss of his son to her, but added swiftly, ‘More recently I’ve been sorting out my father-in-law’s affairs. He died a year ago and left it to me to rescue his ailing boat-building yard. I have hopes that in a few years it will be prosperous again.’
Beth frowned. ‘You have enough matters of your own to sort out as it is without being bothered with mine. Why do you not allow me to handle my own affairs?’
Gawain was tempted to agree, but found himself saying, ‘I made a promise to your father that I would find you a husband. His dearest wish was that you provided him with a grandson.’
‘A grandson!’ This was news, indeed, to Beth and it angered and hurt her further. ‘A daughter was not good enough for him,’ she added in a trembling voice. ‘Only a male offspring will do.’
Gawain paused in the act of setting the table. ‘You must forgive him. It is natural for a man to want a son to carry on his name. No doubt your father had it in mind for you to marry someone who understood the printing- and book-selling business, but perhaps it would be wiser to sell it, so as to provide you with a substantial dowry to attract a gentleman so you would not be forever thinking of printing and books.’
‘No! It cannot be sold,’ she cried, starting to her feet and spilling a little wine on her gown. ‘If I have a son, then he will inherit and carry on with my work.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Gawain, frowning. ‘What work is this? Tell me?’
Encouraged and filled with an overwhelming need to share her secret, Beth said, ‘I know how to set type and to work the presses, and I have continued with the work Jonathan began. I write and print a newsletter and it is distributed in London and I am determined to carry on doing so.’
His eyes flared. ‘By St George, I believe you are serious!’
‘Indeed, I am!’ Her face was alight with enthusiasm. ‘I write about matters that I know will interest those who have learnt to read since their parents’ generation grasped the first books that came off Master Caxton’s presses here in England. They are eager for the written word and they desire more than just the gospels and stories of the saints. They enjoy the old tales from classical history such as Aesop’s Fables, but they also want to be kept informed about what is happening today.’
‘Are you saying that the printing and distribution of Holy Writ in our own tongue does not interest you?’ he asked, his dark brows knitting.
‘No, of course not,’ she said, flushing. ‘I am saying that the printed word has the power to do more than bring religious enlightenment to those who wish to read the gospels for themselves. It can educate, entertain and amuse on several topics.’
‘I agree that there is much enjoyment to be found in such as Homer’s Illiad, but the printed word can also be dangerous, as you well know. It can preach sedition and moral laxity,’ he said drily.
‘That is not my intention,’ she said hastily. ‘I sincerely believe there are many people who are eager to know what is happening in other countries. They are interested in the great occasions such as this one taking place here. They would also enjoy reading of the wonders of the Indies and the New World by those who have visited these lands.’
‘I would not deny the truth of what you say, but those accounts will be written by explorers and no doubt printed by men. I would be doing you a disfavour if I allowed you to hold out any hope of continuing with this newsletter of yours, Mistress Llewellyn,’ said Gawain, marvelling at the enthusiasm that gleamed in her lovely eyes. If only she would look at him in such a manner! He quashed the thought. ‘Obviously your father would have disapproved and that is why you kept it a secret.’
Deeply disappointed in him, she said, ‘Aye, because he thought, like you, that men can do most things better than a woman. We must be kept in our place under a man’s heel, to keep house, to be faithful and do what a man says and to bear him sons. Daughters do not matter. I pity your wife, because no doubt you do not appreciate your girls but long for her to give you a son!’
The anger he had suppressed for so long exploded and he seized hold of her. ‘I deem you have said enough, Mistress Llewellyn,’ he said in a dangerously low voice. ‘You have no idea of what is between my wife and myself. I, like many men, believe it is our God-given role to cherish and protect our women and children, whatever their sex. You would spread falsehoods and discontent if what you say is an example of your writing. I would be doing your readers a favour by taking your newsletter out of circulation.’
‘I will not be silenced,’ she said, glaring at him.
‘Will you not?’ he said harshly and pressed a fierce kiss on her lips.
A stunned Beth could do no more than remain still in his embrace, but her heart raced and her knees had turned to water.
He released her abruptly, furious with himself and her.
