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The Adventurer's Bride
June Francis


IN WANT OF A RESPECTABLE WIFE… Widow Jane Caldwell is practically destitute when famed explorer Nicholas Hurst seeks shelter – with his baby daughter hidden under his coat! Wounded and on the run from his enemies, Nicholas is as darkly attractive as she remembers and she can’t deny him aid.Adventurer Nicholas seeks to settle down, and Jane would make a highly respectable wife! But, cowed by duty for too long, Jane yearns for a love and passion Nicholas cannot give her… until he learns to open his heart.







Jane’s fingers shifted beneath his hand and it was true she could feel his heart pumping. It gave her a peculiar but exciting thrill to know that she could affect him in such a way.

‘This is a foolishness,’ she said breathlessly, ‘and yet you are so clever. No doubt you are practised in the art of persuading women to do what you will. But how can you talk of marriage when you have only just arrived here, wounded and exhausted? Marriage is a serious matter and needs much consideration before a decision can be made.’

Nicholas gave her a weary look, but there was also a hint of bewilderment in his hazel eyes as he released her hand. ‘If there is one thing I have learnt on my travels it is that one has to seize the moment as it might never come again.’


AUTHOR NOTE

For those who enjoyed MAN BEHIND THE FAÇADE, and wanted to know what happened to Nicholas and Jane, who appeared in that book, this is their story.

It isn’t ever easy writing a romance where love doesn’t run smoothly when it is obvious from the beginning that the hero and heroine are so right for each other. And to weave in a historical background without it impinging too much on the love story is also a fine art. Films and television programmes have brought the Tudor years to the fore because they were interesting, exciting and scary times.

This book, just like the previous one, is set mainly in Oxfordshire. I owe thanks for a large part of my research to my eldest son, Iain, who was a student at Brasenose College, Oxford, a few years back. More recently we visited not only Oxford but the town of Witney whilst on Retreat. Witney was founded on sheep and the wool trade and was famous for its blankets. My husband and I were given one by my mother-in-law, Ellen Elizabeth Frizzell Francis, as part of our wedding present almost fifty years ago.

I’d like to dedicate this book to her memory, and also to my husband, John, and three sons, Iain, Tim and Daniel, for all their forbearance when I’ve been lost in a different world. At least this has ensured they can all whip up a good meal as well as change their beds and vacuum the carpet!


The Adventurer’s Bride

June Francis




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


JUNE FRANCIS’s interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first novels were set in Medieval times. She has also written sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell-walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochy dancing with her husband.

More information about June can be found at her website: www.junefrancis.co.uk



Previous novels by this author:

ROWAN’S REVENGE

TAMED BY THE BARBARIAN

REBEL LADY, CONVENIENT WIFE

HIS RUNAWAY MAIDEN

PIRATE’S DAUGHTER, REBEL WIFE

THE UNCONVENTIONAL MAIDEN

THE MAN BEHIND THE FAÇADE

(The Adventurer’s Bride features characters you will have met in The Man Behind the Façade)

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk


Contents

Chapter One (#u7bb9c0ec-c43b-53c7-8f17-01024d613757)

Chapter Two (#u3171ac91-c647-54b2-99e6-b894a945d090)

Chapter Three (#u5ff7b04d-699e-543a-b191-58aa08c9e164)

Chapter Four (#u6fbeca30-ef66-5130-8883-42027349e160)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Oxfordshire—March 1527

The blizzard took Nicholas Hurst by surprise and caused his spirits to plummet. He knew that if it continued snowing so heavily it would soon blanket out the unfamiliar Oxford–Witney road. Pray God, he would reach Witney before nightfall. He had made a promise to a certain lady and it was that, and the safety of his daughter, which were of the uppermost importance to him now. God only knew what Jane Caldwell would have to say when he arrived there with Matilda, although the vision of her that he had carried with him in the last few months had caused him to hope that she would welcome them both.

Nicholas still found it unbelievable at times that he had assisted at Jane’s second son Simon’s birth—an event that he sometimes spent too much time thinking about. Even so he was flattered when she had asked him to be godfather to the child. But he was also confused by his feelings towards Jane; he certainly felt a responsibility towards her and her son that was almost as strong as that which he felt towards his new daughter, but there was something else... During the three months he had been away in Europe, he had visualised the widow impatiently awaiting his return and had prayed that she would not tire of doing so. Yet surely he could not be in love with her? His feelings towards her were so different to how he had felt towards Louise, the Flemish mistress he had parted from last summer. Besides, he had vowed never to love again and had even considered joining the church. Jane was certainly no beauty like Louise and yet there was something about her that drew him...and he wanted her in his life.

He remembered his first sighting of Jane in Oxford last year. He had travelled there in company with his brother, Philip, who was intent on visiting Rebecca Clifton, whom they had known since childhood and who lived with Jane. His younger brother had in mind that Nicholas should marry Rebecca, but he had soon made it plain that was out of the question. Soon after that meeting, though, Jane had come towards him, shouting and waving a stick, hellbent on frightening off the cur trying to reach the kitten cradled in the arms of her son, James, standing at Nicholas’s side. Naturally, he had been doing his uttermost to defend the lad, despite suffering from a broken arm at the time after an attack on him in London. Her appearance had come as something of a shock for she was heavily pregnant.

That maternal aspect of her nature had been very much to the fore then, but it was during the birth of Simon that her strength and courage had hit Nicholas afresh. He had experienced emotions then that he had never felt before and when he had seen his baby daughter for the first time, he had felt overwhelmed by similar sensations. A baby was so frail, so precious. He had determined to provide for Matilda by whatever means lay in his power and Jane had formed part of his plan. Widowed the same day she had given birth, he had deemed that, given time, it was possible Jane might agree to what he had to say. He suspected that her first marriage had been one of convenience and although she might have grown fond of the husband, who had been twenty years her senior, he doubted she had loved him.

Whilst away from England, gathering information for King Henry’s chancellor, Nicholas had imagined he had seen Jane’s likeness in paintings and statues in every great house or church he had visited. Why he kept picturing her as the Madonna, a paragon of virtue, was curious, for she had cursed like a fishwife during Simon’s birth. And yet from the little he had learnt of her from his brother, Philip, and Philip’s wife, Rebecca, they believed her to be a woman of high moral standards.

Suddenly his conviction of Jane’s warm welcome wavered. It was possible that he was mistaken. She might not approve of his actions in accepting responsibility for the daughter of his erstwhile Flemish mistress who had deceived him. He groaned inwardly. It would have been wiser if he had kept quiet about the passionate feelings he had felt towards Louise. He must have been crazed to speak of it to Jane, but he had thought to take her mind off the ordeal of childbirth at the time.

Dolt!

What must she have thought of him?

And then to have told her, too, of the pain and deep disappointment he had experienced after discovering Louise had deceived him! Jane had actually thought to ask what he would have done if Louise had informed him earlier that she was betrothed to a Spanish sea captain. Would he still have fallen in love with her or had she been irresistible?

Jane’s question had taken him by surprise and he could only answer that he had no answer but that Louise’s failing in doing so had resulted in a duel with the sea captain and several attempts on Nicholas’s life after the Spaniard had died from the wounds inflicted during their duel, his younger kin having vowed vengeance. Nicholas sighed heavily. It would have been better for all concerned if he had refrained from visiting his own kin in Flanders after his travels to eastern Europe and the Far East.

A deeper sigh from the wet nurse behind him interrupted his thoughts. No doubt Berthe was wishing that she had never agreed to come to England with him due to the unseasonal spring weather. It was not that he had never experienced such a storm before, but his daughter’s wet nurse had obviously not. She began to complain in high-pitched Flemish as the thick, white flakes whirled and swirled as if tossed by a giant hand. He managed to control his impatience. She had proved extremely satisfactory in caring for the child, but now he was concerned that Matilda might catch a chill.

‘There is naught I can do about the weather, Berthe,’ he said in Flemish, turning in the saddle to the wet nurse where she sat in a pillion seat, nursing the baby in a blanket. He saw the child blink rapidly as a snowflake landed on her pretty nose, and frowned. ‘Pass Matilda to me and I will put her inside my doublet where she will be safe and warm,’ he said abruptly.

Berthe’s plump face fell and she shook her head and clutched the child more tightly and muttered something that he did not catch. ‘Do what I say at once. We cannot afford to delay,’ he ordered.

Still she clung to the child. He let out an oath and, gripping the horse’s flanks with his thighs, let go of the reins and took hold of his daughter and forced Berthe to relinquish her. The woman let out a cry of anguish which took him by surprise, but he had Matilda safe now.

