“Aye, my lady, I do,” the innkeeper said politely. “They are not new vehicles, of course, but serviceable.” As he spoke he was mentally assessing the worth of this young noblewoman. A rich woman would have traveled with her own carriage and horses. A poor woman would not even be speaking with him. The only question remaining was how much he might squeeze from this lady.
“You will have my mistress and her maid escorted to a private room where they may refresh themselves in peace,” FitzWalter said sternly, guessing the innkeeper’s thoughts. “You and I will conclude this business between us.”
“Certainly, Captain,” the innkeeper said, bowing just slightly. “Marie!” he shouted at a serving wench. “Take m’lady and her servant to the Rose Room at once.”
The buxom serving girl hurried over and, with a bow, invited Arabella and Lona to follow her into the busy inn. Several of the men leered invitingly in her direction and were not discouraged, to their delight. The two Englishwomen were taken to a small, pretty room, and upon entering, Arabella was hard pressed to decide why it was called the Rose Room. Then she looked through one of the chamber’s windows and saw a rose garden beyond. Marie brought them a basin of scented warm water and linen towels with which to dry themselves, and then scampered out, to return a few moments later with a tureen of rabbit stew, a newly baked cottage loaf, a crock of sweet butter, a wedge of Brie, a bowl of lovely red-black cherries, and a pitcher of sweet white wine.
“Allow me to serve you, m’lady,” she said. “You must be ravenous. The sea air can make one hungry when you are not used to it.”
“Sit down, Lona,” Arabella instructed her servant. “There is no need for us to stand on ceremony here. Marie, we will serve ourselves. Please see that my captain and my men are fed and the horses watered.”
The serving girl curtsied and skipped off.
They were hungry, but still they ate slowly, savoring the well-prepared meal. The stew was rich with small onions and carrots that swam in a tasty, herb-flavored gravy, the bread was crusty on the outside, but soft and chewy in its interior. When they had almost finished, FitzWalter joined them.
“I’ve concluded the bargain with our innkeeper friend, Master Bartholomew,” he said. “‘Tis a small coach that should attract neither robbers nor attention. Just the sort of vehicle a poor but proud young noblewoman would have. The innkeeper was eager to part with it, for ‘tis not large enough to suit most people, and he’s had it hanging about for some time now, I gather. The interior is surprisingly luxurious, if a trifle worn.”
“How many horses did you buy?” Arabella asked.
“Three,” FitzWalter said. “Lona’s gelding will make the fourth. Since she’ll not be riding him if she’s riding in the coach, it seemed a pity to waste the coin. Your mare can be tied behind to follow, m’lady.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Aye.” He nodded.
“Then give us but a few minutes to attend to ourselves, and we shall be on our way,” Arabella said.
“I’ve hired a young man to drive us to Paris,” FitzWalter told her.
“Was that wise?”
“Master Bartholomew tells me the roads in France are as safe as any,” FitzWalter said dryly, “which means we should get through to Paris without losing our possessions or being murdered, if we are lucky, my lady. I’d rather have all our men free to concentrate upon defense. The lad I’ve hired knows the roads well and is going up to Paris to see his married sister, who has just had her first child. The innkeeper assures me he can handle the carriage and is trustworthy. If he is not, I have promised Master Bartholomew that I will return to Calais to wreak a wee bit of havoc upon his corpulent person.”
Arabella laughed. “I trust he took you seriously,” she teased.
“You have five minutes, my lady,” FitzWalter told her.
It took them over a week to reach Paris, rising early, traveling the entire day long with brief stops to rest the horses. As it was June, the sun did not set until late, and until the twilight faded, it was still possible to navigate the coach along the bumpy, dusty roads. The inns in which they stayed were barely habitable places, several of which did not even have suitable accommodations for a lady of rank, and so Arabella was forced to sleep in the hayloft of the inn’s stables, for FitzWalter would not allow his mistress to associate with common travelers.
When at last they reached Paris, they put up at an inn recommended by their host in Calais, Les Deux Reines, whose owner, Monsieur Reynaud, welcomed them warmly. Upon learning that the English lady would need a house, the French innkeeper happily informed them that, by chance, he owned a charming small stone house on the Seine, just south of the city, that he believed madame would adore.
“I can see,” he said, “that madame is not used to living in a city, and frankly, madame, city living is not healthy. One must be born and bred to it in order to properly survive. This petitemaisonwill be just to madame’s taste, I assure you. It is well-furnished, and the rent is most reasonable.”
“We will talk,” FitzWalter growled, but Monsieur Reynaud was not in the least intimidated by the big Englishman.
The two men argued back and forth for over an hour, and finally the bargain was struck. Arabella would take possession of the house on the morrow. FitzWalter refused to pay Monsieur Reynaud his year’s rent, however, until they had seen the house.
“I will send my serving wenches to make certain that the house is aired and dusted,” Monsieur Reynaud purred charmingly. “Madame will be most happy at Maison Riviere, I promise it.”
On the following morning they rode to Maison Riviere and discovered to their surprise that Monsieur Reynaud had not exaggerated in the least the virtues of his property. The small stone house had two stories and an attic, as well as a cellar which was fairly dry despite the house’s proximity to the river Seine. Mounting the steps to the house, they entered into a small hallway. The main floor of the building consisted of four rooms. The cellar beneath, which was high, contained the kitchens, a buttery, a scullery, and a room for storing wines. The second floor of the building held the sleeping chambers, and the attics above would house several men-at-arms.
Maison Riviere was well-aired and clean. It was furnished in worn, but nicely polished oak furniture. There was not a great deal of it, but enough to give the impression that Arabella was struggling to keep up appearances. There was even a small, if overgrown, garden facing the riverside, and someone had gone to the trouble of gathering a bunch of flowers which they had placed in an earthenware pitcher with a slightly cracked lip. A scrawny white cat marked with several black patches was in firm possession of the kitchen stoop.
“Feed him,” Arabella ordered. “He will keep the mice away.”
“Madame is pleased, then?” Monsieur Reynaud inquired solicitously.
“‘Twill do,” she answered him shortly.