‘You should not have done that,’ she gasped, putting a hand to her tingling lips.
‘No, I should not,’ admitted Gawain hoarsely, turning his back on her and breathing deeply. ‘But you would cause a priest to forget his vows. Your father held you in high esteem as a housekeeper and spoke fondly of you. He wanted you safely married and that will be my aim. I must ask you to forgive me for losing my temper and I assure you that it will not happen again.’
‘I—I should think not! What would your wife say?’ cried Beth.
‘Shall we keep my wife out of this?’ he said, clenching his fist.
Her eyes fixed on his whitened knuckles and she knew that she had touched him on the raw. ‘I will not mention her again,’ she said stiffly. ‘Although if we were to meet in England—’
‘You would tell her?’ His expression was grim. ‘It is possible she would not believe you.’
There was a long silence as they stared at each other. Then he reached for a knife. She shrank back and he swore beneath his breath and began to slice a loaf. ‘Eat, Mistress Llewellyn, you need to keep up your strength if you are to survive the difficulties that lie ahead,’ he rasped.
‘I am no weakling nor did I say I would speak of that kiss to your wife. Rather I wonder how I could look her in the face, knowing that you had kissed me.’
‘It is the swiftest way I know to silence a woman,’ he said.
If he thought he had silenced her, then he was mistaken. Yet it had been such a kiss that she could still feel his lips’ impression on hers. How dare he accuse her of spreading falsehood and discontent when he had not read a word she had written! She would show him—but in the meantime, he was right about her keeping up her strength. She reached for the bread and cheese, determined to have her way, but uncertain yet exactly how to go about it. She supposed it all depended on what happened when they reached England. He could not force her to marry and no doubt he would need to leave her in London if he were to visit his wife and children. The sooner they parted the better—they obviously struck sparks off each other, rousing feelings that had to be suppressed.
Gawain wondered what she was thinking. What would she say if he told her that Mary had borne him a son, but the boy had died? How in the weeks that followed he’d had to contend with Mary’s coolness and impenetrable silences. He had tried to reason with her and get her to talk about their loss, but that had been a waste of time. Once he had discovered there was another man involved, it had caused him to wonder how long she had been making a cuckold of him and whether the boy had truly been his son or this other man’s child. He had tried to be a good husband to her—never had he beaten her or forced her to bend to his will as she had told him her father had done. Gawain had treated her with respect and warmth as he remembered his father treating his mother. There had been great love between his parents, but still it had been a terrible shock when his father had died on the hunting field not long after his mother had passed away. Although he had left no message, Gawain was convinced his father had not wanted to live after his mother’s death and had recklessly taken one risk too many. As if it had not been painful enough to lose his mother, he had felt utterly abandoned when his father died.
‘I must speak to my servants, Jane and Sam,’ said Beth, rousing Gawain from his reverie.
‘My man, Tom Cobtree, and the lad, Michael, should be here soon,’ he said, lifting his head. ‘I will instruct them on how to find your tent. Hopefully, your servants will have returned and Tom will have your maid pack your possessions and bring them here. It is best you sleep in this tent tonight. You and she can have my sleeping quarters. I want the men to make a thorough search of your tent and its vicinity in the hope of finding the dagger and any other clues that might point to the identity of the murderer.’
Beth accepted Gawain’s plan. She had no desire to return to the other tent where her father had met his death.
Within the hour, Tom and Michael had arrived; after a low-voiced discussion with Gawain, they left. Thankfully, Beth did not have to wait long before Jane came with some of her mistress’s baggage. Gawain excused himself and left the two women to rearrange the sleeping quarters.
Jane was old enough to be Beth’s mother and they were fond of each other. She was a widow and had lost two children in infancy. ‘What a terrible thing to happen, Mistress Beth,’ she said, dabbing her wet eyes with her sleeve. ‘What is the world coming to? How will we manage?’
Beth placed an arm around her. ‘I’m sure we will cope, Jane. It isn’t as if I was unaccustomed to running the household and, despite what Sir Gawain says, I am determined that my father’s business will not be sold.’
