The Adventurer's Bride. June Francis

the scent of spring in the air, as well as the tantalising smell of baking bread. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten since midday yesterday.

      For a short while he lingered, gazing down the garden over a vegetable patch and herb garden to a couple of fruit trees and what must be a hen house; he could hear the fowls clucking sleepily and unexpectedly was reminded of the woman’s voice he had thought he had recognised as he made his escape yesterday. If he was right, then it surely meant that she was behind the attack and had hired the men. And what of Berthe? Why should she have decided to make an enemy of him? It was troubling that she knew his destination was Witney. Maybe he should prepare for unwelcome visitors? He frowned, thinking that perhaps he should get in touch with the constable of the shire. He’d had dealings with him last year after the attempt on his life in Oxford.

      He returned to the house. Despite a throbbing head, an extremely stiff and painful shoulder and various aches and pains in other parts of his anatomy, he managed to steer around the sleeping children to the fire. He split the smouldering log with a poker and added some faggots of firewood. Then he poured the remains of a jug of ale into the pot containing what appeared to be barley broth and hung the pot over the fire.

      Whilst he waited for the food to warm, he took a knife from the table and cut the stitching in the hem of his riding coat. He removed a narrow oilskin package and a strip of folded soft leather containing several gold coins. Placing them on the table, he stared down at them. He would need to change one of them for coins of a smaller denomination if there was not enough in his pouch to pay Anna and to reimburse Jane.

      Was there a goldsmith or banker in Witney? If so, he would be able to produce proof of his identity and avail himself of more coin if necessary. He wanted to hold on to a couple of the gold coins to give to his younger brother. The other year they had made a wager as to which one of them would marry first. Nicholas smiled at the memory, for he was extremely fond of his actor-and-playwright brother and prayed that he would soon return to Oxford so he could discuss with him not only yesterday’s events, but also his plans for the future.

      He rose and went over to where he had left the saddlebags and removed thread and needle from a leather container and returned most of the gold coins to their hiding place. He kept out the package and sewed up the hem of his coat.

      By the time he had accomplished his task, he was feeling faint again, so rested for a while before getting to his feet and going over to stir the broth and remove it from the heat. The room was getting lighter by the moment, so he had no difficulty in seeing his way about in his search for an eating bowl. He wondered when the children would wake. He would appreciate silence for a little while longer, at least until Jane returned.

      But it was neither Jane nor the children who disturbed the peace as Nicholas sat down to break his fast, but the sound of the back-door latch being lifted that instantly alerted him to an intruder. A voice called out a greeting. He was on his feet in moments and hesitated before seizing the poker, then made his way into the back room where he came face-to-face with a man.

      He had grey eyes in a strong-boned face and Nicholas thought he looked vaguely familiar, but could not put a name to him. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

      The man stared at the poker in Nicholas’s hand. ‘I might ask you the same question, except I know who you are.’

      Nicholas’s expression hardened. ‘Do you, indeed? Make yourself known, man, before I use this!’

      The intruder removed his cap and smoothed down the black hair that fell to his shoulders. ‘I am the weaver, Willem Godar. Is Mistress Caldwell within?’

      ‘Willem! That is a Flemish name,’ growled Nicholas, his fingers tightening on the poker, ‘and so is Godar.’

      ‘Aye, but my family have lived in England for years and I was born over here.’ His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. ‘If I am not mistaken, you are the renowned explorer, Nicholas Hurst.’

      Nicholas questioned whether that was a note of amusement or derision in the man’s deep voice. He had an accent which was not from this part of England, but one that was familiar to him. Kentish! Nicholas kept a firm grip on the poker and drew his coat more tightly about him. ‘How do you know me?’

      ‘I was born in Tenderden, not far from Raventon Hall. I remember seeing you on a couple of occasions when you visited Sir Gawain and Lady Elizabeth. I was amongst those who helped search for the murderer who killed his first wife. You were there then.’

      Nicholas remembered the occasion. There had been a time when he had wanted to marry Elizabeth. He told himself that it was highly unlikely that Godar and Berthe could have met before and be in league with each other.

      ‘All right, I accept that you’ve seen me before, but what are you doing here in this house? Mistress Caldwell made no mention of expecting a visit from you.’

      ‘I heard she was in need of a weaver and so I decided to come and see her,’ said Willem. ‘I have been to this town before and liked it.’

      Did you, indeed? thought Nicholas. ‘Who told you she was in need of a weaver?’ he asked.

      Willem rested a shoulder against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Sir Gawain Raventon was my informant.’

      Nicholas lowered the poker, thinking that Rebecca must had been in touch with Elizabeth and told her about Jane’s difficulty in finding a weaver. Even so, for this man to travel such distance from his home town, to work for a woman, surprised Nicholas. As did the earliness of the hour he had called and his entering by the back door. His suspicions resurfaced.

      ‘When did you arrive in Witney?’ asked Nicholas. ‘And what was your route?’

      ‘I came north with Sir Gawain to Oxford. He wished to visit his printing works and bookshop on Broad Street.’

      Nicholas frowned. ‘I was there yesterday and there was no mention of Sir Gawain visiting the premises.’

      Willem shrugged. ‘Maybe he wanted to catch his workers unawares. What hour were you there? We did not arrive until after noon. By the purest chance a man called Mortimer was in the shop, purchasing a copy of your latest book. Sir Gawain suggested that I accompany him to Minster Draymore, which is but a short distance from here.’

      ‘So you spent the night at Mortimer’s manor house?’

      Willem grimaced. ‘Despite the unexpected blizzard, he told me that it was not fit for visitors, although he planned staying there himself, so I found lodging in Minster Draymore.’

      Nicholas nodded, thinking what he had to say sounded feasible. ‘Where is Master Mortimer now?’

      ‘I presume he is still abed. When I saw the weather was clearing, I decided to make my way here without bothering him.’

      Nicholas stared at him pensively. ‘Does he know your purpose in coming here?’

      ‘Aye, Sir Gawain told him.’ He smiled. ‘I received the impression the news did not please him.’

      ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Nicholas drily. ‘It is a wife he wants, not Mistress Caldwell having another man to turn to.’ He paused, for his coat had begun to slide from his shoulders and he hoisted it back in place again with a wince. ‘Tell me, Master Godar, why come here when Tenderden is famous for its broadcloth and you are at home there?’

      ‘You ask a lot of questions, Master Hurst,’ drawled Willem, ‘and I don’t see how that is any of your business.’

      Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. ‘Fair comment! Perhaps you would not mind telling me if you are married?’

      He hesitated. ‘My wife died recently.’

      ‘My condolences. Do you have children?’

      ‘Aye, although again I do not see what business that is of yours, Master Hurst.’ Willem frowned. ‘I would ask you another question despite you did not answer my last one! Why the bandaged shoulder? How did you come by it?’

      ‘I