violet eyes caused the dames of the town to murmur that âstill waters run deepâ.
So attractive was she, that many in Exeter marvelled at the fact that she was betrothed to Edgar, only son of Joseph of Topsham. Even his best friends could hardly claim that Edgar was the ideal match for Christina, who could have chosen almost any man in the West Country. A thin, gangling young man with a somewhat vague and moody manner, Edgar was learning the apothecaryâs trade under Nicholas of Bristol, who had his house and shop in Fore Street, the steep continuation of High Street down to the West Gate.
This Wednesday evening, Mistress Rifford was to collect a present for Christ Mass promised by her fiancé. Funded by an over-indulgent father, Edgar had offered her a bracelet and she had decided on one fashioned in heavy silver, custom-made for her slim wrist. The obvious place to seek it was from the Master of the Guild of Silversmiths, Godfrey Fitzosbern, who was the coronerâs next-door neighbour in Martinâs Lane.
Two weeks ago, Christina had spent a delightful hour in his workshop with her cousin Mary, deciding on the exact design that she preferred. Last week, they had returned to approve it but although Christina was delighted with the ornament, it proved a little too loose, falling down on to her small hand. Fitzosbern, eager to please the only daughter of Henry Rifford, offered to alter it and promised to have it ready by this evening.
In the late afternoon, however, Mary had sent a message by her serving-maid to say that she had a sudden fever and was unable to accompany her cousin to the silversmith. Disappointed, Christina moped about the house for a couple of hours, to the irritation of her Aunt Bernice, who had kept house for her brother since his wife died five years before. Though Christina was very fond of her aunt, who was a kindly old soul, her constant fussing and over-protectiveness became more irksome as the girl grew older and more independent.
âIt will have to wait until tomorrow, girl,â declared Bernice. âMaybe Mary will be well enough then â and it not, Iâll come with you myself. The baubleâs not going to crumble away just because youâre a day late in collecting it.â
But the headstrong beauty had other ideas and after their early evening meal, when her father had gone off to the Guildhall to chair a meeting of the Guild of Leather Merchants, Christina made her own plans. Aunt Bernice was dozing in the upstairs solar, sleepy from the effects of a large mutton chop and cabbage, as well as some âmedicinalâ mead that she kept in a small stone bottle alongside her chair.
The well-to-do Riffords had a large town house near the East Gate, next door to the church of Saint Lawrence. Pulling on her heavy winter cloak, Christina slipped out of the side door into the lane and walked down it into the High Street. There were still plenty of people about, but most were head down against the keen east wind, hurrying home to reach their own hearths. A few hardy peddlers were still selling roast chestnuts, hot pies and new bread at the sides of the narrow streets, as she happily stepped out to fetch her new bracelet.
Crossing the High Street, she lifted the hem of her cloak and kirtle as she daintily tried to avoid the worst of the mire, then dived down Martinâs Lane towards the cathedral Close. Her destination was the second narrow house on the right, the workshop and dwelling of Godfrey Fitzosbern. It was a tall timber building with a slate roof, almost identical to the one next along, which she knew was where Sir John de Wolfe lived.
She pushed open the heavy oak door, its riveted hinges creaking as she went into the shop. It was warm in there after the chill wind outside and she slipped back her hood and undid the shoulder-brooch that held her otter-skin cloak closed. The room was dimly lit by half a dozen tallow lamps set on shelves around
So attractive was she, that many in Exeter marvelled at the fact that she was betrothed to Edgar, only son of Joseph of Topsham. Even his best friends could hardly claim that Edgar was the ideal match for Christina, who could have chosen almost any man in the West Country. A thin, gangling young man with a somewhat vague and moody manner, Edgar was learning the apothecaryâs trade under Nicholas of Bristol, who had his house and shop in Fore Street, the steep continuation of High Street down to the West Gate.
This Wednesday evening, Mistress Rifford was to collect a present for Christ Mass promised by her fiancé. Funded by an over-indulgent father, Edgar had offered her a bracelet and she had decided on one fashioned in heavy silver, custom-made for her slim wrist. The obvious place to seek it was from the Master of the Guild of Silversmiths, Godfrey Fitzosbern, who was the coronerâs next-door neighbour in Martinâs Lane.
Two weeks ago, Christina had spent a delightful hour in his workshop with her cousin Mary, deciding on the exact design that she preferred. Last week, they had returned to approve it but although Christina was delighted with the ornament, it proved a little too loose, falling down on to her small hand. Fitzosbern, eager to please the only daughter of Henry Rifford, offered to alter it and promised to have it ready by this evening.
In the late afternoon, however, Mary had sent a message by her serving-maid to say that she had a sudden fever and was unable to accompany her cousin to the silversmith. Disappointed, Christina moped about the house for a couple of hours, to the irritation of her Aunt Bernice, who had kept house for her brother since his wife died five years before. Though Christina was very fond of her aunt, who was a kindly old soul, her constant fussing and over-protectiveness became more irksome as the girl grew older and more independent.
âIt will have to wait until tomorrow, girl,â declared Bernice. âMaybe Mary will be well enough then â and it not, Iâll come with you myself. The baubleâs not going to crumble away just because youâre a day late in collecting it.â
But the headstrong beauty had other ideas and after their early evening meal, when her father had gone off to the Guildhall to chair a meeting of the Guild of Leather Merchants, Christina made her own plans. Aunt Bernice was dozing in the upstairs solar, sleepy from the effects of a large mutton chop and cabbage, as well as some âmedicinalâ mead that she kept in a small stone bottle alongside her chair.
The well-to-do Riffords had a large town house near the East Gate, next door to the church of Saint Lawrence. Pulling on her heavy winter cloak, Christina slipped out of the side door into the lane and walked down it into the High Street. There were still plenty of people about, but most were head down against the keen east wind, hurrying home to reach their own hearths. A few hardy peddlers were still selling roast chestnuts, hot pies and new bread at the sides of the narrow streets, as she happily stepped out to fetch her new bracelet.
Crossing the High Street, she lifted the hem of her cloak and kirtle as she daintily tried to avoid the worst of the mire, then dived down Martinâs Lane towards the cathedral Close. Her destination was the second narrow house on the right, the workshop and dwelling of Godfrey Fitzosbern. It was a tall timber building with a slate roof, almost identical to the one next along, which she knew was where Sir John de Wolfe lived.
She pushed open the heavy oak door, its riveted hinges creaking as she went into the shop. It was warm in there after the chill wind outside and she slipped back her hood and undid the shoulder-brooch that held her otter-skin cloak closed. The room was dimly lit by half a dozen tallow lamps set on shelves around
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