Jane’s face brightened. ‘That’s the spirit, Mistress Beth, although, I will say that I deem it a good thing that the master thought to enlist him to keep an eye on you.’
‘More than just an eye, Jane,’ said Beth, scowling. ‘Father asked him to find a husband for me. You can imagine how I feel about that.’
‘Your father only wanted what was best for you, Mistress Beth,’ said Jane, picking up the bundle of bedding she had brought with her.
‘What he thought was best for me,’ corrected Beth. ‘But he didn’t really know me. Even so, I’d like to go to the Church of the Nativity of Our Lady in the village and speak with the priest and have masses said for his soul. You can accompany me after we’ve finished here. I know some French and am sure I will be able to make my wishes known.’ She sighed. ‘Let’s hope that Sir Gawain and the other men will find some clue to the murderer’s identity.’
Gawain took the dagger from Tom and fingered the amethysts embedded in the hilt. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘In the corner over there,’ said Tom. ‘The grass hasn’t been flattened by the groundsheet and the cloth it was in was the same colour. Definitely worth a bit,’ he added with fine understatement.
‘I’ve a feeling I’ve seen that dagger before,’ said Sam.
Gawain shot a glance at the burly figure of Beth’s servant. ‘Are you sure? Think, man.’
Sam screwed up his lined face. ‘Perhaps it was in some nobleman’s house when I was out delivering books on the master’s orders. Couldn’t see any of our other customers owning such a blade.’
‘I presume there’ll be a list of Master Llewellyn’s customers back in London,’ said Gawain.
Sam nodded. ‘Mistress Beth will be able to put her hand on the book straight away.’
Gawain looked thoughtful. ‘But she didn’t recognise the dagger.’
‘She don’t go delivering, has too much else to do.’
Gawain placed the dagger in its cloth inside his doublet. ‘I’d best return to Mistress Llewellyn and inform her that we’ve found the weapon. Sam, if you would, pack your master’s possessions and bring them to my tent. Tom, you can come with me and cook us something hot for supper. You, Sam and Michael will share this tent tonight.’
The three of them nodded.
When Gawain arrived back at his tent it was to find it deserted. Where could Beth and her maid have vanished to? He was filled with unease, hoping they had not been followed earlier. Then he remembered what Beth had said about visiting the church in the village and decided to go and look for her there. He told Tom what he was about and then set off in the direction of Balinghem.
‘It is a sobering thought, Jane,’ said Beth in hushed tones as they left the church, ‘that my father’s bones will lie here in France. A country that he long regarded as the enemy.’
Jane glanced over her shoulder as they hurried past the churchyard. ‘You can’t trust the Frenchies. Their king might be all smiles now, but give him another month and he’ll be making up to someone else. The Scotties, mebbe, or even the Holy Roman Emperor Charles, himself.’
‘The Emperor is Queen Katherine’s nephew, so it is more likely that he and Henry might yet come to some agreement against the French,’ said Beth. ‘But these matters are for statesmen and royalty to sort out. We have enough problems of our own to deal with when we return home.’
‘Do you think Sir Gawain will move us from Pater Noster Row?’
‘I imagine that he has that in mind,’ said Beth. ‘With a murderer on the loose, no doubt he would consider it a sensible move.’ Even as she spoke, Beth caught sight of Gawain coming towards them. She frowned, her emotions in a tangle, and thought how strange it was that in such a short time she was able to recognise his form and his stride from a distance. She determined not to dwell on the kiss he had forced on her or how much she had liked it.
She waited until he drew closer before calling, ‘Good even, Sir Gawain. Did you find anything?’
‘Aye. Tom found the dagger. Somehow it must have been knocked from the table and landed in a patch of tall grass in a corner.’ Gawain gazed down at her and wondered if she was still angry inside because he had kissed her. ‘Your man, Sam, thinks he might have seen it in some nobleman’s house whilst delivering books. He can’t remember his name. He suggested that you look through the account book and read the names out to him, so that hopefully it will jog his memory.’
Beth felt a stir of excitement. ‘And if it can be proved that person was also here at the time of my father’s murder, then we have our killer.’
