“How is he?”
Mrs B shrugged. “Not well enough to argue with. You’d better go up.”
Pierre left the table and ran up the stairs.
Was Gabriel immersing himself into his romance with Nicole? Had he been feeling guilty after their brief brush with flirtation on the New Moon night? Or was it Nicole, suspicious, marking her territory?
Fifteen
Lord M was in his chair, but it was only his steely, stubborn pride that put him there. Everything from the grey tinge of his skin to the trembling fingers – always a sign of deep fatigue – everything told her he should be in bed. Instead, he sat in his winged armchair; Liam, she guessed, must have had to carry him there.
“Pierre.” Her boss glanced up when she got nearer. There was no trace of his usually powerful voice or the mocking words. No Persephone, no Loony Bint, just Pierre.
Her chest tightened with worry.
“How are you, Mr M?”
He waved his hand feebly. “Tell me, how is your article?” The words sounded scraped from the edges of his oesophagus. Should he be speaking at all?
“I’m still doing research, but I have a lot of material already.”
“Tell me.”
Behind him, Liam mouthed something. She asked him wordlessly with her eyes.
“Stop conferring behind my back,” Lord M snapped with something almost recognisable as his usual spirit. “And you” — He pointed over his shoulder at Liam — “Go find him.”
Liam nodded and walked out with a last warning look at Pierre.
What?
Probably trying to warn her not to tire his patient out with too much talk, either that or warning her to keep him happy and answer.
She decided on a compromise. “I have pages and pages of notes on this. There are so many forgotten ruins on the island which used to be pagan or early Christian holy sites. The old Wishing Well.” She counted on her fingers. “The Hand-Fasting Lea, but the best discovery of all is Margo’s Arch.”
“I hate to rain on your parade, but we already know Margo’s Arch.” He almost smiled.
“Well…” She smirked at him. “It’s not Margo at all. The accepted story is that a French Lord Gueffeaux built it as a present for his wife. That’s only half true, but he wasn’t French. He was Anglo-Saxon and we have no idea what his name was. But the arch was aMorgen Gifu. It means ‘bride gift.’ There was a law that a man had to give his wife a gift, usually property or land. Hedge was right; it was part of a wall, probably a house. I think the whole land around it must have been part of that bridal gift.”
“Well done.” His eyes had moved back to their sparkling blue and there were two red spots on his cheeks. “I was right to ask you. Do you have enough for an article?”
“I think so. I just have to sit down and write it.”
“You haven’t started yet?” He glanced up behind her. “Good, you found him!”
Pierre twisted, her heart leaping. And there, a few steps away was Gabriel with Liam. How long had he been there while she talked?
“Do you have pictures?”
“I do, Mr M,” Gabriel answered. “Lots and lots. Of the Arch but also the scattered stones that must have been, as Pierre said, part of the original structure. I also have photographs of the courting dance from the festival the other night and the New Moon Ceremony.”
“Good, good.” He looked to them both expectantly.
Aware that they had distracted him from his obvious fatigue, she went on, “Actually, I’ve also discovered many other medieval festivals, some of them French, some Norman. There is this thing called the Nutting which used to be held in the autumn with roasted nuts and autumn harvest goods, and it included a blind man’s race. It’s no longer held, but the site is still there. And there is the New Baby Feast where new-born babies are baptised. You can see the stone basin near the Old Bridge.”
“Ah Persephone, thank you,” he said with a weak smile.
“I think there might be enough material, not just for one article but four. This time next year, I can have them all published. I’ll submit them to lots of magazines and see who wants to publish them.” It was a risk saying this because publishing was extremely competitive. But she wanted to cheer him up.
