Page 36 of Her Baseborn Bridegroom

Gertie huffed, her cheeks glowing. “A pretty pickle! Just wait till his lordship hears about this! He won’t be best pleased, I’ll warrant.”

Linnet drew in a deep breath as she started to unfasten her cloak. “Well, he won’t be hearing about it from you Gertie,” she said firmly. “I shall of course, keep my own husband informed of my day.”

She passed her cloak to her surprised-looking maid and made her way through to the solar. She had liked going into town today and she had enjoyed both Enid and Chilton’s company. While it was true that The Bear and Staff had been rather rough around the edges, she’d enjoyed spreading her wings and saw no reason to curtail her new social life. While her husband might hold some sway on her activities, her servants certainly did not, and she needed to make sure it stayed that way.

She turned her head at a tentative tap on the door and found Nan had bought them a tray of fruit and drinks, which she set down with a curtsy.

“Nan,” Linnet said before the maid had a chance to melt away. “Could you send for one of the groomsmen to come up to the castle tomorrow morning please? I should like to speak to someone about arranging some riding lessons for myself.”

The maid stared. “Yes milady,” she blurted and then darted from the room, no doubt to announce this latest development below stairs to the agog kitchen staff.

“Can you ride, Cuthbert?” she asked as her page poured her cordial and plucked some grapes for her plate.

“Nay, milady. Perhaps if his lordship takes me on as a squire one day . . . ?” he said hopefully.

“We shall take lessons together,” she said decidedly.

“Truly?” he gasped.

“Certainly. What good is it for me to be able to ride hither and thither if I cannot do so in my page’s company?”

A look of dreamy bliss crossed over Cuthbert’s face and he tottered over to her with her plate and cup.

“Mr. Hatton promised I should have my boots by the end of the week, so we shall let the stables know our lessons will start then.”

“Yes, milady,” he agreed with alacrity. “And shall I have my own horse?”

“Eventually I am sure we will both need our own horses,” she agreed, dragging out her bag of inks and paper.

Cuthbert threw a few more logs on the fire and then stretched out before it, his hands behind his head. He knew his mistress would require little whilst tied up with manuscripts and he often took the opportunity to take a little nap.

Perhaps it wasn’t entirely surprising, but after her eventful morning out, Linnet found it difficult to settle to her illustration. It was a task that used to occupy her wholly but today she felt restless and displeased with her depiction of the hero. She wondered if he would look better with longer, darker hair that curled into his neck? And perhaps a more muscular physique? It wasn’t just that though, she thought, sighing as she added pen strokes to the page. Today, even the hero’s actions in the story struck her as somehow off. Before, Sir Maurency’s chivalry had struck her as entirely laudable. Now she sneakily suspected him of lacking in spirit. She found herself wondering if she could perhaps beef up the story a little, without betraying the source material? She felt a thrill of daring at the thought. Her father would have been horrified at the very idea of tampering with the text. But Linnet had heard that sometimes monks and scribes added local flavor to legends and embellished the tale. She hesitated a moment, before putting her pen to the parchment.

Before she even knew what she had done, worthy Sir Maurency had ended up in a tavern brawl in which he had broken a pitcher of ale over some villain’s head and bloodied the nose of another. Linnet stared down at the page with mingled pride and horror. In the original tale, Maurency had inspired the patrons to mend their ways with his modest and saintly bearing. In this version, he had brawled with the best of them and left the villains nursing their wounds as he carried on his merry way. Her illustration showed an inn floor strewn with broken benches and smashed tables. In the border, she drew a cracked jug and an overturned tankard. The dismayed-looking landlord looked a bit like Johnny Wickers she realized, biting her lip. And Sir Maurency now seemed to bear more than a passing resemblance to Mason. She rested her chin in her hand and considered him a moment. So ruggedly handsome. What a shame that she couldn’t draw herself as one of the comely tavern wenches! Linnet sighed. But that would never work! She simply didn’t have the abundant charms necessary for a tavern wench. Even with her sheltered upbringing, she knew that much! Instead she drew an apple-cheeked and voluptuous woman with a low-cut dress and curling tresses. Then Linett rebelled and gave her woman’s face a smattering of freckles. Linnet glanced down at her own modest neckline and pulled a face. She wondered if Mother Ames could do anything about her meagre bosom. She would have to ask her. Then she remembered that, although she had been climbing the tower steps daily, she had not yet followed her instructions about the amethyst sweat. That would never do. She vowed to remedy that on the morrow.

XII

When Mason returned that evening, he found their private rooms empty. It had been a long day traversing his new estates and listening to the grievances of his tenants. No doubt they had cause for their grievances with the inflated taxes Sir Jevons had levied on them, but it had been trying to have to listen to it. Though none had dared voice it, ’twas plain they blamed the crotchety, unreasonable invalid that owned the castle and to whom they owed their fealty. Their eyes had been curious when they heard that he had married the supposed termagant. There had been a few murmured “Wish you joys” but Mason was under no illusion that they expected the union to be a happy one. The most they could hope for was that he would rein in the alleged greed of his spouse. He promised an immediate review of the tithes owed to the castle and spoke of new relations being forged between landlord and tenants until he thought their gazes turned a bit more cautiously optimistic.

“God’s truth Mason,” his brother had said, shaking his head as they left the last farm of the day. “But these people think Linnet a monster.”

It strangely bothered him, considering his usual scorn for the opinion of others, and as he washed for dinner he found himself wondering where his wife was. He vaguely remembered some proposed outing with the daughter-in-law of one of their neighbors and frowned. He supposed he really ought to meet the people. It was all very well finding occupations to keep his new wife from bothering him, but he knew nothing of these Jaunceys. They could be totally disreputable for all he knew, and Linnet was too naive to be any kind of judge of character. Otherwise, he thought grimly, she would never have married him. It turned out there were more responsibilities to taking a wife than he had anticipated. He was irritated to have to go looking for her. After being out on the estate all day you would think she would have come running on his return! Pulling on his dark tunic, he buttoned his cuffs and started off down the corridor in search of her. As it happened, he found her without too much exertion, hunched over a table in the sitting room she seemed to favor with a look of fierce concentration on her face. Her page was curled around a velvet cushion and snoring his little blond head off. Linnet started guiltily when he entered the room, her eyes flying to the window.

“I hadn’t realized the time,” she cried, jumping up and hurrying to his side.

To his surprise she embraced him warmly. He suffered this and returned it with an awkward pat on her back.

“Wife,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “What’s all this?” he said, gesturing towards the inks and sheets of parchment spread out on the table.

“Oh, ’tis nothing!” she said, hurrying back to the table to sweep it into a cloth bag. “Just my scribblings. Nothing to signify.”

Apparently some of the pages were still wet as she had to leave one page out to dry. He walked to the table edge and angled his head to look at the illuminated page. The writing was fancy like that of a monk, and intricate leaf and floral borders decorated it. The main drawing though was of a knight in black armor, kneeling as though making a solemn vow. His eyebrows rose and he glanced at Linnet to find her face fiery red with embarrassment. “It is naught but an exercise my father set me many years ago, to illuminate the Tales of Sir Maurency of Jorde.”

“I’ve never heard of them,” he replied shortly.

“Never heard of them?” she echoed in surprise. “Oh but . . . I thought . . . my father said they were much celebrated tales of great fame.”

“Likely they are,” he admitted with a shrug. “But I never spent much time in a schoolroom.”