Opening his riding coat, he unfastened his doublet, kissing his daughter’s cold face before easing her between his linen shirt and padded doublet. Then he drew his riding coat close about him and fastened it before reaching for the reins.

He urged the horse into a trot, aware that Berthe was cursing him in her own tongue, which was disconcerting. He had treated her well since hiring her in Bruges and she had seemed grateful, but since their arrival in Oxford, her behaviour had changed and she had grown sullen and more possessive towards the child, reluctant to allow him to handle her. He would be glad when he reached Witney and Jane.

He drew down the brim of his hat in a further attempt to shield his eyes from the falling snow and fixed his gaze on the road ahead, not wanting the horse to veer off into the ditch to his left. To his right the snow was swiftly concealing the grass verge, beyond which there were outcrops of rocks and budding trees.

As he rounded a bend in the road, the wind appeared to strengthen so that the flurry of snow that hit him in the face almost blinded him. For a moment he did not see the two figures on horseback that blocked his path. Then the two horsemen started towards him and instinctively he reached for his short sword. As he raised his sword arm and drew it back, there came a shriek from behind. He scarcely heeded it, too intent on defending himself from the attackers in front of him. Angry desperation enabled him to swiftly disarm one of them with a mighty thrust of his elbow and the force behind the blow dislodged the man from the saddle.

He wasted no time seeing what happened to him, but managed to jerk his horse around to face his other assailant. Aware of Berthe’s screams as the beast’s hooves slid in the snow, she must have accidently caught him a blow on the head with a flailing arm as she tumbled from the pillion seat. Then he was fighting for his life as the other man thrust his sword directly at his chest. Fearing for his daughter’s life as well as his own, Nicholas succeeded in twisting his body in the saddle. A fist smashed into the side of his face and then he felt a blade go through coat, doublet and shirt into the hollow beneath his collar bone. The pain made him feel giddy and sick, but, summoning all his strength, he brought his weapon down on the man’s forearm. The resulting agonising screech seemed to vibrate in Nicholas’s head, but his attacker had fallen back, clutching his arm as his sword fell from his grasp.

Nicholas jerked himself upright in the saddle and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. At the same time he heard the babble of women’s voices. As the beast started forwards, its hooves slithered in the snow and for a moment his heart was in his mouth; somehow the horse managed to get a grip with its hooves and the next moment they were off.

He heard the women cry out in Flemish, ‘Stop him. He’s got the child. Stop him!’ One was Berthe’s, but he did not recognise the other.

Aware of blood seeping through his clothing and his daughter grizzling close to his heart, he dismissed the women from his thoughts. Dizzy still from the blows he had received, he could scarcely believe what had taken place in such a short space of time. He could only pray that Witney was near and they would arrive before the light faded.

* * *

‘He should have been here by now,’ said young Elizabeth Caldwell. She was kneeling on the cushioned window seat and in the act of rubbing the condensation from the diamond-shaped pane with her black sleeve. She put her eye to the glass in an attempt to see out.

‘Master Hurst has a long way to come,’ said her stepmother, Jane, trying not to betray the misgivings she felt and which gave lie to the outer calm she presented to the children. She laid her four-month-old son in his cradle and added, ‘We might have to give Master Hurst a few more days to get here.’

‘But he promised he would arrive in time for the fourth Sunday in Lent,’ said nine-year-old Margaret agitatedly. She was the older sister, fair-haired and blue-eyed and more slender than Elizabeth, so that the black gown she wore hung on her spare frame. ‘We cannot have the ceremony on that day without him being here.’

‘That is true,’ said Jane, picking up her darning. ‘But he is Simon’s godfather by proxy and it is but a matter of him repeating the vows your Uncle Philip made for him.’

Jane had almost convinced herself that she was a fool to believe that Nicholas Hurst would keep his promise. She found it difficult to banish the Flemish woman, who had been his mistress, from her mind or approve of his actions in going in search of her last November. Yet who was she to judge his behaviour, having not always behaved as she ought? But she was not going to dwell on a period in her life that she deeply regretted.

She had heard naught since concerning whether Nicholas had found Louise or not. Before he had sailed for Flanders he had sent her a message, agreeing to be Simon’s godfather and suggesting in the meantime that his younger brother act as his proxy, saying he hoped to be with her on the day in March set aside to venerate the Virgin Mary at the very latest. So Philip had taken Nicholas’s place at Simon’s baptism and his wife, Rebecca, Jane’s sister-in-law, had filled the role of her son’s godmother.

Due to the children’s father, Simon Caldwell, having been killed in an accident the day of his son’s birth, Jane and the children were very much in need of a man in their lives, despite most considering her a capable woman—after all, she had kept house for her brother, Giles, after their parents’ deaths until her marriage.

It had felt odd at first being a widow and she had found herself wishing fervently that Nicholas Hurst had not gone away. She had thought when he had changed his mind about entering the church, having spent a short time with the Blackfriars in Oxford, that their becoming acquainted could have partly been the reason behind his decision. Then out of the blue he had decided to return to Flanders. It had come as a terrible shock. Especially when Rebecca, who had lived with Jane and her husband, had married Nicholas’s brother, Philip, and accompanied him to the king’s court at Greenwich.

Sad to say Jane missed Rebecca more than she did her husband. Simon had been a widower and stonemason when her brother had introduced them. Simon had had two young daughters in need of a mother and so her brother had arranged a marriage that was very convenient for both of them. It had worked out far better than she could have hoped, although her husband had spent a large part of his time away from home, working on various building projects. His death had been the result of a fall from scaffolding at a church in Oxford. She had spoken to him often enough about his being too old to do such climbing, but he had not listened.

Of course, his sudden passing had been completely unexpected, taking place as it did the day of the younger Simon’s birth. The house in Oxford had become a place of mourning. Her husband had been kind and they had relied upon him in so many ways, to deal with the tasks that fell to a man, especially when it came to dealing with the finances. She could not say that those years married to Simon had been delightful, but she had grown fond of his girls and he had been appreciative of all she did, especially when she had given him the son he had so wanted. He had provided her with all the necessities of life, except that need to be loved. Her husband hadn’t had a romantic bone in his body and could not be said to cut a heroic figure. There were times when a woman longed for such attributes in her man, despite knowing there were other essential traits necessary in a husband.

She still had much to learn about the adventurous Nicholas Hurst, but from the moment Jane’s brother’s widow, Rebecca, had opened the pages of the printed book concerning his travels and read aloud of his adventures to her and the girls, Jane hadn’t been able to get him out of her dreams. Not that she had ever revealed how she felt to anyone. The fact that Rebecca had known the Hurst brothers since she was a young girl and had visited their shipyard at Greenwich meant that she was able to paint vivid word pictures of Nicholas’s appearance to her listeners. Such descriptions did not appear in his book so were especially appreciated by Jane.

The day she had actually come face-to-face with him was one she would never forget. Especially when his behaviour in defending her son lived up to what she had expected of him. Then she had gone into labour, having received the news that her husband was unconscious after a fall.

By the saints, what an experience that had been, what with the famed explorer seeing her in such a state! And yet Nicholas had achieved all that she had asked of him and the three of them had survived the ordeal of childbirth. How had he felt deep inside with her being another man’s wife? How much had Simon’s sudden death reflected on that memory for him?

One thing was for certain: she had determined he would play a part in Simon’s life if it were in her power to bring it about. Hence the reason for asking Nicholas to be his godfather.

A sigh escaped her. How she wished her appearance had been different that day. He could have only compared her unfavourably with the wanton Louise who had been his mistress. Distracted now by the thought of the Flemish woman, she wondered if he had found her. What of the child? Had both been delivered safely from the ordeal of giving birth? If so, had he decided to wed the woman whom he’d felt so passionately about? Her heart ached at the thought.

She squared her shoulders and told herself to believe in Nicholas’s promise. He had said he would come. If all was well with him, then God grant that he would be here soon. She would welcome him warmly despite there being still eight months of the mourning period to endure.

Of necessity she’d had to sell the house her husband had left her in Oxford and rent a smaller one here on the outskirts of Witney in order to be able to support herself and the children. She had dared to consider entering the cloth trade, despite it being very much the precinct of men. For that she had been offered assistance by Rebecca’s father, Anthony Mortimer.

Just like Nicholas, he was a much-travelled man. Indeed, they had not known of his existence until his sudden appearance a few months ago. He had contacts abroad that he was willing to share with her and she had appreciated the help he had given her so far, but she sensed that was causing him to believe he had more influence and control of her situation than she desired. She suspected that he thought if he were to find her a weaver than she would look upon himself with much favour. Several times he had spoken of feeling lonely and she guessed that he might be looking for a wife to share the house he was having rebuilt at Draymore Manor.