‘That is certainly a strong possibility,’ agreed Gawain. ‘In the meantime I must speak with Monsieur Le Brun and intend visiting Calais early tomorrow morning. I will return in time for your father’s burial.’
‘May I come with you?’ asked Beth. ‘I would like to see him.’
Gawain hesitated, then agreed.
The rest of the evening passed without further incident and although Beth slept only fitfully, towards the dawn she finally fell into a deep sleep.
When at last she did wake, Jane told her that Sir Gawain had given orders that she was not to be disturbed and had set off for Calais with Tom Crabtree, leaving Sam to keep a watch out for any sign of trouble. She was annoyed at being left behind, but soon decided there was little point in feeling that way. After a breakfast of bread and ham, she took paper and quill and ink and began to write down all that happened in the last twenty-four hours.
By the time she had finished the sun was climbing high in the sky and Gawain had returned.
One look at his face told Beth that something momentous had occurred. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, starting to her feet.
‘Monsieur Le Brun has been murdered,’ said Gawain grimly.
Beth felt the blood rush to her head and collapsed on the ground.
Gawain cursed himself for his thoughtlessness and went down on one knee, placing his arms beneath her and lifting her up. He sat down with her on his lap and glanced at Jane, who had put down her mending and stood up. ‘Don’t stand there like a stock,’ he roared. ‘Fetch some wine.’
Jane hurried to do his bidding while Gawain tried to rouse Beth by patting her cheek and calling her name. He needed her to be strong when he was feeling aroused by simply holding her on his lap. He was annoyed with himself; he should not be feeling like this about her.
Beth’s eyelids fluttered open and she gazed up into his face. Realising that she was sitting in her guardian’s lap, she sat bolt upright. ‘Put me down at once!’ she ordered.
‘There is no need to panic,’ he said roughly, wishing she would keep still and hoping she was unaware of his arousal.
‘You—you did say that Monsieur Le Brun had been murdered?’ She swallowed a lump in her throat and, despite her earlier demand that he release her, clung to his doublet.
‘Aye, it was completely unexpected.’ His expression was serious. It appeared that perhaps after all they had a religious maniac on the loose. He could think of no other reason why the French master printer should have been killed, but one of his sons had told him that he had been providing Master Llewellyn with information about the teachings of the heretic Martin Luther for more than a year now, so maybe that was reason enough for a lunatic.
Beth’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He was such a kind, harmless old man,’ she whispered.
‘I’m going to get you on a ship to England today,’ said Gawain. ‘Whilst in Calais, I spoke to the master mariner of a vessel that is sailing this evening.’
‘Good,’ said Beth, relieved. ‘I will be glad to leave this place.’
Before she could say any more Jane brought the wine. Gawain took the cup from her and held it to Beth’s lips. She drank, but, despite feeling light-headed, as soon as she had drained the cup she insisted on getting to her feet. Gawain wasted no time in helping her up and then ordered the men to make ready the horses and to pack the tents, bedding and baggage in a wagon.
Beth and Gawain conversed little on the journey to Calais. She could not deny that she would have been more anxious if it were not for his presence. Yet she knew she could not depend on him to keep her safe once she arrived home, despite his promise to her father. He had a wife and children and she would not have him risk his life for her. One thing was for certain—the death of Monsieur Le Brun proved that her father must have had something to do with the printing of religious information coming out of Europe. She still could not believe that Jonathan was involved. Yet if he had not been, then why had he been killed? Could it have been purely because he was his father’s son? If so, that meant her life really could be in danger, too.
Chapter Three
Gawain stood at the side of the ship, gazing towards the port of Smallhythe, positioned on the bank of the River Rother where his boatyard, amongst others, was situated. Raventon Hall lay further inland up a hilly road that led to the town of Tenderden and beyond to the Wealden forests, nestling between fields where sheep grazed. He felt a swell of emotion, glad to be back despite the difficult situation he found himself in. If it were not for his concern for his daughters and the hope of having news of them, he would have sailed for London first to visit Beth’s father’s lawyer before going home. He needed to get her off his hands before he succumbed to temptation again. She held an attraction for him that went beyond mere physical beauty that he found baffling. She was self-opinionated, stubborn and had no mind as to how a lady should behave. But she was also well-read and clever and he could see her attempting to best him at every turn, especially when it came to choosing her a husband or deciding what to do with her father’s business.
