Page 9 of Wed By Proxy

“Come, wait before the fire with me, my lady,” urged Robin, taking her arm and drawing her away. He was clearly fuming at Guy’s churlish behavior and refusal to play the polite host.

“It seems strange to hear you address me as ‘my lady’ again,” he heard Mathilde say, as they retreated.

“You’ve always been my lady,” said Robin, casting a look over his shoulder at Guy. “And I never forgot the fact.”

As he waited for Firmin’s return, Guy found his ears straining without conscious volition, to follow their conversation. It comprised of her exclaiming over the dampness of Robin’s clothing, and urging him to remove his shirt and wear a blanket instead, as she did. At one point, he thought he heard Robin ask tersely about the dagger, but their voices were lowered now, and he could only pick out the odd word.

He found himself wondering if the boy would point out to her that she was being denied the use of her title or position thus far. He had no doubt the lad had picked up on that, even if she had not. Or was she merely feigning her blissful ignorance of the fact? He could not make her out at all, and it irritated him that she was putting him to the bother of trying to fathom her out. Guy believed in being up front and frank, laying one’s cards squarely on the table. He had no time for the subterfuge and deceit that courtiers employed.

When he allowed himself to glance at them some time later, both were huddled under a pile of blankets, conspiratorially close. He fancied someone’s head rested on the other’s shoulder, though he was not sure which. He tapped a finger against the tabletop, as he coldly debated whether or not he could use this to his advantage, as a means to divorce her if by some miracle she turned out to be who she said she was. After all, she and the boy must have been each other’s travelling companion for at least a couple of weeks now as they travelled north. The propriety was surely lacking, for she should have had female attendants. He found himself curious, in spite of himself, how they had ended up in such a sorry state. Had their original party been broken up? Robin Geddings was clearly gently born, even if he was a second son. Boys had definitely been married and even gone into battle, younger than he. The sneaking suspicion crossed Guy’s mind that the lad would not cut up too rough, if he was required as a sacrifice to save her reputation. He was clearly devoted to her. For some reason, that thought annoyed him too. Footsteps approaching snapped him out of his unpleasant thoughts. Firmin had returned to inform them the bedchambers were prepared for the night.

“Have the Lady Mathilde taken hence, and Master Geddings also,” he said with a significant look at his steward.

It seemed Firmin was still in the dark as to who she was, for he received this in stoic silence, merely gesturing with his hand for them to follow him. Mathilde scrambled to her feet and performed a surprisingly dainty curtsey, in spite of the fact she was wearing a belted blanket and very likely, her feet hurt. Almost against his will, he found himself glancing at them again. He had no idea why it bothered him so much that her feet were discolored and bruised.

“You’ve provided them with plenty of blankets?” He heard himself mutter, and glanced away shame-facedly at Firmin’s startled expression.

“Aye,” his bewildered steward answered, for Guy did not usually show any interest in household arrangements.

“And a supply of logs for their fires?” Guy added, unable to stop himself. After all, he told himself, they had been half-drowned in the rain, and could very likely take their deaths.

“Of course,” Firkin said, still looking bewildered by this turn of events.

“And … some repast,” he said gruffly.

“That is very kind of you, my lord,” Mathilde said warmly. “I would greatly love a cup of spiced wine, and Rob is no doubt famished. They did not give us anything to eat in Wickhamford jail, so we have not eaten since yester’een.”

Guy started. “Not eaten?” he echoed. She shook her head, and he threw a startled look at her companion. Robin’s mouth was drawn into a grim line, he curtly nodded his agreement to this extraordinary statement. “Have supper taken to their rooms,” Guy ordered.

Firmin rolled his eyes, no doubt remembering fact half the servants were worse for wear, and he would be hard pressed to rouse anyone. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “But I’m not promising much better than bread and cheese.”

“Oh, but that sounds wonderful,” Mathilde said brightly, and if his thirty-one years had not taught him better, Guy would almost believe she meant every word.

That night Guy lay awake for a very long time, and when he finally did fall asleep, he dreamt the Yule-Father had brought him a gift. A gift, quite frankly, that was a mixed blessing.

V

Mathilde woke every hour on the hour. She found she had not managed unbroken sleep since she had left her mother’s quarters at the palace. On the road, it was hardly prudent. Here, everything was unfamiliar, the bed was hard and the chimney smoked. It did not help matters that she had heard the key turn in the lock behind her the moment she sat upon the bed.