She felt a tug on her sleeve which roused her from her reverie.

‘Mama, what if Master Hurst has not changed his mind and intends keeping his promise, but has lost his way in the snow?’ said Elizabeth, gazing up at her.

‘That is a foolish thing to say,’ cried Margaret. ‘Master Hurst is a great explorer! He has travelled to the Americas and to the Indies and been all over Europe. He will not get lost.’

Jane’s elder son, James, looked up from the wooden-jointed soldier he was playing with and said in a voice that had not so long ago lost its babyish lisp, ‘But the snow will cover the highway. His horse might wander off or lose its footing. It’ll be dark soon.’ Eagerly he added, ‘Perhaps he needs a light to show him the way!’

‘A light in the window like a beacon leading him here,’ said Elizabeth excitedly, gazing at her stepmother. ‘Shall I fetch the oil lamp, Mama?’

Jane nodded, glad to be active, which was strange considering how tired she was. She’d risen early that day to go over her accounts and later she had interviewed a man she had hoped would be willing to weave the thread she spun, but without any luck. She found this deeply discouraging and wondered if the time she spent teaching her stepdaughters to spin was just a waste. A depressing thought considering she had been so delighted when she had discovered that she had not lost the skill taught to her by her own mother.

‘I deem it would be wiser if we set the lamp in the window upstairs,’ said Jane. ‘Due to the dip in the street, its light might not be seen if we were to have it down here.’

So a lamp was duly set in the window that jutted out over the ground floor where the family hoped and prayed for Nicholas Hurst’s arrival. Jane placed the cooking pot on its chains above the fire and added more onion, beans and turnip to the broth she was making and waited in frustrated silence.

* * *

As Nicholas rode on through the falling snow, his head throbbed and his shoulder was aflame with pain. He had to reach Jane—only she could ensure Matilda’s survival now. He fumbled inside a pouch at his waist for a kerchief and managed to drag it out and ease it beneath his doublet where the blood still oozed from the wound in his shoulder. Pray God it would stop bleeding soon.

So far he could hear no sound of pursuit, but that did not say he was not being followed. He could make no sense of what had occurred and how Berthe and the other woman had been involved! His mind strayed to that difficult time back in Bruges six weeks ago. After the death of Matilda’s mother in childbirth, Nicholas had let it be known that he desperately needed a wet nurse prepared to travel to England and stay there for a year. The woman his Flemish kin had found him had refused his more-than-generous offer to accompany him to England. He had been so relieved when Berthe had come forwards that he had not bothered with references. She had appeared sensible and trustworthy and in desperate need of help herself.

Her story was that her husband had been killed in a skirmish involving the French and the troops of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. The information she had been able to provide about the movements of the Emperor’s army had 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 from his left hand towards the rear door of the house.

Fortunately it was unlocked and he pressed down on the latch and entered the building. He found himself in a darkened room and almost fell over the loom that was there, narrowly avoiding bumping into a spinning wheel and several baskets on the floor. Before he could climb the two steps that led to an inner door, it was flung wide from the other side and Jane stood there, holding a candlestick that provided a circle of warm light.

‘This way,’ she said.

He thanked her and entered the main chamber of the house. Instantly the two girls and the boy who were waiting there rushed over to him. He dropped the saddlebags.

‘You’ve come, you’ve come,’ cried Elizabeth, hugging as far as she could reach of his waist whilst James’s small arms wrapped around one of his legs and Margaret stood close by, beaming up at him.

He had never expected such an enthusiastic welcome, although he remembered the children being friendly enough at their first meeting last year. He had been told to tell them stories and had done his best. He thought how different this greeting was from that of his elder brother Christopher’s sons and daughter, whom he scarcely knew. They were inclined to be tongue-tied in his company, as if overcome by his presence. He felt tears prick his eyes. If it had not been for Jane ordering the children to allow Master Hurst to warm himself by the fire, he might have been completely unmanned.

She set a chair close to the fire and bade him be seated. On unsteady legs he crossed the floor, hesitating by the cradle to gaze down at the child sleeping there.

‘He has grown,’ he murmured.

‘What did you expect? He is more than four months old now,’ said Jane, her face softening.

Without lifting his head, he said, ‘I will never forget seeing him born. It was a happening completely outside my experience.’

‘That was obvious,’ she said unsteadily.

He looked up, caught her eye and she blushed.

They continued to stare at each other, both remembering the forced intimacy of Simon’s birth at a time when they were only newly acquainted.

He recalled her cursing him and his rushing to carry out her commands, fearing she might die before the midwife arrived. She had called him a lackwit when he had not reacted fast enough, for Simon’s birth had been imminent. When the boy’s head had appeared, the ground had appeared to rock beneath Nicholas’s feet and he had thought he would swoon. Fortunately her unexpectedly calm voice had recalled him to his responsibility towards both mother and child. He had once seen a calf born and although that experience was definitely different he had managed to react in a way that met Jane’s approval.

As for Jane, she was thinking that it was probably best that they had never met before the day of Simon’s birth, otherwise she would never have had the nerve to order him around the way she had done. Hearsay was not the same as actually meeting someone face-to-face. Of course, she had known more about Nicholas than he did of her, yet setting eyes on a real live hero was a very different matter from one who lived in the pages of a book and somehow seemed larger than life.


Chapter Two

Jane dropped her gaze and Nicholas forced himself to cross the remaining distance to the fire, wondering afresh what madness had caused him to unburden himself that day of Simon’s birth and speak of Louise. He should have kept his mouth shut because it was obvious to him that Jane might find it difficult to accept Louise’s daughter in the circumstances. Why had he not considered that as a possibility? Was it because Jane had so impressed him with that maternal side of her nature? He could only pray that his daughter would be able to win her heart as those children in her charge had won his with the warmth of their welcome.

He sank thankfully into a chair. The children followed and stationed themselves with a girl on either side of him whilst James leaned against his knee and fired a question at him.

Jane listened to them talking as she removed her gloves and coat with trembling hands and hung the latter on a peg. She took a deep breath to calm herself, wondering how badly he was wounded and thinking of the baby concealed beneath his doublet. Had that woman rejected her daughter or was Louise dead?

Jane took another deep breath and walked briskly over to the group by the fire. ‘This will not do,’ she said firmly. ‘Margaret, you will go to Anna’s house and tell her I have immediate need of her. If Matt is there, ask him to come, as well. Elizabeth, you will set bowls and spoons on the table, as well as drinking vessels. James, you will watch the fire and let me know if it needs more wood.’

‘And what will you do, Mama?’ asked the boy.

Her face softened as she gazed down at him. ‘Master Hurst has been wounded and I must tend him.’

The children’s eyes rounded. ‘Has he been on one of his adventures and had to fight the natives?’ asked Elizabeth.

A low chuckle issued from Nicholas’s throat, followed by the words ‘Not exactly.’ He fumbled with the fastening on his coat. ‘Although I was attacked on my way here.’

The children gasped. ‘Did you manage to kill one of them with your sword?’ asked James.

‘Hush now! Do not bother Master Hurst with such questions.’ Jane shooed away the children and went to his aid. As she undid the fastenings on the sodden garment and set it to dry on a three-legged stool in front of the fire, she noticed a slit in the material. It was sticky and she realised that was where the blade must have penetrated the fabric and the stickiness was blood. She felt slightly faint and for a moment could not move. He could have so easily been killed! The thought frightened her.

‘My daughter, Jane,’ he reminded her in a gruff voice.

She gazed down at his bulging doublet, feeling quite peculiar, almost envious of the child that lay beneath the padded russet broadcloth so close to his heart. What had happened to her mother? Jane’s eyes went to his face and for a moment their questioning gazes locked. Then he closed his eyes and she realised that he was exhausted and she would have to wait for an answer.

She willed her fingers to remain steady as she removed the girdle about his waist that held his short sword and a pouch. She set them aside and began to undo the fastenings on his doublet. The squashed nose of a baby appeared and then the rest of her face. By my Lady, she is pretty, thought Jane, a catch in her throat. She touched the child’s petal-soft skin with the back of her hand and realised it was not as cold as she feared it might be.

Then she remembered what Nicholas had told her about the child’s beautiful mother and struggled with a surge of emotion, thinking again of Louise and resenting the relationship she had shared with this man.

The tiny mouth opened and fastened on the side of Jane’s hand and began to suck. She was strangely moved despite knowing in her heart of hearts that she had no desire to give shelter to this child of Louise’s.

