The girl dipped her head in a small curtsey. Thomasin recognised her as belonging to one of the large families in the village, perhaps one of the many daughters of the miller. She was about sixteen, with hair so dark it was almost black, hanging down her back in a long plait. Several strands had escaped and her cheeks were rosy, as if she had been running. Her eyes were dark to match and she had a downward turn to her mouth that might have been sullen or fearful. Her kirtle and gown were clean, at least, Thomasin noted.
Thomasin got to her feet. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Mariot.”
And your family name?
“Gull.”
Not the miller’s child then, but the carpenter’s.
“You know I am Lady Waterton,” said Thomasin, “and I own this chapel. My house lies beyond. I am always glad to see people from the village using it.”
The girl remained silent.
“Have you brought anything?”
She stuck out two empty hands in answer.
“Ah. I wondered if you had left these flowers. They are beautiful, aren’t they?”
The dark head made a small movement which might have been a nod.
“So are you here to pray? To remember someone? In that case, I’ll leave you to it.”
Thomasin turned to go back to the house, but the girl suddenly spoke.
“I came to ask for guidance.”
“For guidance? Something is troubling you?”
Mariot was fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, picking at the stitches.
“You can tell me.”
The girl looked sideways at her. “I don’t want to marry him.”
“Marry who?”
“My father says I must marry Jeremy Gates, but I don’t want to. I don’t like him.”
“Ah, I see. And who is Jeremy Gates?”
“The butcher’s son. He has piggy eyes and a limp. He’s ten years older than me.”
“Why does your father say you must marry him?”
“Because all his brothers died, so he’s the last one left. He’ll take over the business.”
“Do you know him at all? Have you spoken with him?”
“A little. But all he speaks of is himself. And he looks at me like one of the pig’s carcasses.”
Mariot tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She certainly was a pretty girl and would have had no trouble finding herself another husband without help.
“What does your mother say?”
“Dead, my lady.”
