boy, barefoot and blue with cold, nodded jerkily, his teeth chattering. He gave a beatific smile as Nicholas slipped him a quarter-penny, which had come from a fat purse taken from a waylaid horse dealer a week before.
Raden Lane was almost empty of people and he felt more exposed as he walked along, looking for the house where his wife was staying. Some dwellings were right on the lane, their doors opening straight off the street.
Others were further back on their plots, with a fence and gate at the front. Most were built of wood or were half-timbered with cob plastered between the frames, but a few of the newer houses were made of stone. Some were tall and narrow, others low and wide, half of them with two storeys. The city wall was visible at the end of the lane and he knew that the cousin, now a widow of comfortable means, lived about halfway along on the right. He spotted the house, distinguished by its arched gate leading into a garden plot, and not wanting to draw attention to himself by hesitating, he strode up to the gate and pushed at the stout boards. It was locked and there was no handle. Cursing under his breath short-temperedly, he rapped on it with the end of his staff until he heard slow footsteps on the other side. The gate creaked open and a man in late middle age peered out, an iron-tipped wooden spade in his hand - whether intended as a weapon or an implement was not clear.
He was unusually tall and thin, with a large purple birthmark of coarse, thickened skin disfiguring the whole of one side of his face. The apparition gaped toothlessly at the visitor, but said nothing.
'Is this the dwelling of Mistress le Bret?' demanded Nicholas. He had a deep voice, and a brusque manner even when he was in a benign mood, which was not often these days.
The servant nodded, but still seemed suspicious of early-morning callers. 'Who wants her?' he croaked.
'I am Philip de Whiteford, returning from Canterbury,' he lied. 'I am husband to Mistress Joan, who is staying here.'
These were aliases he and his wife had decided on long before; she had kept to her real Christian name as she feared she could never avoid answering to it.
The servant's strange features relaxed and he pulled the door open. 'Welcome, Sir Nicholas! Your good lady will be glad to see you.'
Obviously, the true state of affairs was no secret within the house, and Nicholas fervently hoped that the servants kept their mouths firmly shut when they left it.
He was led through a well-kept garden to an old timber-framed building with a steeply pitched roof of stone tiles. Inside, a hall occupied most of the ground floor, with a solar and a bedroom built on at the side. It was a substantial dwelling, as Joan's cousin, Gillian le Bret, was the widow of a wealthy tinmaster and on his death, five years earlier, he had left her comfortably off, for they had no children to share the inheritance.
As Nicholas entered, a small, fair woman rushed out of an inner door and threw herself at him, sobbing and laughing in turns. As they hugged each other and kissed, an older, handsome woman appeared from the solar.
Gillian le Bret watched indulgently as the pair made an emotional reunion, then went across to the old servant Maurice, who had stood uncertainly in the doorway, and whispered something to him, drawing a warning finger across her lips. He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen shed in the back yard, with orders for the cook-maid to prepare food and drink for the visitor.
Gradually, the de Arundells settled down, and Nicholas greeted Gillian with a kiss and profound thanks for sheltering Joan for the past month since she had come up from her exile in Cornwall. The widow was considerably older than her cousin, with greying hair peeping from under the white linen wimple that framed her pleasant face. When the knight and his lady had prised themselves apart again from a second embrace, Gillian managed to set them down on a long settle facing the burning
Raden Lane was almost empty of people and he felt more exposed as he walked along, looking for the house where his wife was staying. Some dwellings were right on the lane, their doors opening straight off the street.
Others were further back on their plots, with a fence and gate at the front. Most were built of wood or were half-timbered with cob plastered between the frames, but a few of the newer houses were made of stone. Some were tall and narrow, others low and wide, half of them with two storeys. The city wall was visible at the end of the lane and he knew that the cousin, now a widow of comfortable means, lived about halfway along on the right. He spotted the house, distinguished by its arched gate leading into a garden plot, and not wanting to draw attention to himself by hesitating, he strode up to the gate and pushed at the stout boards. It was locked and there was no handle. Cursing under his breath short-temperedly, he rapped on it with the end of his staff until he heard slow footsteps on the other side. The gate creaked open and a man in late middle age peered out, an iron-tipped wooden spade in his hand - whether intended as a weapon or an implement was not clear.
He was unusually tall and thin, with a large purple birthmark of coarse, thickened skin disfiguring the whole of one side of his face. The apparition gaped toothlessly at the visitor, but said nothing.
'Is this the dwelling of Mistress le Bret?' demanded Nicholas. He had a deep voice, and a brusque manner even when he was in a benign mood, which was not often these days.
The servant nodded, but still seemed suspicious of early-morning callers. 'Who wants her?' he croaked.
'I am Philip de Whiteford, returning from Canterbury,' he lied. 'I am husband to Mistress Joan, who is staying here.'
These were aliases he and his wife had decided on long before; she had kept to her real Christian name as she feared she could never avoid answering to it.
The servant's strange features relaxed and he pulled the door open. 'Welcome, Sir Nicholas! Your good lady will be glad to see you.'
Obviously, the true state of affairs was no secret within the house, and Nicholas fervently hoped that the servants kept their mouths firmly shut when they left it.
He was led through a well-kept garden to an old timber-framed building with a steeply pitched roof of stone tiles. Inside, a hall occupied most of the ground floor, with a solar and a bedroom built on at the side. It was a substantial dwelling, as Joan's cousin, Gillian le Bret, was the widow of a wealthy tinmaster and on his death, five years earlier, he had left her comfortably off, for they had no children to share the inheritance.
As Nicholas entered, a small, fair woman rushed out of an inner door and threw herself at him, sobbing and laughing in turns. As they hugged each other and kissed, an older, handsome woman appeared from the solar.
Gillian le Bret watched indulgently as the pair made an emotional reunion, then went across to the old servant Maurice, who had stood uncertainly in the doorway, and whispered something to him, drawing a warning finger across her lips. He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen shed in the back yard, with orders for the cook-maid to prepare food and drink for the visitor.
Gradually, the de Arundells settled down, and Nicholas greeted Gillian with a kiss and profound thanks for sheltering Joan for the past month since she had come up from her exile in Cornwall. The widow was considerably older than her cousin, with greying hair peeping from under the white linen wimple that framed her pleasant face. When the knight and his lady had prised themselves apart again from a second embrace, Gillian managed to set them down on a long settle facing the burning
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