‘It is a wonder you did not suffocate her,’ said Jane roughly, undoing the rest of the doublet to enable her to remove the baby, who was dressed in swaddling bands.

She found herself being surveyed by a pair of hazel eyes that were flecked with green and gold, the same as Nicholas’s. She told herself that she should be relieved that the little girl had her father’s eyes, but her feelings were too confused to feel so. Was that because she wanted to think the worst of Louise, believing that she had lied to Nicholas about the child she carried? Yet as the baby began to cry, Jane’s maternal instincts surfaced and she rocked Matilda in her arms.

Nicholas gazed at them both from beneath drooping eyelids. ‘I imagined the pair of you looking as you do now,’ he croaked.

‘Really,’ said Jane coolly. ‘Is that why you are here, simply because you thought I could take care of your daughter? I had thought better of you, Master Hurst. You disappoint me.’

Nicholas shifted in the chair and a spasm of pain caused him to place a hand on his wounded shoulder. ‘You misjudge me, Mistress Caldwell! I hired a wet nurse for my daughter in Bruges. I came here to confirm the vows Pip made for me by proxy to be Simon’s godfather and for no other reason.’

Was he speaking the truth? Disappointed though she was, Jane decided she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Forgive me! For a moment I forgot that you had promised to be Simon’s godfather,’ she said humbly. ‘What happened to the wet nurse?’

‘I deem Berthe must have betrayed me,’ he said bitterly. ‘She was in league with those men who attacked me. As I made my escape I heard her and another woman crying out, “Stop him. He’s got the child. Stop him!”’

Jane’s head jerked up. ‘Why should she do such a thing? Do you think she was put up to it by the child’s mother?’

Nicholas sighed, removed his sodden felt hat and fingered where his head hurt. ‘Louise is dead,’ he said heavily. ‘Matilda has no mother.’

Jane could only stare at him. ‘I see. I didn’t know Louise had died,’ she said slowly.

‘Why should you? It isn’t easy to get a message to someone from abroad, especially during the winter months. Even my brothers were unaware of it. When I visited Christopher, he told me to my face that he considered me a fool for taking responsibility for Matilda.’ Nicholas turned the hat between his hands restlessly and then dropped it on the floor and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. ‘Louise died a couple of days after the birth and she wanted me to have Matilda. I had already decided on that course of action after seeing at close hand what can happen when a daughter is fobbed off as another man’s or placed with relatives who have no love for it. That was why I went in search of Louise.’

Before Jane could respond, there was a sound at the front door and Margaret entered with a homely-looking woman wearing a cloak over a brown gown. She stared at Nicholas with a lively curiosity in her large round eyes. ‘So you’re the famous explorer,’ she said. ‘I’ve been hearing about you off and on for the past few weeks.’ She folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘About time you arrived—they’ve all been on pins in this house, thinking you mightn’t get here in time for Our Lady’s day.’ She paused for breath.

‘Where is Matt?’ asked Jane swiftly.

‘He will be here soon,’ replied Anna and continued with her former dialogue with Nicholas. ‘And now you have come, what’s this I hear about you not only being attacked but that you’ve brought a babe with you that needs suckling?’

Jane said hastily, ‘Dear Anna, do not be bothering Master Hurst about such matters now. He is wounded and exhausted and much concerned for his daughter. Here, take the child! I will see that you are paid later.’ She thrust Matilda at the wet nurse without waiting to see Nicholas’s reaction to the woman who was temporarily to act as mother to his daughter. No doubt the news of Nicholas’s arrival would soon be all over Witney. Anna’s husband was the local baker and as much of a gossip as his wife. Would the information be spread abroad beyond the town and reach not only the men who had tried to kill him, but also the women who appeared to want the child? It was a puzzle to her.

From a chest Jane took a couple of handfuls of linen bindings and wrapped them in a drying cloth before tucking them under Anna’s arm. She wasted no time in seeing the wet nurse out. Then she picked up a candlestick and brought it over to where Nicholas was seated, thinking she would need more light if she was to attend to his wound.

‘I hope my actions meet with your approval where your daughter is concerned,’ she said briskly. ‘Do not mind Anna’s tongue. She has a warm heart and, for now, abundant milk. I can reassure you that she is clean and extremely fond of babies, otherwise I would not trust Simon to her.’

‘I will take your word for it,’ he said, attempting a smile despite his exhaustion.

‘I have known her for years,’ said Jane, bending over him. ‘We were girls together when I lived here in Witney with my parents and brother.’ She paused. ‘Now shall we remove your doublet so I can take a look at your wound? Did those ruffians rob you at all?’

‘No, they did not get the opportunity.’ His dark reddish-gold brows knit. ‘Although, perhaps I should have not been so trusting of Berthe. My coin pouch was of late within easy reach of her fingers.’

Jane glanced at the girdle she had laid to one side earlier and crossed to where she had placed it. She picked it up and handed it to him. ‘Do you wish to count the coin?’

He weighed the pouch in his hand. ‘It is a little lighter than I remember and I did not feel a thing. Fortunately I soon learnt whilst on my travels that it is always wise to have another stash of money concealed somewhere else.’

‘You don’t think she knew where that was?’ asked Jane, wondering how he had come by this wet nurse who was obviously untrustworthy.

‘No,’ he said confidently.

Jane was glad of that, for she had little coin to spare to pay Anna extra and for any other expenses Nicholas’s sojourn here in Witney might involve. She wondered how long he would stay now there was the worry of the attack on him to take into account. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek as she continued with the task of removing his doublet without causing him too much pain.

Once rid of the garment she was able to see more clearly that his fine woollen shirt was more bloodstained than the doublet and that it was unravelling. Obviously the weapon’s blade had caught a thread and snapped it. Her heart was in her mouth as she attempted to separate the patch of shirt that was stuck to the wound, for she could feel the tension within him. She decided that it was best if she dampened the fabric and fortunately that did the trick. At last she managed to ease the fabric away to reveal the gash in his flesh into which bits of wool and dirt had been forced. By then he was breathing heavily and his face had changed colour. As for her, the inside of her cheek was raw from chewing on it.

She whispered an apology as she removed the shirt. Now his chest was completely exposed, she could see the scars he had incurred from previous encounters with foes. She felt an unexpected urge not only to wrap her arms around him, but to scold him.

‘How many times have you come close to death?’ she muttered, straightening up with his shirt clenched in her hand. ‘I know of some of your adventures, but not that you had been injured so often.’

‘I survived and that is all that matters,’ he growled.

‘Hopefully you will survive this latest attack on you,’ she said tautly before hurrying over to a shelf and removing a bottle of wine from it.

‘Can I help, Mama?’ asked Elizabeth, hovering about her.

‘Fetch me some linen bindings from the chest and another clean rag,’ said Jane.

The girl did so and received further orders concerning the supper this time. She went about her tasks as Jane gave Nicholas all her attention once more.

‘Do you have any brandy?’ he asked in a strained voice, watching her uncork the wine and pour some into a small bowl.

‘Aye, as it happens Rebecca’s father enjoys the finest French brandy. He brought a couple of bottles when he visited me the other week. Now keep still. I will fetch the brandy in a moment.’

She tipped the cup carefully and watched the elderflower wine that she had made herself the other year wash over the wound just beneath his collarbone. She was aware of the mingling smells of sandalwood, blood, dried sweat and wine and that he gritted his teeth as she swabbed the wound with a clean rag.

‘I am sorry if I’m hurting you,’ she said hastily. Curling strands of her light brown hair that had escaped from beneath her cap brushed his chin as she lowered her head further.

Nicholas breathed in the scent of camomile and guessed she washed her hair in water perfumed by the dried flower heads. His thoughts drifted back to his boyhood when he had visited his godparents. Sir Jasper had been a prosperous wine merchant with a house in Bristol and another in the countryside a few miles from the port. He remembered a meadow being covered in camomile daisies.

‘Do you see much of Anthony Mortimer?’ he asked.

Jane moved away and considered her answer as she took a small jar from the stool nearby. ‘A fair amount. He is lonely. No doubt he misses the excitement of his old life of travel and meeting people. I am sure you can understand why that should be so, having travelled so much yourself?’

‘Not as much as him, I am certain,’ said Nicholas, frowning. ‘After all, he is much older than I and will surely find it more difficult to settle.’

‘Perhaps. When Rebecca’s at home, he does spend time in her company,’ replied Jane, ‘but not as much as he would like. Since her marriage to your brother, she likes to accompany him when he is summoned to court or the king gives him permission to perform for one of his lordly friends at their mansions, castles or palaces.’

