The Adventurer's Bride. June Francis

been extremely useful. She had been left almost penniless with her own infant to support after her man’s death and soon after her baby son had died. Fortunately she was still producing milk in abundance to be able to give succour to his daughter and she had seemed more than willing to accompany him to the house of Jane Caldwell in England.

      Jane! He had to reach Jane.

      Was that a light ahead? He pushed back the brim of his hat in the hope of being able to see more clearly and his spirits rose, only to be dashed as the light vanished. He groaned, wondering if he was hallucinating. A wail from the babe that curled next to his heart recalled him to the present and was incentive enough for him to spur the horse on in the hope that he had not imagined that light and that Witney and Jane lay ahead just over the next dip in the white landscape. It would be terrible, indeed, for them to have survived the journey from Flanders, only for them both to perish in this snowy wilderness.

      * * *

      Jane could bear the waiting no longer. The snow had stopped falling and she had an urge to take a walk along the High Street and see if she could see any sign of their expected guest. She would not go far as it would be unwise to leave the children alone for long, despite Margaret being a sensible girl who knew to keep the younger ones away from the fire and the cooking pot.

      She went out in the gloaming and had just walked past the Butter Cross when she saw a rider coming towards her. His hat and clothing were blanketed in snow and the reins lay slack in his grasp. His shoulders drooped and his head had fallen so that his chin appeared to have sunk onto his chest. He drew level with her and would have gone past if she had not realised with a leap of her heart that it was Nicholas; swiftly she seized the horse’s bridle and brought it to a halt.

      ‘Master Hurst!’ she cried. ‘What has happened to you?’

      Nicholas forced his eyes opened and gazed down at the woman dressed in black, who stood looking up at him from concerned brown eyes, and he felt such relief. ‘Jane Caldwell?’ he said, the words slurred. ‘It is you, isn’t it, Jane?’ He reached down a hand and placed it on her shoulder.

      ‘Indeed, it is,’ she replied, her heart seeming to turn over in her breast when she noticed that his right cheekbone was bruised and swollen. ‘You are hurt. Is it that you came off your horse?’

      He shook his head, only to wince. ‘No, I was attacked. The villains would have killed me, but I managed to escape.’

      She gasped in horror. ‘I thought your enemies had been dealt with!’

      Vaguely he realised that she was referring to those who had attempted to kill him in Oxford last year in an act of revenge. Feeling near to collapse, he muttered something in way of reply.

      She realised that now was not the time to discuss the matter. ‘My house is not far away. I will lead you there.’

      He smiled wearily. ‘If it had not been for the light, I might have gone astray,’ he said unevenly.

      Jane wondered if he meant the one that she had placed in the window upstairs and she rejoiced. ‘A guiding light was James’s idea.’

      ‘He’s an intelligent lad,’ said Nicholas, forcing the words out.

      She nodded, his words pleasing her so much. It was essential that he liked the children and they him. Suddenly she became aware of a bulge beneath his riding coat and that it was moving. At the same time she heard a sound reminiscent of a baby grizzling. ‘What is that noise?’

      ‘Noise?’ He blinked at her. ‘I have been hearing it for some time and it distresses me. You will help me, Jane?’

      ‘Of course,’ she replied, puzzled, thinking that possibly he had a small dog hidden beneath his coat. ‘Although I would have thought you’d know there is no need for you to ask such a question.’

      ‘Perhaps not, but it is good manners to do so. The baby...’ he said.

      ‘Simon,’ she said, reminding him of her son’s name, concerned that he might have forgotten it.

      ‘No, it is a girl,’ he muttered.

      She looked at him askance. ‘You have a baby girl concealed beneath your coat? How did you come by her?’ Even as she spoke a thought occurred to her and her heart sank.

      ‘It is a long story and it is much too cold out here to tell it now,’ he gasped, placing an arm beneath the bulge. He gritted his teeth as pain shot through his shoulder with the movement and he felt blood well up from the shoulder wound.

      ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, her eyes widening with concern.

      ‘A blade pierced my shoulder. A mere scratch!’ he lied. ‘It is more important that Matilda is fed. I thought with you having your son to nurture that you could give succour to her as well.’

      Matilda! Jane’s disturbed brown eyes met his hazel ones. ‘I fear that I must disappoint you. I cannot do what you ask!’

      Nicholas looked at her in shocked dismay. ‘Never did I think to hear you speak so, Jane Caldwell!’

      ‘Do not take on so,’ she cried, hastily seizing the bridle again and hopping to one side so as to avoid the horse’s hooves. Her voice dropped. ‘It brings a flush to my cheeks to speak of such to you, but I have no choice but to refuse your request because I—I...’ She floundered, embarrassed to speak of such a personal matter to a man, yet it was this man who had assisted at the birth of her son. She added in a rushed whisper, ‘My milk has dried up and I cannot feed even Simon. No doubt it is due to the sudden death of my husband and all the extra work involved in selling the house. It has been such a worry thinking about how I am to provide for the children, what with trying to find a weaver willing to work with me—a task which appears to have proved beyond even Master Mortimer’s abilities so far.’ She took a breath, realising she was gabbling to cover her nervousness. ‘Now let us not discuss this matter further right now. We must get you and the child indoors without further ado!’

      Mortified and deeply concerned by the mention of Master Mortimer, Nicholas could only stare at her as he swayed in the saddle, clutching his shoulder. ‘I beg your pardon. I have no experience of such matters. Does young Simon still live?’

      ‘Aye, I have hired the service of a wet nurse who has ample milk,’ she said. ‘I do not doubt Anna will be willing to provide for Ma-Matilda, as well, for a small fee.’

      He could not conceal his relief. ‘You will arrange it?’

      ‘Of course, I would not have any child starve.’ She wasted no more time in talk, but swept before him like the galleon he had likened her to when first he saw her, leaving him to follow on his horse.

      He swore inwardly, deeply regretting the faux pas he had made, and, summoning his remaining strength, told the horse to walk on. He had no idea if there was stabling at this present house of hers. If not, then he would have to find the nearest inn and stable the beast there.

      As soon as Nicholas saw the house, which was at the end of a row of terraced dwellings constructed of the local stone, he realised that the knocks he had received had done more than make him dizzy, they had caused him to momentarily forget that Jane’s husband had left his financial affairs in a mess. Hence her reason for moving to Witney to a much smaller house than the one he had visited in Oxford. There was no way she would have been able to afford the luxury of her own stabling even if she owned a horse.

      She suggested that he ride his mount to the back of the house where there was a garden and leave the horse there for now. ‘I will send for Matt, the son of the wet nurse, and he can stable it for you at the Blue Boar Inn.’

      As he was feeling extremely weary, Nicholas agreed. He dismounted with difficulty, glad that there was no one there to see him narrowly avoid falling flat on his face. He stumbled to his feet and struggled with the straps of the saddlebags, pain stabbing through his shoulder and down his side and arm like a skewer. At last he managed to complete his task and, not having the strength to throw the saddlebags over his uninjured shoulder, carried them dangling