Of course, he could send her to London by road with her servants and his own man, Tom, but would she be safe? It all depended on the murderer’s motives and whether he was a dangerous fanatic or a person of intelligence and cunning. He came to the decision that for now Beth would be safer at Raventon than in London. He would place her in the care of his Aunt Catherine, who hopefully knew better than to discuss her nephew’s most private affairs with anyone. He didn’t want Beth knowing what had been happening between him and Mary.
‘Do you have your own boat, Sir Gawain?’ asked a voice at his shoulder.
He turned and stared down at his ward’s sombre wind-flushed face. ‘Aye. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I am wondering if you will be taking me to London in it rather than continue there in this ship.’ Beth had also been wondering what he had meant when he’d said that she did not know what was between him and his wife. Perhaps she was not the wife he had desired or maybe he loved her and she did not love him?
‘Certainly not today,’ he answered.
She hesitated. ‘Of course, you will be hoping that your wife and children are home now. Surely that is all the more reason for me to leave you to enjoy their company. I and my servants could travel by road if you will lend us horses.’
Gawain shook his head. ‘It is best you rest after the journey. My wife has most likely not returned, but my aunt will make you welcome at Raventon Hall. There you will find peace and solitude and that is needful whilst you mourn your father. You need time to recover from the terrible shock you have suffered.’
Having hoped that she might gain some control over her own life once back in England, Beth was disappointed, thinking now of what she had been going to write for her news sheet, but she kept a grip on her emotions. ‘How much time are you talking about? It is thoughtful of you to consider my feelings in such a way, but I would prefer to go home,’ she said firmly.
‘Of course, but I doubt you will find much in the way of peace and solitude in London’s streets at this time of year, Mistress Llewellyn.’
‘I would not gainsay you, but I will need more clothes and items for my toilette if I am to stay in your home for more than a few days and there is much in my house that will need my attention,’ she said in a polite little voice.
‘Shall we leave the decision about the length of time you will stay until the morrow?’ suggested Gawain.
Beth decided she would have to be content with that suggestion for the moment. She did not want to appear to be difficult so that he would feel a need to have a watch kept on her. She nodded, adding, ‘Should you not warn your aunt of my arrival? I know how having unexpected visitors sprung on one can put all planning of meals askew and I do not wish your aunt to take a dislike to me.’
Gawain agreed.
As soon as the ship had anchored and all their goods were unloaded, Tom was sent on ahead to Raventon Hall. Beth gazed about her at the bustling little port. ‘Most of the buildings appear quite new,’ she said, accepting Gawain’s help up on to his horse; Sam was driving the cart with Jane sitting alongside him.
‘There was a fire here a few years ago and most of the houses were destroyed,’ Gawain said, swinging up into the saddle in front of her. ‘The majority of the buildings are of half-timbered design, but the new church is of red brick.’
‘I’ve never seen a redbrick church before,’ said Beth, hesitating to slip her arms about his waist and link her hands together despite knowing she would feel so much safer if she did so once the horse broke into a canter. Instead she gripped the back of his doublet and hoped for the best. ‘How far is your home?’ she asked.
‘Tenderden is less than a league’s distance from here. Most of the timber for the boat-building yards is transported by river via the town.’
Beth gazed about her as they made their way out of the port of Smallhythe. ‘Tell me more about the area, if you would?’
Gawain was pleased by her interest. ‘Tenderden is a centre of the broadcloth industry and so there are many spinners and weavers plying their trade. Some are of Flemish descent. Edward III forbade the export of unwashed wool and so they brought their specialist skills here.’
‘How interesting,’ said Beth, her fingers tightening their grip as the horse broke into a trot. She shifted closer to him and felt more secure moulded against his back and even a little excited. She blamed that on the speed at which they were travelling.