Jane began to smooth salve on his wound and Nicholas felt her breasts press against him. Despite the pain he was in, he was aware of a stirring in his loins and it surprised him. For months he had not been with a woman and had held in his mind the image of Jane as a Madonna: a man did not have sexual desire for such an icon of reverence and worship. It was definitely odd and he knew that he must distract them both from this sudden unexpected yearning of his body. Being a widow, she would know what it signified if she were to become aware of his arousal.

He remembered his younger brother, Pip, wagering that he would never manage to live the celibate life required of priest. Nicholas had determined to prove him wrong. It appeared that his brother was right if the slightest brush of Jane’s breasts could create such a reaction in him. He imagined holding their firm roundness, pressing his lips against her soft skin.

He must stop this! He cleared his throat. ‘Tell me about this spinning business of yours. Does Master Mortimer take a great interest in it at all?’

‘You seem very interested in him,’ said Jane, frowning.

‘My concern is for you. As I’ve already said, he’s not a young man and you have enough on your hands caring for the children and trying to support them and yourself without becoming too closely involved with a man soon to be in his dotage.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What are you trying to say, Master Hurst?’

‘You’re no fool, Jane,’ he replied. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

‘If it is marriage you refer to,’ she muttered, a rosy colour flooding her cheeks, ‘then I would remind you that it is but four months since my husband died and this year is a period of mourning for me. I am hardly going to encourage Mortimer in such circumstances.’

He had forgotten temporarily about the mourning period, but he did not say so because all of a sudden he felt extremely odd. ‘Brandy!’ he exclaimed abruptly.

She stared at him and saw that he had gone quite pale beneath his tan. She clicked her tongue against her teeth and hurried away.

He closed his eyes, but despite doing so he could not shut out the scent of camomile that lingered in the air and again was reminded of his godparents and a spring when the tide was high. Sir Jasper had taken him to see the wave that swept in from the Bristol Channel as it fought against the river current. Despite all the wonders he had since seen on his travels, Nicholas had never forgotten the sight of that frightening wall of water advancing towards them and it had haunted his dreams. His godparents had had no children and the fortune Sir Jasper had amassed had come to Nicholas after the death of his godmother a year after her larger-than-life husband had died. At that time the urge to travel had been strong in him and he had seldom visited his properties. He had put an agent in the house in Bristol and a married couple in the one overlooking the estuary.

Since Matilda’s birth, he had come to the decision that he needed to make a proper home for her and it seemed sensible to take possession of his property.

There came the sound of a bottle being opened and liquor poured and then the swish of her black skirts as Jane returned. ‘Here you are, Master Hurst,’ she said, her voice sounding anxious.

His heavy eyelids lifted and he stared at her. ‘Why can’t you call me Nicholas?’ he said fretfully, taking the goblet from her and downing the brandy in one gulp. ‘Tell me, has Mortimer asked you to marry him?’

‘What!’ Jane returned his gaze with a frozen stare. Then she snatched the empty vessel from him and placed it beside the bottle on the table. ‘Why do you ask me such questions at such a time? Now, are you ready for me to continue with my ministrations?’ She picked up a cloth pad and one of the bindings and raised her eyebrows.

‘I am thinking only of your good,’ he said.

‘I can take care of myself,’ she retorted, pressing the pad on the shoulder wound, aware that he caught his breath as she did so. ‘Hold this and remain still and quiet.’

He frowned and placed his hand against the pad, convinced that Mortimer had proposed marriage to her. ‘A woman needs a man, although it is a puzzle to me why you ever asked me to be Simon’s godfather if you do not want me taking an interest in your affairs,’ he muttered. ‘Why did you?’

She had no answer to give him to that question that would not immediately result in his prying even deeper into her reasons for so involving him and could only say, ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’

‘But not now? I admit that I was flattered when you asked me,’ he continued.

‘It was not my intention to flatter you,’ she said, binding the pad securely into place. ‘Why is it that you cannot obey a simple command? You’ve remained neither still nor quiet when I requested it.’

Nicholas sighed. ‘I am receiving the impression that you believe I have too much of a high opinion of myself and am no longer suitable to be Simon’s godfather.’

‘Now you are being foolish. Besides, I’m sure there are lots of people who tell you how brave and clever and marvellous you are,’ murmured Jane. ‘No doubt some of what they say about you is true, so I still would like you to confirm the proxy promises your brother made on your behalf. I deem it would be good for my son to have such a godfather as yourself as an example of real courage.’

Nicholas groaned. ‘You can’t really believe all that my brother has transcribed about me from my journals? I would that you didn’t set me up as some kind of hero as an example for Simon to follow.’

She remembered afresh their first meeting and chuckled. ‘I saw an example of your courage when you braved that cur with a broken arm to defend my James and so did he.’

‘That was not heroic. It was damn foolhardiness. I should have grabbed the boy’s hand and made a run for it.’

She shook her head. ‘I doubt it is in your nature not to make a fight of it when confronted with danger and you must have a certain amount of intelligence to have survived so many adventures.’

‘Good fortune had something to do with it, Jane,’ he said, cautiously attempting to move his injured shoulder, only to stifle a groan. ‘How about another brandy?’ he muttered.

She looked doubtful. ‘When did you last eat?’

‘Hours ago,’ he replied. ‘Although what has that to do with anything?’

‘Mmm! I suppose it won’t do you any harm to become a little intoxicated, but you’re going to have to rest that shoulder.’ She poured out two small brandies and picked up the thread of their conversation again as she handed one to him. ‘I would not deny that fortune plays its part in everyone’s lives.’ She sipped her own brandy cautiously. ‘Although some would say that it is by the grace of God and the prayers of the saints that good fortune also visits us.’

He tossed back his brandy before saying, ‘And when life takes a wrong turning do you see the hand of the Devil at work?’

‘I would rather not discuss ol’ Horny,’ she murmured, glancing at the children. ‘This wet nurse and the men who attacked you—do you think they will come here?’

Before he could reply they were interrupted by a knock on the door and Margaret hurried to open it. A tall and gangly youth with a shock of flaxen hair stood there.

‘Here’s Matt,’ said Jane, smiling and crooking her finger at the lad.

He came over to them, staring with open curiosity at Nicholas’s naked chest with its scars and the bandaging of his shoulder. ‘You wanted me, Master Hurst,’ he said, giving him a toothy grin.

‘Aye, lad. I want you to stable my horse,’ said Nicholas, ‘and, if you could feed and water him and brush him down and cover him with the blanket after doing so, I’d appreciate that.’ He reached for his money pouch and handed several coins to Matt.

The lad thanked him and was about to follow Margaret across the room towards the back of the house when Nicholas indicated he come closer. There ensued a low-voiced conversation between the two males.

Jane overheard but a few words as she emptied the bloodied wine into a slop bucket and so they made little sense to her. She burnt the rags on the fire and then washed her hands before taking up a ladle and stirring the contents of the cooking pot. By the time she returned to Nicholas’s side, Matt had left to perform his allotted tasks.

‘Sooo,’ she said slowly, picking up the goblet containing the remains of her brandy.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. ‘What is it, Jane? You have a question to ask me? I am also waiting for an answer to the one I asked you.’

‘What question was that?’ she queried.

‘The one you told me I had no business to ask. Does Master Mortimer want you for his wife?’

She sighed exasperatedly. ‘Do you not consider him a man who would respect the period of mourning that is customary in my case?’

‘So he has not yet asked you. Do you believe he might do so in the future?’

She hesitated and glanced at the children, not wanting them eavesdropping. Nicholas might not be speaking loudly, but even so she did not want the girls in particular overhearing such talk. ‘Why must you persist with such questioning?’

‘Because it has occurred to me that we could make a match of it,’ said Nicholas abruptly, remembering at least three women he had considered marrying in the past, only to discover other men had got there before him. ‘Marry me and I swear I will take care of you and the children. You will not have to worry about spinning and where your next penny is coming from if you accept my proposal.’

‘And who will take care of you, Master Hurst?’ she said faintly, unable to take her eyes from his bruised face. She might have dreamed of his making love to her and she had her hopes, but she had never believed he really could want to marry her. He might not be as handsome as his brother Philip, but she did find him incredibly attractive.

‘I will take care of myself, knowing I have a family dependent on me,’ he said seriously. ‘What do you say?’

She did not reply.

‘Mama, are you all right?’ Elizabeth’s voice seemed to be coming from a distance. ‘Is there anything more I can do to help you?’

