June Francis - The Unconventional Maiden

Gawain shook his head. ‘It is best you rest after the journey. My wife has most likely not returned, but my aunt will make you welcome at Raventon Hall. There you will find peace and solitude and that is needful whilst you mourn your father. You need time to recover from the terrible shock you have suffered.’

Having hoped that she might gain some control over her own life once back in England, Beth was disappointed, thinking now of what she had been going to write for her news sheet, but she kept a grip on her emotions. ‘How much time are you talking about? It is thoughtful of you to consider my feelings in such a way, but I would prefer to go home,’ she said firmly.

‘Of course, but I doubt you will find much in the way of peace and solitude in London’s streets at this time of year, Mistress Llewellyn.’

‘I would not gainsay you, but I will need more clothes and items for my toilette if I am to stay in your home for more than a few days and there is much in my house that will need my attention,’ she said in a polite little voice.

‘Shall we leave the decision about the length of time you will stay until the morrow?’ suggested Gawain.

Beth decided she would have to be content with that suggestion for the moment. She did not want to appear to be difficult so that he would feel a need to have a watch kept on her. She nodded, adding, ‘Should you not warn your aunt of my arrival? I know how having unexpected visitors sprung on one can put all planning of meals askew and I do not wish your aunt to take a dislike to me.’

Gawain agreed.

As soon as the ship had anchored and all their goods were unloaded, Tom was sent on ahead to Raventon Hall. Beth gazed about her at the bustling little port. ‘Most of the buildings appear quite new,’ she said, accepting Gawain’s help up on to his horse; Sam was driving the cart with Jane sitting alongside him.

‘There was a fire here a few years ago and most of the houses were destroyed,’ Gawain said, swinging up into the saddle in front of her. ‘The majority of the buildings are of half-timbered design, but the new church is of red brick.’

‘I’ve never seen a redbrick church before,’ said Beth, hesitating to slip her arms about his waist and link her hands together despite knowing she would feel so much safer if she did so once the horse broke into a canter. Instead she gripped the back of his doublet and hoped for the best. ‘How far is your home?’ she asked.

‘Tenderden is less than a league’s distance from here. Most of the timber for the boat-building yards is transported by river via the town.’

Beth gazed about her as they made their way out of the port of Smallhythe. ‘Tell me more about the area, if you would?’

Gawain was pleased by her interest. ‘Tenderden is a centre of the broadcloth industry and so there are many spinners and weavers plying their trade. Some are of Flemish descent. Edward III forbade the export of unwashed wool and so they brought their specialist skills here.’

‘How interesting,’ said Beth, her fingers tightening their grip as the horse broke into a trot. She shifted closer to him and felt more secure moulded against his back and even a little excited. She blamed that on the speed at which they were travelling.

Conscious of Beth’s comely form in a way that he knew was not sensible, Gawain attempted to block out such thoughts by pointing out the church of St Mildred on the hill as they came into Tenderden. He thought of Mary and how glad he was that they had not married at the parish church. The one in Smallhythe had burnt down and in one of her rants she had stated it was a sign from God that their marriage was not of his will. His eyes darkened. In the light of what had happened since, it seemed she was right.

As they approached the house, Beth’s stomach began to tie itself into knots. What if the elderly sick relative had died and Sir Gawain’s wife had returned? She might resent his having brought a strange young woman to her home. Whilst Beth did not doubt that Gawain was the master in his own home, she knew enough about her own sex to realise that if his wife took a dislike to her, then she could make her stay very uncomfortable, indeed.

As Gawain reined in his horse in front of Raventon Hall, Beth saw that whilst it had decent proportions, it was not large, as he had mentioned, so she would not have to worry about finding her way about. It was half-timbered, with mullioned windows that reflected the sunlight and had a welcoming aspect.

A metal-studded wooden door opened and out came a tall lanky woman. She wore a brown gown trimmed with lace and wisps of greying hair clung to a damp, smiling face framed by a starched white headdress. ‘You have returned safely, nephew,’ she cried. ‘I cannot express too much how glad I am to see you.’

‘It is good to be home,’ said Gawain, a question in his eyes.

She glanced briefly at Beth, flashing her a slight smile, before saying to her nephew in a low voice, ‘A missive arrived, addressed to you in Mary’s hand. I have placed it in your bedchamber.’

He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but his voice showed no emotion when he spoke. ‘May I introduce my ward, Mistress Elizabeth Llewellyn. Beth, this is my aunt, Mistress Catherine Ashbourne.’

‘Mistress Llewellyn, you are very welcome. I extend my condolences on your very sad loss,’ said Catherine, inclining her head.

‘Thank you. It is good to meet you and I am pleased to be here,’ said Beth politely with a smile, relieved that his wife must still be away if the mention of a missive was anything to go by.

Gawain dismounted and, with a brief word of apology to Beth, headed for the house. The smile on her lips died and she managed to get down from the horse, unaided. ‘You must forgive my nephew,’ said Catherine. ‘It is some time since he has seen his wife and daughters and he is impatient to have news of them. I dearly miss the girls myself. The house is not the same without them. Do come inside.’

Beth followed her and paused just inside the doorway to gaze about the hall. It had a timbered ceiling that ran the full length of the house. Sunlight flooded in from a window at the other end of the hall, to the side of which was a raised area, partially concealed by an intricately carved wooden screen. Two settles with cushions stood close to the hearth where a fire burnt, a necessity even though it was summer because the stone floor struck chill through the soles of her shoes despite the rushes and herbs that covered it. Against one of the walls were a couple of benches, trestles and a table top. Set against another wall was an iron coffer and a large wooden chest with metal bands and a large keyhole. Perched on top of it was a travelling writing desk and several books. On two of the walls there were tapestries.

‘It is a fine hall,’ said Beth, curious to inspect the books as she remembered Sir Gawain mentioning his own reading.

‘Do sit down and I will have refreshments brought to you as it is still a few hours until supper,’ invited Catherine. ‘Whilst you take your ease, I will ensure that your baggage is taken up to your bedchamber, so your maid can unpack for you. There is a small antechamber adjoining yours with a truckle bed where she can sleep.’

Beth thanked her and relaxed against a cushion, wondering what Gawain had learnt of his wife and daughters and whether he would be joining her for refreshments.

Gawain entered his bedchamber and wasted no time breaking the seal of his wife’s missive. Not once had she written to him since that first note she had left on his pillow after she had disappeared. That had been brief and to the point, simply stating that she could no longer live with him and that he must not try to find her and the girls. He unfolded the sheet of paper and spread it on the small table over by the window and began to read.