Conscious of Beth’s comely form in a way that he knew was not sensible, Gawain attempted to block out such thoughts by pointing out the church of St Mildred on the hill as they came into Tenderden. He thought of Mary and how glad he was that they had not married at the parish church. The one in Smallhythe had burnt down and in one of her rants she had stated it was a sign from God that their marriage was not of his will. His eyes darkened. In the light of what had happened since, it seemed she was right.
As they approached the house, Beth’s stomach began to tie itself into knots. What if the elderly sick relative had died and Sir Gawain’s wife had returned? She might resent his having brought a strange young woman to her home. Whilst Beth did not doubt that Gawain was the master in his own home, she knew enough about her own sex to realise that if his wife took a dislike to her, then she could make her stay very uncomfortable, indeed.
As Gawain reined in his horse in front of Raventon Hall, Beth saw that whilst it had decent proportions, it was not large, as he had mentioned, so she would not have to worry about finding her way about. It was half-timbered, with mullioned windows that reflected the sunlight and had a welcoming aspect.
A metal-studded wooden door opened and out came a tall lanky woman. She wore a brown gown trimmed with lace and wisps of greying hair clung to a damp, smiling face framed by a starched white headdress. ‘You have returned safely, nephew,’ she cried. ‘I cannot express too much how glad I am to see you.’
‘It is good to be home,’ said Gawain, a question in his eyes.
She glanced briefly at Beth, flashing her a slight smile, before saying to her nephew in a low voice, ‘A missive arrived, addressed to you in Mary’s hand. I have placed it in your bedchamber.’
He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but his voice showed no emotion when he spoke. ‘May I introduce my ward, Mistress Elizabeth Llewellyn. Beth, this is my aunt, Mistress Catherine Ashbourne.’
‘Mistress Llewellyn, you are very welcome. I extend my condolences on your very sad loss,’ said Catherine, inclining her head.
‘Thank you. It is good to meet you and I am pleased to be here,’ said Beth politely with a smile, relieved that his wife must still be away if the mention of a missive was anything to go by.
Gawain dismounted and, with a brief word of apology to Beth, headed for the house. The smile on her lips died and she managed to get down from the horse, unaided. ‘You must forgive my nephew,’ said Catherine. ‘It is some time since he has seen his wife and daughters and he is impatient to have news of them. I dearly miss the girls myself. The house is not the same without them. Do come inside.’
Beth followed her and paused just inside the doorway to gaze about the hall. It had a timbered ceiling that ran the full length of the house. Sunlight flooded in from a window at the other end of the hall, to the side of which was a raised area, partially concealed by an intricately carved wooden screen. Two settles with cushions stood close to the hearth where a fire burnt, a necessity even though it was summer because the stone floor struck chill through the soles of her shoes despite the rushes and herbs that covered it. Against one of the walls were a couple of benches, trestles and a table top. Set against another wall was an iron coffer and a large wooden chest with metal bands and a large keyhole. Perched on top of it was a travelling writing desk and several books. On two of the walls there were tapestries.
‘It is a fine hall,’ said Beth, curious to inspect the books as she remembered Sir Gawain mentioning his own reading.
‘Do sit down and I will have refreshments brought to you as it is still a few hours until supper,’ invited Catherine. ‘Whilst you take your ease, I will ensure that your baggage is taken up to your bedchamber, so your maid can unpack for you. There is a small antechamber adjoining yours with a truckle bed where she can sleep.’
Beth thanked her and relaxed against a cushion, wondering what Gawain had learnt of his wife and daughters and whether he would be joining her for refreshments.
Gawain entered his bedchamber and wasted no time breaking the seal of his wife’s missive. Not once had she written to him since that first note she had left on his pillow after she had disappeared. That had been brief and to the point, simply stating that she could no longer live with him and that he must not try to find her and the girls. He unfolded the sheet of paper and spread it on the small table over by the window and began to read.
Gawain,
It has come to my ears that you have been searching for us. I should have expected this, but I hoped that you would heed my wishes, but no, you have grown obstinate and uncaring since I first met you. In the past I respected and admired your strength of character and appreciated your generosity and warmth of manner, but I have to tell you that I only went through a form of marriage with you because Father insisted on it. I loved another. We met whilst I was staying with distant kinsfolk of my mother’s. We were scarcely more than children when we plighted our troth without benefit of clergy, but simply in the eyes of God. Then our parents parted us and we were both forced into marriages not of our making.
