The Passionate Pilgrim. Juliet Landon

suspicion which had leapt to the forefront of Merielle’s mind since then had sadly been allowed to fester unhindered by charitable thoughts, and although she had put past differences aside to be with Laurel at the birth, no confidences had been exchanged. Consequently, the grain of information that had been dropped about Sir Adam’s failure to perform had taken root at Canterbury during a visit in the year of Laurel’s marriage, and the delicious art of putting two and two together had been Merielle’s delight, even then. Now, she was unsure whether she could expect to bear a family with Sir Adam, should she accept him, or be treated to yet another inadequate partnership for the sake of her conscience. Understandably, her anger smouldered at the less-than-perfect choices before her, despite her attractions, and at that particular moment she would have given all she owned to turn time backwards to when her sister was still a convent-bred child of fifteen in York, unaware of the king’s wife-hunting Master of Works in Winchester. The rest of the story she pushed aside.

      Her face must have been registering signs of interest, for Gervase, blissfully unaware of her musings, was giving way to an overspill of daily accounting that still impressed him by its size. “Fifty marks for nine thousand red herrings during Lent,” he was saying. “And I’ve brought you a lamprey pie, to bribe you with, of course. It’s with the cook.” He smiled.

      In the moment’s silence that followed, they became aware that the flow of Latin had ceased and that Bonard of Lincoln was waiting for a chance to continue, a hope that seemed to be dashed still further when Bess returned with a tray of goblets, wine, and a dish of warm macaroons sprinkled with nuts and cinnamon.

      “Please continue, Master Bonard,” Merielle said, pouring the wine. “This will keep our guest quiet for a moment. Where were we? Goddess’s reward, was it? Or had we moved on?”

      Bonard shifted uncomfortably, scanning the page with second thoughts. “It’s difficult in this light, as you say, mistress.”

      “Try,” Gervase told him. “You cannot stop in mid-verse, man. And why in Latin? Let’s have it in English, shall we?”

      The red scarf jerked up in alarm but sank again under the level gaze of his audience. He cleared his throat, shuffled the papers and put them behind him. “The rest is not quite complete, as yet,” he said.

      A deep voice called from the shadow of the thatched overhang. “You mistake, my friend. The rest you must have forgot. There are six more verses, all highly unsuitable for a lady’s ears. Shall I tell them, instead?” The tall man with thick dark hair stepped down into the courtyard, the low sun highlighting his strong cheekbones and nose, almost closing his laughing eyes.

      Gervase of Caen rose, indignantly. “No, sir. Indeed you shall not. What do you here, Sir Rhyan? Do you have an invitation to this lady’s house?”

      The man walked down into the courtyard and stood before them with feet apart and head back, his white teeth gleaming. “I thought I’d find you with a woman, lad. Saw you emerge from the ale-house a while back. Must get our priorities straight, eh?” He gave Master Gervase no time to respond. “As for having an invitation, well, that was for my uncle Bedesbury, but I’ve come in his stead. Will you be able to contain your disappointment for a few days, lady?”

      Merielle was rarely at a loss for words. As owner of a tapestry workshop she had her need of wits at every moment, yet this was so totally unexpected that her usual civility eluded her, her only thought being that his uncle could hardly be blamed for tactlessness when presumably he knew nothing of her acrimonious communications with his nephew three years ago. Since then, she had met the obnoxious man only once when he had come down from his estates in Yorkshire to be at his uncle’s wedding to her sister and then they had kept well clear of each other. Nevertheless, she could criticise the man’s lack of diplomacy in taking his uncle’s invitation for his own.

      “You mean to tell me that you assumed the invitation to Sir Adam to apply to you equally? I am astonished, sir. Is your uncle indisposed?”

      “Busy, mistress.” Sir Rhyan’s laughter faded at her reproof. “I had business here in Canterbury and offered to do his for him also, which includes escorting you to Winchester. If you find my company too difficult to stomach…” He made a movement as if to turn away, then added, “But I could hardly discover your mind on the matter without speaking to you, could I? Was I expected to send a carrier pigeon, perhaps?”

      His manner was everything she would have expected from one such as he, the man with whom cold and blighting letters had been exchanged through lawyers, which she had countered at a cost he would never know. She had tried to put it behind her, once she had won, but the bitter taste lingered with the foreboding that one day they would have to meet again and that the nearer she came to accepting Sir Adam, the sooner this would be. Sir Rhyan was his uncle’s heir and his visits to Winchester not infrequent. It crossed her mind for the second time that here was yet another excuse not to go to Winchester, but she ached to see the tiny moist bundle, and the negative thoughts dissipated while the haunting scent of babes lingered in her nostrils.

      Merielle was tall, Gervase of Caen even taller, but this man was both broad and tall, topping them both with ease. She had been well aware of his strength: his uncle boasted of his nephew’s prowess at tournaments and her sister Laurel at his companionship during the first homesick months of her marriage, telling of his skill with falcons until Merielle had closed her ears, sick to death of their glorifications. They had not experienced his other aspect, nor would she enlighten them.

      Gervase ignored the man’s rhetorical question and asked, for Merielle’s sake, “Did you arrive in Canterbury today, sir?”

      “Good Lord, no. Days ago. Before Easter.”

      Merielle found this unacceptable, too. “And you have only just seen fit to come and—?”

      “Would it have made any difference? My uncle sent you word to say to be ready after Easter, so surely you’ve had time to prepare. Have you—” he looked around “—prepared?”

      “As it happens, sir, I have. But would it not have been more courteous to—?”

      “No, it wouldn’t. It would have spoilt your Easter and, in spite of what you believe, I had no wish to do that. I leave on Monday. Do you come, or stay? The choice is yours. I can tell my uncle…”

      Merielle knew precisely what he would tell his uncle. That she was with her lover and doting servant and that she had no inclination to see her sister’s brat (of whose sire she was in doubt), or worse. Whatever he chose to tell his uncle would not be to her credit, she was convinced of that. “You will not tell Sir Adam anything,” she said. “I shall tell him myself. I shall be ready to set out early on Monday. There’ll be dozens of other travellers on their way home after Easter, I’m sure, so I shall not depend on your escort, sir. I have servants of my own.” The speech sounded brave enough, but the man was unmoved by it.

      “Hah!” He turned to look at Master Bonard’s red scarf with contempt. “Your one-eyed shepherd? He had two last time I saw him. What happened?”

      “Nothing happened.” Merielle came to his defence. “Tell him, Master Bonard. Chivalry will be a novelty to Sir Rhyan, I believe.”

      Taking courage from her support, Bonard took a step forward, still clutching the twists of paper in one hand. “I have made a vow,” he said, “to use only one eye until I have saved my mistress’s life. There, sir, now you can scoff.”

      The looks that passed across the faces of Sir Rhyan Lombard and Master Gervase of Caen were pictures of incredulity and pity, their reactions the only thing about which they were likely to agree on this occasion.

      Sir Rhyan discarded ridicule in favour of reason. “On the contrary, no man should scoff at true chivalry, but have some sense. How much use d’ye think you’ll be to your mistress on a hundred-and-thirty-mile journey when you’ve only got half your vision to see what danger she’s in? Eh? What kind of protection d’ye call that? You’d be more of a liability wearing that thing. Take it off, man, and think again.”

      Gervase agreed. “He’s right. Use your