The Marsh King's Daughter by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

retaliated would have meant his immediate death for the crime of lese-majeste. I do not know what we would have done, had not Robert de Vieuxpoint and William de Briouze appeared and taken John in hand between them. They warned us to say nothing of what we had seen and bore the King away. He was still cursing. Even now I can hear him and it freezes me to the marrow.'
    Nicholas rubbed the knuckles of his clenched fist against the open palm of his other hand. 'We made all haste to finish our task and be gone. I can still see my father's face, blood streaming down his cheek into his beard, and the look in his eyes. I was too young to realise it then, but he knew that we were dead.'
    'Why?' Miriel asked through her fingers, her own marrow thoroughly chilled.
    He looked at her, his gaze quenched and dark. 'As we were casting off, de Briouze and de Vieuxpoint emerged from the cellars and threw something in the water. By the lantern on our prow, we thought it was a body, but we could not be certain. A few days later we heard a rumour that Prince Arthur had been found in the River Seine, weighted with a stone and stabbed in the throat. He was John's nephew, but he was also a rival for John's throne and it was common knowledge that there was no love lost between them.'
    'So John murdered him?'
    Nicholas shrugged. 'The finger was pointed, but nothing was ever proven. Anyone who could have shed light on the truth was either bought or destroyed, including de Briouze and de Vieuxpoint. Our lands were taken from us and bestowed elsewhere. We were branded traitors and forced to flee.' His voice grew harsh and bitter. 'We lived from harbour to harbour and hand to mouth. My mother and sister died of the coughing sickness during a bad winter in Boulogne. When I was barely sixteen years old my father was "lost" at sea and I have been a rebel with a price on my head ever since.' He drew a deep, emotional breath and pinched the corners of his eyes between forefinger and thumb. 'I have never told anyone this story before, and God alone knows why I'm telling you.' With a sudden oath, he put his face in his hands, his body riven by tremors.
    Miriel heartily wished that she had never asked about his dispute with John. It was as if she had opened Pandora's box herself and she was appalled at what he had told her. Her own difficulties were as nothing compared to the life that he had endured. 'I'm so sorry,' she whispered, hating the inadequacy of the words, but unable to think of better.
    'Don't be. I have never sought anyone's sorrow or pity.' He raised his head and flashed her a fierce look from tear-glittered eyes.
    'Neither have I.' She met his gaze. 'I too am not of that nature. I wanted to offer comfort, but I did not know what to say.'
    'Nothing would be wise.' Turning from her, he rolled himself in his cloak, hunching the fabric around his ears, thereby ending their discussion.
    Her mood pensive and uneasy, Miriel lay down too, but sleep did not come for a long time, and when finally she drifted off, it was to dream of being chased across quicksand by a faceless man with hands reaching out to throttle her. He never quite caught her, but by the same token, she never quite escaped because she was weighed down by manacles fashioned of jewel-studded gold.
     
    In the morning, both Nicholas and Miriel were subdued and scarcely spoke to each other as they loaded the mule and continued along the banks of the Welland. In mid-afternoon, they arrived at the town of Stamford.
    It was smaller than Nottingham or Lincoln, but it had thriving cloth and leather trades, several churches, a castle, and a Benedictine nunnery. Miriel felt as if all eyes were upon her as she and Nicholas walked up Highgate and approached the bridge into the town. She could not even hide her habit beneath her improvised cloak because it was being used to cover the chest on the mule's back. The wind sliced through her garments, but not as keenly as her fear of being discovered and