Gawain gave a mirthless laugh. He could remember no force being exerted. Rather he recalled how willingly Mary had come into his arms. He found it hard to believe that it had all been a pretence on her behalf. He was tempted to screw up the letter and throw it away, but he needed to know how his daughters fared and the identity of the man she was now claiming was her husband. He read on with growing incredulity and anger.
Despite our conviction that we were really tied to each other and our other marriages false, I dared not cause a scandal and bring my father’s wrath down on my head. We did not see each other for a year or more after I went through a form of marriage with you and then fate intervened and we met again and became lovers. Then my dear love’s so-called wife died in childbirth and shortly after my father passed away. We decided that we could no longer live apart and so I went to him. Of course, I could not leave my sweet girls behind; besides, it is possible that Tabitha could be my dear love’s daughter. Accept, Gawain, that we will not be coming back to you. I was never, in truth, your wife, Mary.
Gawain’s emotions threatened to choke him. Who did Mary think she was, deciding what was lawful and what was not? He knew that in some cases such ceremonies were accepted as binding, but as far as he was aware they were only considered legal if the parties lived together afterwards. He needed to know where Mary and this man were living and sort this matter out even if he did not want her back. Separating the girls from him was cruel. Gawain had always been the girls’ provider and protector. He knew they looked up to him. What had Mary told them about him and this other so-called husband? They must be utterly confused. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he had Mary and this man in front of him now. He would show them who was in the right here. Instead, he had to control his anger and frustration, needing time to think about what he must do to get the girls back. Tabitha could still be his daughter, but even if she were not, he still loved her and wanted her home. As for Mary—he could be right in believing her wits had gone begging after the loss of their son.
He placed the missive at the bottom of the chest at the foot of his bed and locked the chest. Then he left his bedchamber and went downstairs, but there was no one in the hall, yet he could hear voices and recognised that of Beth Llewellyn. He guessed that his aunt had taken her into the smaller, more comfortable parlour for refreshments. He decided he could not face them right now. As he crossed the hall and went outside, he remembered lifting Beth off her feet after the wrestling match and that moment when she had trapped her hand and he had caught a glimpse of her cleavage. It had been as revealing a moment as when her cap had slipped and her braids had tumbled free. She must have been mortified, yet she had kept her wits about her, called a warning to him and, making the most of her opportunity whilst he faced the Breton, made good her escape. He needed to keep his wits about him right now. He might desire her, but he needed to keep his hands off her.
A wry smile twisted his lips and then he scowled. Beth’s shocking behaviour in dressing as a youth was far less damaging than Mary’s actions. How on earth was he going to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion where the girls were concerned without creating a scandal? As if he didn’t have enough to do in the next few months: securing a safe future for Beth, finding a murderer and managing the Raventon estate, his forests on the Weald and the boat-building yard at Smallhythe. He swore beneath his breath and then squared his shoulders and went in search of his steward.
Beth was feeling pleasantly sleepy when she was shown into a bedchamber that was furnished with all that was necessary for her comfort. She was happy to see that Jane was there unpacking her clothes; on a table over by the window her writing implements had been laid out.
‘It is a pleasant room,’ said Catherine, drawing back one of the bed hangings and fastening it securely to a hook on the wall.
Beth smiled. ‘I certainly cannot find fault with it. Do you have many guests staying here?’
‘Not since the Christmas revels when my nephew had a couple of friends to stay with their wives and children. The mummers from the village came and entertained the guests. We sometimes took part and it was immensely exciting and amusing dressing up and wearing masks. Have you ever done so, Mistress Llewellyn?’ asked Catherine.
‘Indeed, I have done so in London. I deem that such moments are also spiced with danger because one cannot always guess the identity of the person behind the mask.’