Jane stammered, ‘G-go and see t-to the hens!’ She hoped her stepdaughter had not heard Nicholas’s proposal because she could not possibly accept. It was too soon after Simon’s death and she must honour his memory by adhering to the year of mourning. Besides, there was only one reason he could wish to marry her and that was unacceptable to her. He wanted a mother for Matilda. Yet she was finding it difficult to voice her refusal. She felt as if the intensity of his stare would burn through her clothing and skin to her heart and reveal to him the secret she carried within her. What would he think of her if he knew it? There had always been one rule for men and another for women.

‘Well, Jane?’ he demanded. ‘I mean what I say.’

‘Do not rush me,’ she said in a low voice.

‘You need a few more moments to think?’

‘Aye!’ retorted Jane. More than a few moments! Perhaps he wished to marry her for more than one reason and might want to truly adopt her little family? How clever he was to word his proposal in such a way.

She was reminded of a winter day when she had stood, shivering, outside a church. She had been seventeen to Simon’s forty-two years. He had told her to her face that he needed a mother for his daughters and was prepared to accept her without a dowry, her brother having mentioned that it was time she married. She had been glad at the time that Giles had not told Simon that she desperately needed to marry. She had felt terrible at the time. She had wanted to tell Simon Caldwell the truth, but it had taken more courage than she possessed.

It felt odd, thinking about how she had fallen madly in love with Willem Godar, not knowing he was already married. Strangely he, too, had Flemish blood just like the Hurst brothers, but he came from Kent. Once upon a time the very thought of Willem would have filled her with pain and anger, but gradually she had thought less and less about him.

Now Nicholas’s proposal reminded her of the foolishness and headiness of being a young girl and in love for the first time. What a fool love made of people. And what would Nicholas think of her if he were to discover the truth? No doubt he would be disgusted. She should be thankful that she was not in love with him, but only lusted after him. No longer in her first bloom of youth, she would not be fooled again by that treacherous emotion. As for Nicholas feeling such an emotion for her—it was not possible! She had never been what some would call desirable as Louise clearly had been, to judge by her daughter, so she could only believe that he wanted to marry her for exactly the same reason that Simon Caldwell had done. So far he had been too clever to say that he wanted to marry her so she could be a mother for his daughter, but she was certain that was the main factor in his proposing to her.

She did not utterly hold that against him and she would be lying to herself if she pretended that she would not enjoy being the wife of an heroic, rich explorer. Yet something inside her rebelled against the very idea that he saw in her only that maternal aspect of her femininity.

Yet if she turned down his proposal, no doubt there would be other women who would leap at the chance of becoming his wife. Oh, Holy Mother, she certainly did not want him marrying someone else! He would be such a catch for a woman in her position. So why be churlish and hesitate to give him the answer he obviously wanted?

‘What do you say, Jane?’ he rasped. ‘It is important that I have your answer now.’

His tone of voice stung her and she reached for the brandy and poured a little more in her cup and gulped it down. It gave her the courage to look him in the face. ‘You’re unreasonable,’ she gasped. ‘Expecting me to give you an answer just like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘I have already reminded you that I am still in mourning.’

His mouth set firm. ‘I have not forgotten! I was there with you the day your husband died.’

‘Then can you not be patient?’

‘Not when I am aware that Rebecca’s father is taking an interest in you. Now Berthe has betrayed me, I need a woman who will be part of Matilda’s life for as long as it is necessary, which made asking you to be my wife more difficult than you can ever understand.’ He seized her hand and pressed it against his bare chest. ‘Can you feel my heart beating? It took much for me to propose to you a few moments ago. I realise now that I made a mess of it. For that I ask your forgiveness.’


Chapter Three

Jane’s fingers shifted beneath his hand. It was true she could feel his heart pumping and it gave her a peculiar but exciting thrill to know that she could affect him in such a way.

‘This is foolishness,’ she said breathlessly, ‘and yet you are so clever. No doubt you are practised in the art of persuading women to do what you will. But how can you talk of marriage when you have only just arrived here, wounded and exhausted? Marriage is a serious matter and needs much consideration before a decision can be made.’

Nicholas gave her a weary look, but there was also a hint of bewilderment in his hazel eyes as he released her hand. ‘If there is one thing I have learnt on my travels it is that one has to seize the moment as it might never come again. Ask yourself a question: If I were to die, would you be filled with regret?’

She felt threatened again by the very idea of his dying. ‘How dare you ask me such a question? Most likely you have put it to me so as to rouse my pity because you are wounded.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Why should you die? I have tended your wound and I have a certain skill when it comes to healing. You must give me more time to consider your proposal. At least a month,’ she added wildly. ‘After all, you have been hit on the head and might not be in full possession of your wits. It could be that you will change your mind.’

He looked taken aback. ‘I assure you I am not out of my head. You’d be better accepting me this very moment. I cannot understand why you hesitate. I thought you a woman of sense. Am I so physically unattractive? Am I poor? No, I am well able to support you and the children in comfort. I have two houses and you can choose to live in both or either. You can throw out all the furniture and purchase new. You and the children will be able to dress in a grand style.’

She felt a flash of annoyance. ‘What is wrong with the garments we are wearing now? You think to persuade me with your wealth and your appearance. I tell you such things do not impress me.’

‘Which would make me admire you all the more, Jane, if I believed it to be true,’ said Nicholas with a wry smile.

His arrogance almost took her breath away. ‘How dare you,’ she cried. ‘I would not marry you if you were the last man on earth.’

‘Mama, you’re shouting,’ said Margaret.

Jane whirled round and stared at her stepdaughter. ‘Go and have your supper and serve the others,’ she snapped. ‘Master Hurst and I will eat later.’

Margaret nodded; her eyes were alight with interest as they darted from Jane’s face to that of their guest. ‘Master Hurst is not the last man on earth,’ she stated. ‘But if he were, it would be sensible of you to marry him.’

Jane barely managed to control her emotions. ‘You should not be listening. Go and have your supper,’ she repeated. ‘Now!’

The girl went.

Jane turned back to Nicholas, but this time she had the sense not to meet those eyes of his. ‘Now see what you’ve done?’ she whispered, dropping her gaze, only to find herself staring at his bare chest. The urge to touch it was overwhelming.

‘Consider the pleasure you’d have in choosing new materials and clothing yourself and the children in colours that lift the heart and spirits and made you want to dance and sing,’ whispered Nicholas insidiously, reaching for the brandy.

She placed a hand on the bottle. ‘I know why you are like this. You’re intoxicated.’

‘I deny that,’ he said, wrenching the bottle from her grasp.

She tried to wrestle it from him and managed it. She could not resist looking at him with a hint of triumph, only to see he was looking wan. Nevertheless he staggered to his feet and again her eyes were on a level with his chest. She could not have been more aware of his maleness at that moment than if her body had been joined to his. The mingled scents of sandalwood, salve, dried sweat and brandy filled her senses yet again and she had an urge to press her lips against his skin; her fingers wanted to twist the curls of his chest hair and hold tight. A shiver went through her as she recalled the ugliness of the wound she had just bound and she prayed that it would heal.

‘Forgive me, Jane, for teasing you,’ he said, lowering his head so that his lips touched her left ear. ‘Accept my proposal and I swear I will not rush you into marriage. I am persistent because I truly believe that we will be good for one another and the children.’

‘You are being presumptuous, Master Hurst,’ she said unevenly, unable to resist touching the spot that his lips had saluted, but she did not meet his gaze. ‘What does a man who has spent his life going hither and thither wherever he wished know about fatherhood and living in a family?’

He looked hurt. ‘Obviously you disapprove of my past way of life, but I can change.’

‘You believe I wish to change you?’ she found herself blurting out.

He looked surprised. ‘Aye, surely you would want me to stay at home with you and the children?’

‘I wonder if that would be expecting too much of you?’ she said frankly. ‘Despite your having the best of intentions. Tell me about your mother. What did she think about your travelling?’

He fell silent, gazing down at the graceful line of her neck as she placed the brandy bottle on the table. Then he took a deep breath and said, ‘I know she worried about me, but she never tried to persuade me from following my dream. She had imagination,’ he said softly. ‘She was the one we boys went to when Father was overbearing and gave us a beating. She encouraged Pip in his storytelling. I still miss her. One day I went away and when I returned she was no longer there. I’ll always regret...’ His voice trailed away.

But Jane could guess what he regretted and that he did not wish to speak of it, so she remained silent.

Nicholas kept his head down, blinking back tears. He felt Jane understood how he felt. If she did eventually accept his proposal, he believed that she would be an excellent mother and wife, faithful to him and caring of her children. But perhaps she was right and he would be unable to be either the husband she wanted or the father the children needed. He would fail them and they would turn against him. Suddenly that faintness he had experienced earlier came over him again and he staggered and caught his shoulder on a carved knob on the back of the chair. He gasped in pain.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Jane, instantly going to his aid and helping him into the chair.

