Page 10 of Wed By Proxy

“Here’s water, for washing,” she said abruptly, and set them down on the table along with two large cloths she had over her shoulder. The entire time, she kept her eyes averted from Mathilde, as though she were somehow indecent. She turned about and marched back to the door.

“Thank you,” Mathilde called after her. “I don’t suppose —” But the door slammed shut and the woman was gone. Oh. Well, at least she could set about her wash, even if she had no clothing to don afterward.

Mathilde climbed out of bed, steeling herself against the brisk chill in the air. No one had laid her fire this morning, and she could see ice had formed on the window pane. The water was nice and hot though, and she sloshed around enthusiastically, washing her face, neck and hair using a small ball which had been stuffed with soap leaves. She put off the inevitable moment she would have to divest herself of her blanket as long as she could. When she could delay it no longer, she shrugged it off and completed a brisk soaping of her whole body. Then she rinsed out her washcloth and washed off the soap lather.

Wrapping a clean blanket about herself, she made her way over to the frozen window, forced it open with some difficulty and emptied the soapy water out of it. Then she refilled the empty basin with rest of the water from the jug and dunked her whole head in it to wash out the suds. Only then did she grope about for the drying cloth and wrap it around her wet hair. At least now her locks took a lot less time to dry, she reflected. When it had hung down to her waist it had taken simply hours. Hurriedly, she made her way back over to the bed and grabbed another blanket to wrap about her shoulders. She felt clean for the first time in weeks! Sitting down on the bed, she pulled the headcloth away, and started to run her fingers through her damp hair in the absence of a comb. Another knock sounded on the door, more hesitant this time.

“Come in,” called out Mathilde, looking up. A dark head peered around the door, wearing a heavy frown. Her spirits rose. “Good morning, my lord!” she cried. “Happy solstice! I mean, Yuletide,” she corrected herself a little self-consciously.

Lord Martindale blinked a moment, then he cleared his throat. “And to you,” he said a little gruffly. Perhaps he was not one that rose in good spirits of a morning.

“Come in,” Mathilde invited generously, as he was still hovering on the threshold. His gaze flickered over her a moment. No doubt she looked a little odd arrayed in blankets and drying cloths. Otherwise, she could not account for his hesitation. “I have just washed,” she explained, unnecessarily, but for some reason he made her nervous. Where once she would have sat as silent as a mouse, now her pride demanded she attempt to conceal this fact with empty chatter.

“Why is the window open?” he asked abruptly. “There’s a gale blowing through here.”

“I found the casement a little stiff to open,” Mathilde said guiltily springing to her feet. “Once I had opened it, I found I could not fully close it again.”

“Why did you open it in the first place?” he asked his frown deepening. He stared at the small trail of puddles of water that led to the window.

“To empty the washing water out of it.” Mathilde explained, realizing she had made a bit of a mess of it. She wrung her hands. “I have not yet had the chance to —”

He held up a hand, and she saw he was staring at the unmade hearth. Flinging back his head he yelled “Firmin!” Mathilde jumped, then had to suppress the ignoble urge to hide under the bedcovers as the older grizzled man from the previous night appeared in the doorway. “Send someone in here to light her—” He bit off his words. “To light this bloody fire!” he roared. “Then I want the wench who brought the washing water thrown out on her ear!”

“Thrown out?” echoed Firmin in bewilderment. He shot an accusatory look at Mathilde. “For what offence?”

“For not doing her bloody job!” Lord Martindale seemed to reign himself in with effort. He stood a moment, taking a deep breath. “Has anyone found her any clothing yet?” he asked in voice of ominous quiet.

“Not yet.”

Lord Martindale turned back to Mathilde. “Get back into bed,” he said shortly. “Your lips are turning blue.” Then he turned back to Firmin. “She needs woolen stockings and shoes. If someone has to ride to Wickhamford, so be it.”

“It’s Solstice morn…” Firmin objected.

“And what does that signify in this house?” Lord Martindale’s voice was harsh and brooked no argument. Firmin huffed and stomped off shaking his head.

Mathilde crept back under the covers. She was truly tempted to pull them up right over her head to block out the tension in the room. For some reason her husband had woken in a foul mood. From the sound of it, he did not even believe in keeping the feast day. Maybe he was annoyed she had mentioned it? She swallowed and peeped over the top of the blanket. He gave a muffled exclamation and strode over to the bed, scooping her up, bedclothes and all.

“My lord!” Mathilde squeaked as he bore her out of the room. “If —— if there are no women’s clothing to be had, I am more than happy to dress in boys’,” she suggested in a quavering voice. He muttered something, but she did not catch it.

Thinking it would be prudent, she lapsed into silence at this point. He was carrying her down a flight of stone steps with seeming little effort. Mathilde tried not to worry what anyone they came across would think of the peculiar sight she presented. However, any servants fled before them as Lord Martindale strode down a series of long corridors flanked with suits of armor, axes and crossed swords adorning the walls. Mathilde was just wondering if Robin was already up and about, when they rounded a corner and she recognized the large arched doorway that led to the Great Hall. She blinked when he strode right through it and crossed the vast room, not stopping until he reached the fireplace she remembered from the previous evening. A fire blazed there already.

“Chair!” he bellowed, coming to an abrupt halt. There was a scuffle behind them, and a scraping of something against the floorboards. Lord Martindale grunted, and then turned about and deposited her carefully into a chair.

“Fetch a small table and some repast!” he bellowed at the pale servant who was hovering nervously nearby. Mathilde, reached for her slipping blanket, but he was there before her, tugging it up to cover her shoulders. “You’ll get warmer presently,” he muttered in a low voice.

“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you, my lord,” she added, sinking back into the seat.

“Draw your feet up under you,” he said gruffly. “You’re small enough.” That was true, thought Mathilde, for the chair was huge, but it was hardly dignified. With difficulty, swathed in so many blankets, she rearranged her limbs so her legs were folded underneath her on the seat.

A little table appeared beside her, bearing bread and butter, honey and a soft-boiled egg. “Thank you.” Glancing around, she saw that she had been given a selection of the items on the large table in the center of the room. “Will you not join me in breaking your fast?” she asked, looking up at her husband. He shook his head, and she saw from his expression that he scorned the practice. In truth, it was not a widely eaten meal, but she had been used to having it at court.

“I ate a rich meal last evening,” he said grudgingly.

“Oh? Did you entertain for solstice eve?” she asked, reaching for a napkin and knife.

He snorted. “No.” At her swift enquiring glance, he added. “I attended a wedding.” His grim expression stopped her from asking after the wedded couple.

“How nice,” she said instead brightly. A heavy silence greeted her words. Perhaps not. To her surprise he did not move away, but instead stood a brooding presence at her side. Hastily, she set to buttering her bread. It was not white, like the loaves they served at court, but was much darker with seeds and grain embedded in it.