Catherine agreed. ‘You are so right. I have felt fearful more than once on such occasions. There are some people who exude an air of madness or menace so that you wonder if they are Old Nick himself.’ Her hand quivered as she smoothed down the blue-and-green woven counterpoint on the bed.
‘You are thinking of a specific person?’
Catherine shook herself. ‘I will say no more. I do not want you to have bad dreams.’
Beth’s curiosity was roused. ‘I deem you have a story to tell.’
‘Aye, but I’ll not be telling it,’ said Catherine firmly. ‘I will leave you now to do whatever you see fit. Do feel free to walk the grounds. At this time of year the rose garden in particular is lovely. When it is time for supper, I will send a servant to find you.’ She made for the door.
‘Please do not go yet,’ said Beth, stretching out a hand to her. ‘I would that you would tell me something more about Sir Gawain. I know so little about him. His parents—who were they?’
Catherine hesitated. ‘I cannot linger long as I must go to the kitchen and see that the preparations for supper are advanced. His father, Sir Jerome, fought on the old king’s side during the wars and was rewarded for it, although he already owned Raventon and forest on the Weald, supplying oak for the shipyards.’
‘And what about his mother? How did she and his father meet?’
Catherine’s homely features took on a grave expression. ‘Ah, my sister, Margaret, she was one of the old queen’s ladies-in-waiting. She had a lovely nature and was perhaps too good for this world. She died after she miscarried twins.’
‘That is sad,’ murmured Beth, wondering how old Gawain had been at the time. ‘Sir Gawain’s wife—’
‘Enough, child, I must go,’ said Catherine and hurried out before Beth could delay her further.
Jane glanced at her mistress. ‘She sent shivers down my spine with her talk of Old Nick. Despite her welcome, Mistress Beth, I did wonder if she wants to be rid of us. It would be strange indeed if Sir Gawain had brought you here, thinking you’d be safe, when the place could be haunted by nasty demons.’
‘We have no reason to believe this house is haunted. You are putting words into her mouth,’ said Beth, sitting on a stool and removing her shoes. ‘You can leave me now, Jane. I would like to be alone for a while.’
Jane smiled. ‘That’s right, Mistress Beth, you have a lie down. I’ll go to the kitchen and ask one of the maids where I can wash some of the garments you wore in France.’
‘You don’t have to worry about that now, Jane,’ said Beth, stretching out on the bed and closing her eyes. ‘We’ll be returning to London in a few days.’
‘I’d rather have some work to occupy my hands, Mistress Beth,’ said Jane.
‘Then do what you wish,’ murmured Beth, yawning.
Jane tiptoed out of the bedchamber and the room fell silent.
Beth tried to sleep, but the talk of Old Nick, demons, madness and menace had unsettled her. Briefly she had been able to put out of her mind what had happened in France, but now she wept for her father. Part of her regretted leaving France so swiftly and she could only pray that some kind Frenchwoman would tend his grave until she could return there one day. She gave up trying to sleep and rose and went over to the window. The glass was thick with a whirly pattern embedded in its surface in some of the tiny panes, but others were clear, enabling her to see through them. There was no way of opening the window, so she decided to go outside shortly and get a better view of the gardens. Right now she would use the time to write down her first impressions of this house and the gist of the conversations that had taken place since her arrival.
She took a sheet of paper and picked up her writing implement, sharpening it before removing the top from her ink container. She wasted no time gazing into space, but began to write. When she had finished and read through what she had written, she felt a stir of excitement. Here she felt there could be a thrilling tale in the making; all she needed was a little more information and then she would allow her imagination to take flight. She thought of Sir Gawain. There were questions she needed to ask him, but whether he would provide her with the answers she wanted was a different matter entirely.
Gawain had spoken to his steward before saddling up his horse and visiting the forest that could be seen in the near distance. After having a word with his forester and woodcutters, he returned to the stables and was making his way back to the house when he saw Beth strolling in the direction of the rose garden. He was tempted to call out to her. The garden would be a pleasant place to linger and would delay the moment when he would have to make certain decisions. Yet although drawn to her, he doubted he would ever trust a woman again. Had Beth wanted her father dead? As she had said herself, she had much to gain.
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