Page 64 of Wed By Proxy

Robin’s high spirits did not abate one whit for the next hour. He scooped Mabel off the chair and began dancing around the kitchen with the cat in his arms. Mathilde shot a look at Prudence, expecting remonstrance but she was clearly away with the fairies, smiling absently as she stirred their soup. Prudie was yawning a good deal by the time they ate, which they did around the kitchen table together.

“Just lay a place next to mine and Rob’s,” Mathilde told her. Prudie looked mildly scandalized but was quickly persuaded. “We’ll just keep it plain fare this evening and have an early night.”

Even Rob’s spirits had died down by the time they had finished their simple meal of savory pottage soup and brown tourte bread. “It’s his last day in the stocks tomorrow,” he said sadly, his thoughts still clearly dwelling on the unfortunate carter. He sighed and dragged himself out of his chair.

“Did you see Temur and his wife in town?” Mathilde asked as she helped him don his jacket again to go and shut up the hens and secure the stable.

Rob nodded. “Oh aye,” he said pulling on his hat. “His aim wasn’t as good as mine though.” He disappeared out of the door and she and Prudie cleared the table.

“You go on up milady. I’ll bring up washing water for you presently.” A large pot of water was already bubbling over the kitchen fire.

Mathilde opened her mouth to offer to wash down here, but then noticed Prudie’s sharp glance at the window. Ah, she is expecting Waldon’s arrival. Of course, she was. They were as good as husband and wife now.

“Thank you Prudie,” she murmured instead and made for the staircase. She was only halfway up when she heard Robin slam and bolt the kitchen door.

“Goodnight,” she called down.

She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand and guessed she would not lie awake for long, but in this respect, she was proved wrong. Despite the fact Guy had warned her that he was not at liberty to join her, Mathilde found herself lying in wait of his arrival long after she had washed and undressed for bed. It was most foolish, but every fiber in her being seemed to leap when a twig tapped against the windowpane or she heard some noise out in the garden, doubtless melting snow falling from the trees onto the ground which her ears mistook for a footfall. He had told her he would not come, but she could not help but remember other occasions when he had said the same thing, but still turned up all the same.

She turned onto her side again, hauling the blankets up to her chin, willing herself to relax into sleep that simply would not come. She was just wondering if she ought to rise again and drag out her tapestry design when heard three loud raps on the kitchen door. Her heart thudding, she sat up in bed and held her breath. Who was that? It surely was not Guy. He had never heralded his late-night arrival before in such a manner. But if not he, then who could it be?

She sat a moment, frozen in indecision, when she heard it again. Another three loud, ringing knocks. Somehow, they sounded ominous, as if they foretold someone’s doom. She shivered, even as she heard a tread on the attic stair and realized that Prudie must be descending them to find out who was demanding admittance.

Quickly, Mathilde slipped her sensible green woolen dress over her shift, pulled on her slippers and poked her head out of her bedroom. To her relief, she saw Waldon was descending the steps behind Prudie. He nodded at her, and Mathilde slipped around the door to join them as they went below stairs. Mathilde halted halfway up the stairs, clinging to the bannister as she watched Waldon draw back the bolts and open the door.

Outside, in the cold stood Old Helga. She wore no cloak and the shoulders of her sky blue dress were dusted in snowflakes. They glittered, too, in her long gray hair. She lifted one bony hand and pointed past Waldon, to where Mathilde hovered on the stairs.

“I come with a warning for you, little one. You have been betrayed,” she said in a loud portentous voice.

“Betrayed?” Mathilde repeated through numb lips.

Her thoughts flew to her friends Willard, Piers and Gordon. It would not be so surprising if one of them had been forced to give her away. They would have been under some considerable pressure after all.

“Do come in out of the cold, Helga,” she urged. The old woman gave no reaction to this. Instead she turned over her extended hand and opened her fingers to reveal the shiny black stone from her previous reading.

“By this one,” she said croakily. Mathilde frowned, remembering Helga had said the stone represented her enemy.

“But the carter has been punished already,” she blurted in confusion.

“Not he,” Helga said contemptuously.

“Who then?” Her mind raced. “I have no other enemy in the world.”

Prudie was looking from Mathilde to old Helga. “You’d best come in, Granny,” she said respectfully, pulling at Waldon’s arm. “In from the cold.” He fell back a step and Old Helga nodded grimly as she stepped inside.

“Where is Tancred?” Mathilde heard herself ask blankly.

Old Helga shrugged. “He refused to take any part in tonight’s doings,” she muttered cryptically. “He’s stubborn, that one.”

Mathilde forced herself to descend the last few steps to join the others. “Waldon, could you please revive the kitchen fire?” she requested, striving for normality. “We could sit in there, and have a warming drink perhaps?”

“There’s a spiced wine I could warm through, milady,” Prudie said, hurrying into the buttery.

Reluctantly Mathilde led Old Helga into the kitchen, where Waldon started prodding the fire. She pulled out a chair for the older woman and gestured for her to sit, then took a seat opposite her. The whole time she could feel Helga’s gaze trained on her face. At last she raised her eyes to meet the Helga’s pale blue eyes squarely. “Should we wait for refreshment, or—”

“Martindale has betrayed you,” Helga interrupted her harshly. In the background Mathilde heard a gasp. Then she realized she had been the one to utter it.

“I beg your pardon?” She sat up in her seat, a cold feeling rising up in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t think I quite—”