The Marsh King's Daughter by Elizabeth Chadwick

imagine the horror on the good sisters' faces if they could witness this scene, and the smugness of Sister Euphemia at being proved right about Miriel's character.
    'Where will you go with your vast wealth?' Of its own volition, her glance embraced the chest in the corner of the
    tiny hut, its enamels burnished by firelight. 'Back to the rebels?'
    He shook his head. 'John is dead and his heir a child of nine. I have no grievance against the lad; my quarrel was with his hellspawn father. Nor do I harbour a grudge against the men who are to be young Henry's regents. William Marshal and Ranulf of Chester are both honourable men.' He leaned forward to poke the fire with a stick of kindling and stared into the surge of flame.
    Miriel studied him across the blaze. The pallor of his skin was disguised by the hot colours of the fire, but the shadows threw his bones into sharp relief and emphasised how thin he was in the aftermath of serious illness. Even in repose there was a wariness about him, as if he had not slept safe in his bed for a long, long time. She was stirred by a pang of compassion, and, mingled with it, a deep curiosity.
    'Your grievance,' she said softly. 'You told me a little about it at St Catherine's, but not the full tale. Why did King John persecute your family?'
    He lifted the kindling stick and watched the flame lick at the end and then extinguish to a black char. She thought that he was not going to reply, but at last he drew a breath and let it out on a deep sigh.
    'Knowledge of murder,' he said. 'God knows John has done enough of it in his time - generally of folk too weak to protest and mostly by proxy.' His eyes narrowed. 'But at least once he committed the deed by his own hand, and to his own flesh and blood.'
    The fire crackled, and in his pause for breath the tension in the air crawled down Miriel's spine.
    'My father was a minor knight from a coastal village between Caen and Rouen,' he said. 'We were vassals of Robert de Vieuxpoint, bailiff of Rouen, and we owned a fine, large nef in which we shipped wine and delicacies. For a month and ten days of each year it was our feudal duty to guard the Duke of Normandy's interests in the Narrow
     Sea. In truth, I almost grew up on the deck of that vessel.' As he gazed at the blackened end of the stick, the poignant smile on his lips slowly died and his eyes grew blank. 'It was a good life until the day we brought the Peronnelle up the Seine to the Tower of Rouen with a cargo of smoked English oysters for the royal table. I was eleven years old and 1 can still remember that journey, the splash of the water against the stones, the weed fanning out like mermaid hair, and a fair wind at our backs.' He swallowed and shook his head. 'God help us, we had no idea.'
    This time the silence was longer than a breath and Miriel's fingers clenched in the coarse wool of her habit. 'What happened?' she asked, unable to bear the unspoken words lurking in the firelit shadows.
    Nicholas set the point of the stick back into the flames and watched the tip become a translucent crimson. 'We were rolling the barrels along to the store room when John himself came staggering down the passage towards us. We could see that he was well marinated, but it was not Gascon wine that soaked his clothes, but blood, more than I have ever seen in my life. His hands, his face, his hair.' Nicholas shuddered and flicked the kindling into the fire. 'I could smell it too; it was like the stench of a Martinmas pig-sticking.'
    Miriel watched with him as the twig burned, and pressed her hands to her mouth.
    'When he saw us, he yelled that if we did not keep out of his way he would kill us too. He would have pulled his knife, but the sheath at his belt was empty.' Nicholas swallowed against the croak in his voice. 'My father hid me behind his back while John cursed at us like a drunk in the gutter. He struck my father across the face and a ring cut his cheek to the bone. My father could do nothing. To have