The Tudor Bride. Joanna Hickson

Чтение книги онлайн.

       11

      On waking the next day, my first thought was for Genevieve. Guilt stabbed me as I realised that I had seen my beloved mare led away down an alley and had not given any further thought to her welfare. However, during our evening meal my two saddlebags had been delivered to my chamber and I had been able to shake out my best blue Flanders wool gown and hang it on a convenient clothes pole to allow the creases to fall out. I intended to wear it in the evening for Master Vintner’s promised feast. Meanwhile, I washed my face in the water provided, gave my travel-stained russet riding kirtle a good brush to remove the worst of the mud splashes and donned it once more before hurrying downstairs to find the stable.

      In daylight the house in Tun Lane was revealed to be one in a row of substantial town houses constructed on a frame of strong, dark oak beams filled in with lime-washed lath and plaster, similar to hundreds I had seen in the towns we had passed through on the court’s progress around England. It was larger than most, boasting four windows on each side of the two gabled upper floors and was roofed with slate tiles which, considering the danger of fire in cramped city streets, I thought a vast improvement on the straw and thatch used in poorer neighbourhoods. An intriguing series of pargetted designs relieved the rectangles of plasterwork on the first floor overhang, the beams framing images of twining vines laden with fruit, a ship loaded with barrels and capering youths and girls treading huge vats of harvested grapes. There was no mistaking that this house had once belonged to a wine merchant, even if it now housed a lawyer’s family.

      The narrow tunnel down which the horses had been led the previous night opened on to a rear courtyard surrounded by outhouses, one of which I rather hoped might be a privy. A stable boy was busy tipping a barrow-load of soiled straw onto a muckheap in the corner of the yard and I asked him to show me where Genevieve was. On the way past a feed-barrel I grabbed a handful of oats and enjoyed my mare’s little whicker of recognition before she snuffled them off my outstretched palm. She was comfortably settled in a stall beside Walter’s cob and looked none the worse for the previous day’s long trek. Following the advice of the horse-loving Lady Joan, I felt her legs carefully and was happy to find no sign of heat. I reckoned a day’s rest would do her no harm however.

      Having found and made use of the privy, I took a quick tour around the rest of the yard, discovering that the ground floor of the house was given over to a chamber of business where two legal clerks were already busy penning entries in large leather-bound ledgers under the sharp gaze of their employer, Master Geoffrey Vintner. As I passed the open door that led directly into the yard, he called my name.

      ‘Madame Lanière, good morrow to you! I trust I find you well rested.’ He came out to meet me, his amiable face wreathed in smiles. I found myself wondering if this genial man could really be a forceful interrogative lawyer, then I remembered that he was also a diplomat, where I imagined that cordiality was a definite advantage.

      I returned his bow with a bob. ‘Thank you, Master Vintner, I slept well. Your house is very comfortable.’

      ‘I am glad you think so and it is close enough to the wine warehouses for me to keep an eye on the legal side of our family business. My older brothers are the wine merchants, but I am of some use to them. May I escort you up to the hall to break your fast?’

      ‘Thank you. I have been checking on my mare but, of course, it was unnecessary. Your stable is as well set up as your house.’

      We entered the back door and climbed the narrow stairway from the front lobby. In the hall the table had been pushed to one end of the room and bread and jugs of ale were laid out on the cloth. There was evidence that we were not the first there but whoever had already eaten had also left. We took a bowl each and some bread to a small table by the hearth. Someone had stirred the fire back to life and a cauldron of pottage stood on a trivet keeping warm. The lawyer ladled some into my bowl.

      ‘My sister may not be good at mutton pie, but she does make decent pottage,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘She has breakfasted early and gone off to seek the makings of a good beef dinner and she has taken the girls to carry her baskets.’ He filled his own bowl and sat down opposite me, adding confidentially, ‘I am fortunate that she agreed to come and care for my daughters after their mother died. Elizabeth has a brusque manner but a good heart. I can trust her to do the best for the girls.’

      ‘I am sure you can,’ I said, breaking some bread to dip in the pottage and deciding it would be tactful to change the subject. ‘Your son tells me you travel frequently to France. Is that on wine business?’ I knew it was not but did not want to make trouble for Walter if he had told me too much of his father’s affairs.

      Geoffrey Vintner pursed his lips. ‘Partly,’ he concurred. ‘But because of my knowledge of both French and English law, I am sometimes employed on missions for the king; a glorified messenger really between the English court and the governing councils of Paris and Rouen. Do you have family in France?’

      I suddenly found the bread hard to swallow as a lump came to my throat, a problem which had started to occur more frequently lately as I struggled to come to terms with the extended separation from my children. I tried to clear it and spoke hoarsely as a result.

      ‘Yes I do but, sadly, they eat from different plates. My son is a huntsman in the dauphin’s household – I am sorry, I mean the Pretender of course …’ I blushed and rushed on, ‘and my daughter is married to a Parisian tailor and so now lives under English rule. She has a little girl, my granddaughter.’

      Master Vintner ignored the dauphin/Pretender slip in favour of blatant flattery. ‘Saint’s bones! You are a grandmother? Impossible!’

      I felt my cheeks burn even hotter and inwardly scolded myself for foolishness. ‘It is only too possible, sir,’ I said, avoiding his teasing gaze. ‘You might be a grandparent yourself if your son were a daughter.’

      He thought about that for a moment. ‘Ah yes, I see what you mean. I find it difficult to contemplate the fact that my daughters are nearly of an age to take husbands. Am I the only father who hates that thought?’

      I gave a small laugh. ‘That depends on the husbands they take. Fortunately mine chose well.’

      He frowned. ‘Chose?’ he echoed. ‘You mean she chose her own husband? What was her father doing?’

      My cheeks had cooled now and I gave him a direct look. ‘Sadly I lost my husband after the Battle of Agincourt. He was as much a casualty of that disaster as the Duke of York, even if he was not a nobleman.’

      ‘A disaster you call it?’ He kept his expression neutral. ‘Well I suppose for many thousands of your countrymen it was just that. Did he fight in the battle?’

      I laid down my horn spoon to clasp my hands tightly in my lap. I did not wish to begin a detailed description of Jean-Michel’s СКАЧАТЬ