‘Brandy,’ he whispered.

She hesitated before saying, ‘Have you not had enough? I have a fear of drunkards.’

‘Do you want me screaming with pain, woman?’ he roused himself to ask savagely.

His tone of voice caused her to tremble. ‘I—I find it difficult to imagine you—you screaming, Master Hurst. You’re a hero. I have heard the truth from your own lips each time Rebecca told us a tale of your adventures.’

‘You should not believe all that you hear, Jane.’ His eyes darkened. ‘It was my brother’s intention that the readers of my first book believe me a hero when he edited my journal for the printing press.’

Jane sighed. ‘You would do well not to disillusion me if you wish me to marry you. The feminine within me demands heroics as well as dependability in a husband and father.’ Instead of brandy, she poured some of the elderflower wine into a goblet and handed it to him. He took it. She touched his shoulder lightly and felt a quiver run through him. ‘I have no wish to hurt you.’

‘I am relieved to hear it. I ask that your touch remains as gentle as possible even if you do not wish to be my wife.’ He grimaced and drank the wine down before resting his head against the back of the chair.

‘I will get you some food,’ she said.

He thanked her and closed his eyes, trying to convince himself that surely a sensible woman such as Jane would see the advantages of a match between them despite his shortcomings. Suddenly he felt incredibly tired and tumbled into oblivion.

Jane watched his body slump like a sack of grain and heard the rhythm of his breathing change. She should have fetched him some food earlier, but she would not wake him now so he could eat. Best he rested. It seemed that the brandy and wine had done their work. What would Anthony Mortimer think if he knew that she had been dosing Nicholas with his best liquor? Not that she had any intention of informing him of the fact, although perhaps he would notice the level in the bottle had dropped. Hopefully he would not think that she had taken to drink because he could not find a weaver willing to work with her. Of course, if she accepted Nicholas’s offer of marriage she would not have to worry about weavers or what Anthony Mortimer thought of her.

A sigh escaped her and she walked over to the children and told them they must be quiet so as not to wake Master Hurst. She was aware of the girls’ eyes on her and wondered if Margaret had told her younger sister about the conversation she had overheard. How would they feel if she did marry him so soon after the death of their father?

She turned back to Nicholas, noticing how the bandage on his shoulder showed up so white against his tanned skin. There must have been occasions when the heat had been so intense where he had travelled that he had stripped off his shirt. She watched the rise and fall of his chest. Such a chest! Strong and broad with just a sweep of fine reddish-golden hair forming a V to the waist of his hose. She was aware of a heat building inside her feminine core such as she had never experienced with her late husband.

One of the girls spoke and Jane looked up and realised her stepdaughters were still watching her. She felt her cheeks flame despite knowing they could not possibly know what she was thinking. She should be ashamed of herself. ‘A blanket,’ she said brightly. ‘Master Hurst will catch a chill if he is not kept warm.’

She hurried over to the other chest where she kept sleeping pallets, as well as blankets. From its interior she removed what she needed and returned to Nicholas. As she did so it occurred to her that as far as she was aware her stepdaughters had never seen a man half-naked before. Their father had not been one to bare his flesh, even in her company, but it was too late now to tell them to avert their gaze. Suddenly she remembered the classical naked sculptures in the garden of the house in Oxford that her husband had chiselled out himself. She had voiced her disapproval because of his daughters, but he had told her it was art. At the time she had thought how contrary men were. Yet, so many considered contrariness a failing in women.

She unfolded the blanket and tucked it about Nicholas, wondering what to do about their sleeping arrangements. Propriety insisted that he remove himself to the inn. Yet she was not of a mind to wake him and insist on his going there. Neither did she think it would it be right for him to do so on the morrow in his wounded state.

Upstairs there was a large bedchamber and an adjoining smaller one. She and the children normally shared the double bed in the larger room, but during the worst of the winter weather when ice had frosted the inside of the windows and their breath turned to mist, they had taken to sleeping on pallets downstairs in front of the fire. She did not like doing so, but common sense told her that it was the sensible move to make if they were to survive the winter without succumbing to severe chest ailments. She had been considering moving upstairs the last few days, but then the snow had arrived. Hopefully it would go as suddenly as it had come.

The children had finished eating their supper and now Jane ate some bread and broth. Then, with their help, she removed pallets and blankets from a chest and settled them on the floor a safe distance from the fire. After saying a prayer with them, she waited until they were asleep before removing some coins from a jar. Then she put on her coat and left the house.

The storm seemed to have passed and the snow was turning to mush underfoot. She could see stars twinkling overhead, although the moon had not yet risen. Anna lived but a short distance away up the High Street with her baker husband, toddler and five older children, so it was only a matter of minutes before Jane was knocking on her front door.

She refused Anna’s invitation to come inside, saying, ‘I must get back as soon as possible. You managed to feed Master Hurst’s daughter without difficulty?’

‘Aye. She is only tiny and does not need as much milk as Simon. My son is almost weaned, so it is fortunate for her that I have been feeding Simon, otherwise my milk would have dried up. As it is, only our Lord knows how long I will be able to feed Simon and this new little one.’

Jane looked at her in dismay and then suddenly thought of Tabitha, a nursing mother and wife to Ned, one of Philip’s troupe of travelling players. For a short while Tabitha had helped Jane in the Oxford house towards the end of her pregnancy while Rebecca was away. If the worse came to the worst then perhaps Ned could spare Tabitha if she was able to feed Matilda? She would keep it in mind.

‘It has occurred to me,’ said Anna, ‘that the little one will need a feed during the night and at first light. I suggest that I keep her with me until morning.’

Jane agreed. ‘I will not bother asking Master Hurst as he is fast asleep in the chair. I doubt he will stir until morning. I deem he is not well enough to be moved to the inn.’

Anna gave her a look that spoke volumes and Jane flushed as she pressed the coins she had brought into Anna’s hand, adding, ‘I will bring Simon to you in the morning and collect Master Hurst’s daughter then.’ She wished her a good night before hurrying back to the house.

* * *

She was relieved to find Nicholas still sleeping, although she thought he looked uncomfortable and would awake with a terrible crick in his neck if he remained in such a position. She fetched a small cushion and managed to ease it beneath his head without much difficulty.

He muttered indistinctly and opened his eyes. She held her breath as he smiled up at her, seemingly instantly recognising her. Then his eyelids drooped. Impulsively she dropped a kiss on his head. His smile had been so warm and friendly that she was oddly affected by it. She lingered for a while, considering his proposal and what he had said about her having a choice of two houses in which to live. That he had two homes was news to her. However, it would mean another move for the children. Was that fair on them when they had only recently left the home that had been theirs since their births and were just settling down here in Witney?

She continued looking at him as she hung up her coat, wondering if he would do as she asked and wait a month before broaching the subject of marriage again. Then she bolted the front door before going into the workroom and making sure the door to the garden was locked as well. After placing a log on the fire that should smoulder for hours, she unrolled her own pallet and, wrapping a blanket around her, lay down to sleep. She had much to ponder on, but was so tired that she was asleep in no time.

* * *

It was discomfort and pain in his head and shoulder, as well as the noise of a woman hushing a crying baby, that woke Nicholas. For a moment he believed himself back at Louise’s house in Flanders and then the events of yesterday flooded in. Somewhere a cockerel crowed and then another and another. He forced open his eyes and looked about him.

‘Jane, is that you?’ he asked in a low voice.

In the pearly-grey light coming through the window he saw a woman’s head turn and then she tiptoed over to him. He thought he remembered Jane placing a cushion beneath his cheek. Had he dreamed that she had also pressed a kiss on the sore spot on his head? If so, that raised an interesting question.

‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

He shrugged. ‘I had intended spending the night at the inn in order to protect your reputation, but...’

‘You were exhausted and who is to say that your enemies might not have found you there?’ she said hastily. ‘I fear you must have been uncomfortable.’

‘I’ve spent nights in worse places,’ he said, easing his neck and slowly rolling his head before drawing the blanket over a naked shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m taking Simon to Anna. I left your daughter with her last night and will bring her back with me.’

‘The nightly feed!’ he exclaimed, grimacing with pain as he eased himself upright. The movement resulted in the blanket slipping down again and revealing his chest. ‘I had given no thought to it since coming here and I forgot Anna needed paying despite remembering to pay her son.’

‘I have paid her,’ said Jane, wondering if he had a spare shirt in his saddlebag. ‘Rest now. The children are sleeping down here as they have done most of winter. I must make haste, for Simon is hungry.’

