June Francis - Tamed by the Barbarian

She pondered the matter on and off for the rest of the evening, as they unpacked some of the items Nat had bought in Europe. Amongst the goods he had purchased on behalf of his regular customers, she discovered a great gift from her father. Tears filled her eyes as she turned the pages of The Book of Hours, a layperson’s book of devotion that Jack told her was Nat’s belated extra birthday present for her. She was tempted to wander over to the fire and delve further into it, but at that moment Mackillin produced a lute from wrappings of thickly woven cloth.

‘Who’s that for?’ she asked, clutching her precious book to her breast.

Jack paused in the act of opening a box containing jars of pepper that had also been purchased in Venice, the city controlling a large part in the market of that commodity. ‘Owain asked Father to have one specially made for Anna in Venice. Gareth accidentally dropped hers down the stairs—unfortunately it was smashed beyond repair.’

‘Who are Anna and Gareth?’ asked Mackillin absently, inspecting the inlaid mother-of-pearl patterning on the musical instrument.

‘Anna is Owain’s much younger half-sister and Gareth is his son,’ answered Cicely.

‘It’s a wonderful gift,’ said Mackillin, carefully plucking a couple of the strings.

‘You play?’ asked Cicely, her eyes suddenly alight. ‘Matt plays the guitar and Jack makes a noise on the drums. Sometimes they create sounds that cause me to cover my ears and yet at others—’

‘At others,’ interrupted Jack with a grin, ‘you were wont to sing and dance. I remember Father—’ He stopped abruptly and his lips quivered.

Mackillin placed the lute on a table. ‘I am certain Nat would not want the music in this house to end with his death,’ he said firmly. ‘I remember meeting him in Marseilles a while ago and he would insist on singing after we’d downed enough wine and brandy to float a ship.’

Cicely and Jack groaned in unison. ‘Father loved music, but he always sang off key,’ said the latter.

‘Yet right now I’d give anything to hear him sing,’ said Cicely, a catch in her voice.

Jack nodded and Mackillin noticed that his eyes were shiny with tears. The youth left the box he’d been unpacking and walked over to the fireplace. Cicely followed him, putting an arm around him as her brother gazed into the fire. Mackillin cursed himself for telling that tale and racked his brains for something to do to take the youth’s mind off his sorrow. Then he remembered the chessboard he had seen set up on a side table and suggested to Jack that they could make a match of it.

‘I’ve never played,’ he admitted, looking slightly shamefaced. ‘It was Father and Cissie who enjoyed testing the other’s wits.’

‘I could teach you,’ suggested Mackillin.

Jack hesitated and then nodded.

Cicely left them to it and sat down and opened The Book of Hours.

Now the only sounds to be heard were the occasional murmur of voices, the turning of pages, the crackling of the fire and the roar of the wind in the chimney. Even so Cicely found it difficult to keep her mind on the pages of her book. Her attention kept wandering to the table where their guest was instructing her brother. He had surprised her again in more ways than one. He was extremely patient with Jack and she wondered where such a man as he had developed such a gift. Several times she caught him glancing her way and she lowered her eyes instantly. Suppressing her attraction to this man was essential if she was to maintain a distance between them until he left.

Two days later when Cicely threw back the shutters, the sun poured in. The air might be bitterly cold, but the brightness of the day lifted her spirits. She wanted to be outside, and after washing and dressing, hurried downstairs. On entering the hall, she found Tabitha shovelling ashes from the fire into a pail.

‘We’ll be needing those ashes,’ said Mackillin, appearing in the main entrance. ‘I’ve been outside, and the steps and yard where the snow has been cleared are slippery.’

Cicely’s pulses leapt. ‘Have you measured the deepness of the snow?’ she asked.

His hazel eyes creased at the corners as his gaze rested on her heart-shaped face. ‘I have been no further than the stables. You have it in mind to go somewhere?’

Had she? ‘I would like to go to the village. It is but half a mile away. I need to speak to the priest.’ She paused and felt a lump in her throat. ‘I deem he needs to know what has happened to Father as soon as possible so prayers can be said for his soul in church.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘I am willing to attempt a ride that far with you. If the snow proves too deep, then we will return.’ He picked up the pail of ashes.

Before Cicely could protest at his doing such a menial task, he had gone. She presumed they would break their fast before attempting to reach the village and went with Tabitha to speak to Cook.

It was just over an hour later that Mackillin and Cicely left the confines of the yard. The surface of the snow was frozen and crunched beneath the horses’ hooves as they picked their way gingerly towards the track of beaten earth. It was only recognisable as such by the stark outline of the leafless trees that grew on one side of it; on the other was a ditch. Cicely noticed that Mackillin had a staff and a coiled rope attached to his saddle and wondered what use he would make of them. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink with cold and her breath misted in the icy air; even so she was glad to be out of the house. For extra warmth she had wound a length of thick woollen material over her head and round her neck and her legs were encased in her lamb’s-wool bags beneath her skirts.

Even Mackillin had made a concession to the freezing weather by wearing a russet felt hat with a rolled-up brim. Neither of them spoke, although each were extremely aware of the other. Mackillin was questioning his reason for offering to accompany her when Tom could have easily done so. It would have been wiser to spend less time in her company, not more. Yet he was glad to have her at his side. She was a delight to look upon and surprisingly she rode astride her mount. He wondered if she had had cause to ride like the wind to escape an enemy at any time or because she enjoyed a good gallop and was more likely to remain in the saddle that way. He thought of last evening and of her reading the book her father had bought her. He mentioned the fact that she was able to read now.

She glanced at him. ‘Sometimes Father would be away for months on end and Mother never learnt to read or write, so he had the priest teach me along with my brothers. They were skills she seemed unable to grasp, so I kept the housekeeping accounts and she dictated messages to me to send to him.’ She hesitated. ‘I would like to read the gospel in English some day. Father told me once that his grandfather was imprisoned because he had read one of John Wycliffe’s translations. He was a follower of the Lollards. Have you heard of these men?’

Mackillin nodded. ‘Because they read the gospels in their own tongue, they began to question not only the Church’s interpretation of God’s word, but also the structure of society itself. They stirred up the common people to revolt and were ruthlessly put down at the instigation of the Church.’

She nodded, thinking he had surprised her again by being so well informed. ‘Some believe the movement has died out, but others have spoken of it having gone underground.’

His gaze washed over her face. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. Dissatisfaction with the Church’s teaching is growing in some quarters in Europe too. There are men in the Low Countries determined to print copies of the gospels in their own tongue on the new printing presses. I do not doubt they will find a market and sell in their hundreds.’