She had not been given any water to wash in and so had been forced to get into the bed still covered in travel dirt. At least she had managed to get warm. For a moment the previous night, she had wondered if she would ever feel warm again, for the cold had seemed to creep into her very bones. But when she had finally managed to relax her shivering limbs, at last she had managed it. As for the lack of a wash, she could not hold that against Lord Martindale, for he had been otherwise most solicitous for their comfort, she reflected. After all, had not he given specific instructions for their fires, blankets and food? Her heart warmed to remember it. And truthfully, she was too excited to sleep. She had arrived on her husband’s doorstep on solstice eve. It felt right, like a good omen.

She wriggled her toes to which feeling had recently returned. They felt sore, so she stopped. Her thoughts turned to her mother at the palace. Today was a feast day. Doubtless her mother would not be feeling very festive. She would still be smarting at Mathilde’s act of defiance. But Mother never did feel like celebrating, Mathilde thought, turning over and hugging the thin pillow.

Lady Doverdale was a sober, dour woman of middle age. Even when her husband, Mathilde’s father had been alive, she had rarely cracked a smile. Somehow she seemed to drain the joy out of anything with her disapproving sourness. At any event, she was always the specter at the feast. Luckily Queen Armenal esteemed her greatly, and she held a great position at court as the queen’s Mistress of the Robes. Mathilde could only hope that matters at court would distract her mother from her own filial impiety. Perhaps with time, she would become reconciled to Mathilde’s new life away from her?

She sighed, and turned her thoughts to happier subjects. She wondered how Lord Martindale’s household celebrated midwinter — nay, what was it they called it here? Yule? Her impressions of the place from the previous night were a little hazy. They had arrived in driving rain and darkness, but she had been able to make out that the place was very large and built on a grand scale. Inside had seemed imposing, full of dark wood and huge stone fireplaces. It had also seemed rather drafty, but doubtless she had been chilled to the bone by that point, so it might not be so cold as she had imagined.

As for Lord Martindale, he was a fine, if somewhat imposing figure of a man, she thought, conjuring his tall dark form to her mind’s eye. She bit her lip. It was true, she admitted, that her former self would have been reduced to a state of abject terror in his presence. It was no doubt a very good thing, she told herself staunchly, that the last month had filled her with so much experience and bravery. Perhaps after all, it had been fortunate that her mother had not permitted her to meet her husband four years ago. She would certainly have not been up to the task then.

But now, she thought, now she had lived as a boy, had travelled independently, bought her own horse and even been to jail! Now she was a woman of the world and was equal to anything! The notion was a vastly satisfying one, and silenced the niggle of remaining disquiet. While it was true that having to remove her clothes in front of Lord Martindale the previous evening had been a frankly awful experience, afterwards he had redeemed himself. He had even, she remembered, made her the present of his knife.

The thought cheered Mathilde. She reached out of the bed for the plain black sheath and serviceable dagger which she had laid on a rickety old chair. While it was true, it was not as fancy as the one her first husband had sent her for a betrothal gift, this one was wickedly sharp and had a good balance to it. Robin had started teaching her how to whittle wood, and the one Willard had traded with her had become somewhat blunted.

She set this knife down on the mattress beside her, and gazed at the gray light coming through the small window. It was doubtful that the jail would forward her horse and her knife today. After all, it was a special day and most folk would be making merry. However, if they did not appear upon the morrow, she would have to set forth to reclaim them, she thought determinedly. Her honor depended on it. Besides, the poor horse deserved to be treated well from now on, and she had vowed to be the one who saw to it. A man of noble character always kept his word and paid his debts, she thought. A noble woman, she corrected herself. Her eyes were drifting shut again now, and a small smile played about her lips as she slipped back at last into sleep.

When she woke again, it was much later. She could hear footsteps on the stair outside and sat up, rubbing her eyes. She heard the key turn in the lock and then a sharp rap on the door.

“Come in!” she called out, and heard a thud outside, followed by a smothered exclamation. The next minute, the door opened and a red-faced looking woman entered carrying a large jug of steaming water and a basin. She had her lips pursed, and a stony expression of disapproval on her face.