He smiled. ‘I will not delay you and will reimburse you when you come back.’

Jane nodded and hurried from the house.

Nicholas rose from the chair and, avoiding the sleeping children, picked up his coat from the stool where it had been drying. Leaving the blanket on the chair, he swung the garment with difficulty about his naked shoulders and went through into the rear chamber where he was able to make out shelves, as well as a spinning wheel, a loom and baskets of raw wool and thread. He drew back the bolt and lifted the latch, wondering if Jane had come to a definite decision yet regarding his proposal.

He went outside into the garden and found to his relief that most of the snow had already melted and that the sky was free of cloud. There was an apricot-and-silver glow in the east and 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 was attacked on my way here,’ said Nicholas, his expression hardening. ‘Now, if you can explain why you didn’t knock on the front door, but sneaked in the back way?’

Willem’s eyes flashed with annoyance. ‘I did knock, but received no answer, so I came round here and found the door unlocked.’ He paused. ‘Have you reported the attack to the constable? If I did not mishear Sir Gawain yesterday, then you were attacked last year in Oxford, as well as in London.’

‘So you were discussing me,’ said Nicholas, frowning.

‘Only because of your book. Will you be staying here long?’

‘Until this latest attack is dealt with I will be remaining in Witney.’ He thought that Godar looked none too pleased with that news.

‘How many of them were there? Were you robbed?’

‘Fortunately I managed to escape with my possessions intact as there were only two men.’

‘Then you were fortunate.’ Willem walked over to the loom and gazed down at it. Watching him, Nicholas experienced a flash of anger. It seemed to him that this weaver was making himself at home much too early. He wished he could kick him out, but sensed the weaver would not be so easy to get rid of and had a strong feeling Jane would resent him taking charge in such a fashion.

As if aware of Nicholas’s eyes on him, Willem turned and met his gaze. ‘Perhaps Oxfordshire isn’t the safest of places for you, Master Hurst? Do you think the two attacks are in any way connected?’

Nicholas shrugged and a flash of pain crossed his face. ‘Unlikely, although I didn’t believe myself to have so many enemies.’

There was a long silence.

Willem hesitated before saying, ‘Mistress Caldwell...?’

‘She has gone to the bakery and should soon return,’ said Nicholas. ‘Perhaps it is best that you remain in here whilst you wait. The children are asleep in the other room.’

Willem nodded and went over to one of the baskets and fingered the wool. Nicholas decided to leave the weaver to his own devices, wondering what else he might have discussed with Sir Gawain. He doubted the knight had mentioned the names of the men involved and the reason why they wanted him dead.

He checked the contents of the pot and ladled out more broth for himself and then sat down at table, wondering whether Jane would welcome Willem Godar’s offer to weave for her. If so, would that mean she would give him a definite nay to his proposal?

Hell, he wished the weaver had not chosen today to arrive. Conscious of his aching head and painful shoulder, he closed his eyes and went over yesterday’s attack on him. He thought of Berthe and how she had seemed genuinely fond of Matilda. Could it be that her grief for her husband and baby had overturned her mind and she had decided that she must have a baby to replace the one she had lost? But why wait until they arrived in England to abduct his daughter? She could have taken her any time. It didn’t make sense!

His thoughts drifted to his conversation with Willem Godar and he wondered whether Mortimer would be Jane’s next visitor. He was still a bit of a mystery to Nicholas. After an absence of twenty years, the older man had returned to England a rich man in search of the woman he had loved and the daughter he had left behind. Anthony’s twin brother had tricked that woman into marrying him and Rebecca had been reared as his daughter. He had come to work at the Hurst family shipyard every summer and that is how Nicholas and his brother knew her. It was because of Anthony Mortimer’s actions in seeking out his daughter that Nicholas had decided to return to Flanders and take responsibility for his own child. He sighed, considering that despite the emotional turmoil of what had taken place in Bruges, he did not regret any of his actions.

He yawned and was on the edge of falling asleep when a noise close by disturbed him. Fully awake now, he became aware not only of the faint clacking of the loom in the other room, but that he was being watched by Margaret, Jane’s elder stepdaughter.

‘It wasn’t a dream after all and you are here,’ she said.

He returned her smile and pinched his wrist. ‘Well, I’m certainly flesh and blood.’

She laughed and cocked her head to one side. ‘What is that clacking noise?’

Nicholas wished that Willem Godar was a dream. ‘A weaver has come to see if your mother wishes to avail herself of his services.’

Margaret’s eyes rounded. ‘I wonder what she will say to him! I will have a peek at him in a moment.’ She pushed back the blanket and stood up in her chemise. Nicholas looked away and only faced her when she spoke his name. She was rolling up her pallet. ‘How is your shoulder today, Master Hurst?’ she asked politely.

‘Better than yesterday, thank you, Margaret,’ he replied. ‘And how are you feeling this morning?’

‘I’m pleased you are here and that you remember my name. Master Mortimer gets our names muddled up,’ she said, looking chagrined. ‘Perhaps it is because he is old like my father was. You’re not going to die, are you, Master Hurst? You’re not as old as either of them.’

‘I certainly hope to live a lot longer,’ said Nicholas, unaccustomed to such conversation, but wanting to reassure the girl.

‘Mama says that when you are properly Simon’s godfather it will be as if you are one of our little family. Does that please you?’

Had Jane really told Margaret that? The thought warmed him and he said, ‘It pleases me very much.’

‘Good!’ Margaret sighed happily. ‘I am hoping that Mama will say that we can have a small feast to celebrate your being here.’ She smacked her lips. ‘Maybe she will kill one of the hens. It will make a change from fish or cheese or just vegetables and barley as is customary during Lent. Although one less hen will mean less eggs once they start laying again. Still, the hens are sitting on eggs and so there will be chicks in the hen house that will grow into more hens.’ She beamed at him and skipped over to the window and climbed onto the seat beneath. ‘Most of the snow has melted. Good. I will go and tend to the poultry as that is my first task of the day. Oh, and here is Mama with the bread and ale and Simon or...’ She scrambled down and looked into the cradle before turning to Nicholas. ‘Perhaps it is your baby because there are no babies here?’

Nicholas agreed that it most likely was his daughter, Matilda. He forced himself to walk over to the front door and opened it and smiled down at Jane. ‘May I help you?’

She frowned up at him and hesitated before carefully placing his daughter in the crook of his unaffected arm. ‘You should be resting. Matilda is fed and changed. I notice you still have no shirt on. Is there one in your saddlebags?’

He nodded, gazing down at his sleeping daughter.

‘Good. You really should be resting.’

‘I will rest soon enough.’ He kissed Matilda’s cheek before carrying her over to the cradle and placing her down.

‘Have you eaten?’ asked Jane, thinking that he really did look drawn and weary.

‘I was about to do so when we had a visitor and Margaret woke up,’ he replied.

Jane looked startled. ‘A visitor?’

‘Aye, can you not hear the loom clacking? The man says he has come from Kent with Sir Gawain. His name is Willem Godar.’


Chapter Four

Jane stiffened and stared across the room to the door of the workroom as if in a trance. No, no, no! she thought, hoping her face had not changed colour. ‘How is it that Sir Gawain has involved himself in my business?’ she cried, scowling.

‘Presumably Rebecca wrote to his wife about your need for a weaver. They are numerous in that part of Kent.’

‘Of course, that will be it! Beth and Rebecca will want to help me,’ she said, wishing they had not interfered. Slowly she walked over to the table and placed the bread and jug of ale down, hoping against hope that Willem had not mentioned to anyone what they had once been to each other.

‘His name is Flemish, quite a coincidence, considering I’ve not long returned from that country,’ said Nicholas.

‘Aye, but there are any number of Flemish weavers and brewers in England these days,’ she said brightly.

‘I would not deny it,’ said Nicholas, his gaze intent on her face. ‘Even so, perhaps you’d like me to speak to Master Godar on your behalf? He’s made himself very much at home, which I found irritating. Apparently he knows Witney, having visited here in the past.’

‘Most likely he came to one of the fairs,’ said Jane hastily. The last thing she wanted was Nicholas present when she confronted Willem. ‘I will speak to him myself. It could be that I will remember him when we come face-to-face.’

‘If that’s what you wish,’ said Nicholas politely.

She could tell he was disappointed by her answer. Oh, why did Willem have to arrive now, making her life even more complicated than it was already? She glanced at the door to the workroom, which had been left slightly ajar. The clacking of the loom was momentarily silenced and she could hear Margaret talking to Willem. Pray God he did not say anything amiss to her.




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