Juliet Landon - The Passionate Pilgrim

In the oppressive blackness, Merielle pushed and twisted, scratching herself on his gold buttons and smelling his heat. “Sire, I am a widow and recently bereaved. Have you forgot?”

“I’ve not forgotten that you’re free now, mistress, and ready for a man, eh? Come, give yourself to me. You are young and strong.” While he spoke, and without giving her a chance to reply, he leaned on her, forcing her backwards and rendering her helpless either to reach him or to right herself, and she wondered then, in the warning flash behind her eyes, how many other women had been lured into this same trap and held there until payment had been exacted in full, for surely this was not the first time he had done such a thing.

It was the blackest of experiences in which her participation was as unnecessary as her cooperation while he forced himself between her legs, both hands exploring every surface beneath her gown, taking her at last with a suddenness that made her yelp with pain and brought tears to her eyes. Even then, she would not tell him, knowing that if her bereavement could not stop him, then nothing else would. He kissed her only once, when it seemed as if he would never finish and, when he did, she understood why he had felt it necessary to closet them in this small place, for his roar would surely have brought in his men, if they had heard it.

The perspiration from his brow dripped on to her. “By the white swan, mistress, you’re good,” he panted.

Dazed and disbelieving that such a thing could have happened to her, she allowed him to pull her up and lead her by the hand back to the fire, to be cloaked and veiled as she had been before, to be offered more wine. His manner was once more that of the courtier, adding to her sense of bewilderment.

“No, I thank you, sire. I must go now,” she whispered, pushing a certain dampness off her cheek. Stiffly, she curtsied. “I beg you will excuse me.”

Blank-faced, Gervase of Caen answered the king’s summons, revealing nothing to Merielle of whether he knew or suspected what had taken place. In the clerks’ chamber, no faces looked up but, once in the antechamber, Bonard’s expression said it all. He felt her trembling as she leaned on his arm; he would not let go of her hand as they negotiated the downward spiral towards the light; he pulled her arm through his out there in the slippery courtyard and commanded Master Gervase, “Take Mistress St Martin’s other arm, if you please, sir.”

With care, the two men supported her back to Palace Street, which was not far, and Master Gervase left after being assured by Merielle that her petition had been successful. Then, she had clung to the faithful Bonard in silence, shaking uncontrollably, and had not objected when he had carried her to her room and given orders on her behalf to Mistress Allene and Bess.

After that, Merielle had told herself, over and over, that this was nothing compared to the losses she had recently sustained and that now she should put it from her mind. But the one thing she had found impossible to forget was her own foolish and misplaced trust in the ways of men, a personal anger that pained her as much as anything else.

The king had kept his word about her fine, for soon afterwards the matter was concluded by a tersely worded and painfully formal letter from Sir Rhyan’s notary to say that a fine had been paid from the king’s treasury office with a command not to pursue the affair. But for Merielle, that had not been the end of the matter. Far from it. In the weeks that followed, she, Allene and Bess had had to use all their skills to bring on the monthly flow that had refused to appear at its appointed time. An event which, only a few months ago, had been the cause of such excessive celebration was now the cause of anguish, for another pregnancy would be well out of time and a stigma not to be endured by one so recently widowed. Against all her bodily yearnings and in another red haze of illness, the tiny spark of life was intentionally snuffed out, and Merielle’s heart almost broke.

Illogically, she blamed Sir Rhyan, the man who had appeared from nowhere to prosecute her and then cause her to hand back the one thing she wanted above everything. Neither he nor the king would ever know, but she could hold it against them, nevertheless.

She climbed out of the bathtub into the towel that Allene held. Obviously, she should stay here in Canterbury, after all. Call Sir Adam’s bluff. His proposal was an insult, seen in the light of Bonard’s explanations. But the prospect of discovering for herself whilst ruffling the intolerable smugness of his nephew were rewards she was loth to concede. Burying her smile into the bundle of warm linen, she hugged it against her breast, rocking gently and inhaling its garden perfume.

“Come on, lass,” Allene said. “Into bed. You’re dead on your feet.”

The resumption of her role as mistress of her own destiny was taken up once more in the early morning light that filtered lopsidedly on to the throng in the courtyard, rippling over mountainous panniers and the shoulders of intent grooms who tightened girths with upward-heaving grunts. Merielle sat in silence on her sturdy cob, a chestnut gelding of Suffolk parentage, whose back was broad enough to feast on. Her inner excitement was well contained. Beneath her figure-hugging brown woollen gown she wore soft leather breeches to prevent her legs from chafing on the saddle over the next four or five days, but this was her only concession to practicality. She had no intention of being mistaken for a party of rustics: that was not the best way to secure the best beds at inns and guesthouses or the best hospitality at an abbey.

With this firmly in mind, she wore her hair in an intricate and beguiling coronet of thick plaits coiled around her face and crown, each plait braided and interwoven with golden cords. From the lower edges of this, a pure white linen veil covered her throat and shoulders and this, with her remarkable peach-velvet skin, made a harmony of tones enough to make even the rough stable-lads gasp and nudge each other.

Nor was her retinue likely to be ignored. Two sumpter-mules were loaded with her personal possessions and those of Allene and Bess, and two pack-horses carried provisions and food for the journey in wickerwork panniers, their matching harness of green-dyed leather and merrily tinkling bells on their bridles showing them to belong to a person of some standing. The same green and gold livery was worn by the two young grooms, Daniel and Pedro, local lads who would have done anything their mistress asked without blinking an eye.

For Allene, not even the too-few hours of sleep of last night could diminish the heady prospect of herding five adults and nine horses all the way to Winchester and back. She called Bess away from the corner where a young house-servant held her captive. “Come on, my lass!” Every female was a lass to Allene. “If your lad wants a job, get him to lift you up into the saddle. It’s time we were off.”

“We’ll set off without them if they’re not here soon,” Merielle called to her. “You’d better mount as well. Pedro, give Mistress Allene a hand.”

Master Bonard laid a hand on the chestnut’s mane, pushing a wiry blond lock over the crest and flicking the green ribbons that cluttered each side of the brow-band. Bells tinkled along the rein-guards. “Give them a moment more,” he said. “You requested their company. You can hardly set off before they—” A shout echoed through the archway that led from the courtyard into the street.

“That’ll be the market traders coming in,” Merielle said to him.

Bonard stepped forward to peer through. “It’s them,” he said, leading Merielle on and passing Allene who hit the saddle with an audible squeak, despite Pedro’s assistance. Her Irish grey rolled its eyes in alarm.