Magdalen,” he said, frowning. “Sit still now, until we are ready to depart.”
Magdalen flushed deeply at what was, however gentle, an undeniable rebuke. A lump grew in her throat and she swallowed hard, wondering why she should mind a mere word of censure from Guy de Gervais so much more than the most severe strictures at Bellair Castle.
They were off at last, however, and she sat silent, nursing her resentment, as the cavalcade rode down the hill from the manor and onto the road to London. The river wound between grassy banks alongside the uneven roadway, where the winter’s mud was dried into razor-edged ridges. The hedge-rows were massed with hawthorn, periwinkles, and buttercups opened beneath the warmth of the late spring sun. Guy was too preoccupied with thoughts of his wife’s illness and the words they had had in the orchard to notice the nature of hiscompanion’s silence, and her sense of injury increased as the silence stretched. He had not even told her why they were making this journey. He had been too busy with the Lady Gwendoline to spare her so much as a word. And she was wearing her prettiest dress. She had no mirror, but Catherine, when her opinion had been solicited, had said the
chaperon
also was most elegant and made her look quite womanly. So why would he take not the slightest notice of her?
The road was crowded, but all gave way to the cavalcade in its blue and silver livery, the red rose of Lancaster emblazoned for all to see and recognize. The knight at its head was clearly a baron of considerable substance and power, and the small figure riding at his side caused interested speculation in the villages where the de Gervais livery was known.
After a while, Magdalen found she could no longer nurse her grievance. It kept slipping out of her mind when some sight caught her interest. First there was a dancing bear being led on a long string by a raggedy man flourishing a long-tailed whip, then a peddler with his pack spilling goods, scarves, and packets of needles and bundles of ribbon. A grinder had set up beside the road, and women from the nearby villages were bringing their knives for sharpening, while a troupe of jongleurs offered entertainment as they waited.
Magdalen wished she had a silver penny to throw to the jongleurs. She wished they could stop for a few minutes and watch. She wished she could sample the wares of a pastry cook, calling his pies from a stall set up in the market square of the little town of Kingston. But they pressed on through the narrow streets, the herald blowing his horn to clear the way for them when they met an obstruction in the form of an oxen-pulled ploughshare or a haycart or a straggle of barefoot pilgrims.
A heavy sigh escaped her as they clattered over a small bridge across the river, and she craned over hershoulder to catch a last glimpse of the entrancing bustle they were leaving behind.
“I’faith, but that’s a sigh to move the devil himself!” Guy looked down at her in surprise, shaken out of his self-absorption. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“That was a most grievous sigh for nothing.” He took in her forlorn expression and frowned. “Come, tell me what is distressing you.”
“I do not like to be scolded, and you will not tell me why we are journeying, and there is so much to see but we are going so fast I have not time to look.”
“That is a catalogue of woe, indeed,” he said solemnly. “But who has scolded you?” He had completely forgotten his flash of sharpness in the manor court.
Magdalen set her lips and would not say, realizing suddenly that it seemed rather silly.
“Well,” he said, when it became clear she was not going to answer his question, “let me see what I can do to put right the other wrongs. We are going to London so that you may be presented to the Duke of Lancaster, my overlord. He has an interest in Edmund’s affairs as well as my own and has given order that you be brought to
Magdalen flushed deeply at what was, however gentle, an undeniable rebuke. A lump grew in her throat and she swallowed hard, wondering why she should mind a mere word of censure from Guy de Gervais so much more than the most severe strictures at Bellair Castle.
They were off at last, however, and she sat silent, nursing her resentment, as the cavalcade rode down the hill from the manor and onto the road to London. The river wound between grassy banks alongside the uneven roadway, where the winter’s mud was dried into razor-edged ridges. The hedge-rows were massed with hawthorn, periwinkles, and buttercups opened beneath the warmth of the late spring sun. Guy was too preoccupied with thoughts of his wife’s illness and the words they had had in the orchard to notice the nature of hiscompanion’s silence, and her sense of injury increased as the silence stretched. He had not even told her why they were making this journey. He had been too busy with the Lady Gwendoline to spare her so much as a word. And she was wearing her prettiest dress. She had no mirror, but Catherine, when her opinion had been solicited, had said the
chaperon
also was most elegant and made her look quite womanly. So why would he take not the slightest notice of her?
The road was crowded, but all gave way to the cavalcade in its blue and silver livery, the red rose of Lancaster emblazoned for all to see and recognize. The knight at its head was clearly a baron of considerable substance and power, and the small figure riding at his side caused interested speculation in the villages where the de Gervais livery was known.
After a while, Magdalen found she could no longer nurse her grievance. It kept slipping out of her mind when some sight caught her interest. First there was a dancing bear being led on a long string by a raggedy man flourishing a long-tailed whip, then a peddler with his pack spilling goods, scarves, and packets of needles and bundles of ribbon. A grinder had set up beside the road, and women from the nearby villages were bringing their knives for sharpening, while a troupe of jongleurs offered entertainment as they waited.
Magdalen wished she had a silver penny to throw to the jongleurs. She wished they could stop for a few minutes and watch. She wished she could sample the wares of a pastry cook, calling his pies from a stall set up in the market square of the little town of Kingston. But they pressed on through the narrow streets, the herald blowing his horn to clear the way for them when they met an obstruction in the form of an oxen-pulled ploughshare or a haycart or a straggle of barefoot pilgrims.
A heavy sigh escaped her as they clattered over a small bridge across the river, and she craned over hershoulder to catch a last glimpse of the entrancing bustle they were leaving behind.
“I’faith, but that’s a sigh to move the devil himself!” Guy looked down at her in surprise, shaken out of his self-absorption. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“That was a most grievous sigh for nothing.” He took in her forlorn expression and frowned. “Come, tell me what is distressing you.”
“I do not like to be scolded, and you will not tell me why we are journeying, and there is so much to see but we are going so fast I have not time to look.”
“That is a catalogue of woe, indeed,” he said solemnly. “But who has scolded you?” He had completely forgotten his flash of sharpness in the manor court.
Magdalen set her lips and would not say, realizing suddenly that it seemed rather silly.
“Well,” he said, when it became clear she was not going to answer his question, “let me see what I can do to put right the other wrongs. We are going to London so that you may be presented to the Duke of Lancaster, my overlord. He has an interest in Edmund’s affairs as well as my own and has given order that you be brought to
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