logs in the firepit.
'Are you sure you went unrecognised in the city?' asked Joan. Though her pretty face was now flushed with tears of joy, she lived with the constant worry that her husband would be arrested, which inevitably would mean would be hanged or beheaded. At twenty-six, she seven years his junior, and sometimes she looked even younger. Pretty rather than beautiful, she had a determined set to her face, partly born of the troubles she had suffered these past few years.
Nicholas slid a brawny arm around her slender shoulders, which were becomingly draped in a green pelisse over a pale yellow kirtle,
'Don't fret, my love. No one was interested in a scruffy pilgrim like me. I'll have to leave in a day or two, but, until then, I'll not show my face outside the gate. As long as everyone in this household keeps a tight hold on their tongue, there'll be no problem.'
A few minutes later, their chatter was interrupted the arrival of cold meats, bread, cheese and ale. After eating, de Arundell spent the rest of the morning until dinnertime talking to Joan about his existence on Dartmoor. He told of life in the abandoned village and tales of his men, many of whom had been retainers in Hempston and were well remembered by his wife. After a hearty dinner at noon, Cousin Gillian diplomatically went off to her solar to give the pair some privacy.
'I just had to see you, Joan, apart from talking about a plan of campaign,' he began, hugging her on the settle in front of the glowing logs. 'D'you realise that I've only been with you for a few days since I went off to Outremer?'
When he returned so unexpectedly from the Holy Land, his wife had already returned to Cornwall, dispossessed by Pomeroy and de Revelle and convinced that Nicholas was long dead. After the news of his resurrection percolated down to her relative's manor in Cornwall, she had had great difficulty in getting a message to him on Dartmoor, and it was due to Gillian le Bret and her servant Maurice that contact had been made again. Since then, they had only managed two fleeting meetings such as this, both in Totnes, where the risk of his being recognised was becoming too great for him to venture there again.
'So what is to be done, my love?' asked Joan, a very practical woman despite her winsome prettiness. 'If you were not so shamefully outlawed, you could bring an action in the courts and certainly should win.' They had been over this ground many times before, and Nicholas shook his head impatiently. 'Impossible. I have no legal rights and if I dared show myself publicly to try to retrieve them, I would be dead within the day. There are too many supporters of the Count of Mortain around to risk it - to say nothing of that bastard de Revellel'
Once again, they talked the problem through, up hill and down dale, without coming to any conclusion.
'Some new approach is the only hope,' he said with anger, for this emotion was never far below the surface with de Arundell. 'I have even thought of seeking out the king in Normandy to ask for justice.'
Joan looked frightened at this. 'The risks of trying to escape the country and finding King Richard are too great, Nicholas. You are as much an outlaw in Normandy as you are over here.'
'It may be the only path open to us, Joan,' he muttered.
'But would you ever get audience with him?' she persisted. 'You are just a poor knight, with even the small manor of Hempston snatched from you now. You need a strong champion to plead your case - or even to get it noticed by those in high places.'
Nicholas moodily had to agree with her. 'What champion could I find?' he said bitterly. 'Though I was in Sicily fighting for our king as well as in the Holy Land, I never distinguished myself in anyway. I was just another country knight amongst thousands. I never even got within shouting distance of the Lionheart, I've only ever seen him from afar.'
Joan gripped his arm and hugged him to her, desolate at seeing him so
'Are you sure you went unrecognised in the city?' asked Joan. Though her pretty face was now flushed with tears of joy, she lived with the constant worry that her husband would be arrested, which inevitably would mean would be hanged or beheaded. At twenty-six, she seven years his junior, and sometimes she looked even younger. Pretty rather than beautiful, she had a determined set to her face, partly born of the troubles she had suffered these past few years.
Nicholas slid a brawny arm around her slender shoulders, which were becomingly draped in a green pelisse over a pale yellow kirtle,
'Don't fret, my love. No one was interested in a scruffy pilgrim like me. I'll have to leave in a day or two, but, until then, I'll not show my face outside the gate. As long as everyone in this household keeps a tight hold on their tongue, there'll be no problem.'
A few minutes later, their chatter was interrupted the arrival of cold meats, bread, cheese and ale. After eating, de Arundell spent the rest of the morning until dinnertime talking to Joan about his existence on Dartmoor. He told of life in the abandoned village and tales of his men, many of whom had been retainers in Hempston and were well remembered by his wife. After a hearty dinner at noon, Cousin Gillian diplomatically went off to her solar to give the pair some privacy.
'I just had to see you, Joan, apart from talking about a plan of campaign,' he began, hugging her on the settle in front of the glowing logs. 'D'you realise that I've only been with you for a few days since I went off to Outremer?'
When he returned so unexpectedly from the Holy Land, his wife had already returned to Cornwall, dispossessed by Pomeroy and de Revelle and convinced that Nicholas was long dead. After the news of his resurrection percolated down to her relative's manor in Cornwall, she had had great difficulty in getting a message to him on Dartmoor, and it was due to Gillian le Bret and her servant Maurice that contact had been made again. Since then, they had only managed two fleeting meetings such as this, both in Totnes, where the risk of his being recognised was becoming too great for him to venture there again.
'So what is to be done, my love?' asked Joan, a very practical woman despite her winsome prettiness. 'If you were not so shamefully outlawed, you could bring an action in the courts and certainly should win.' They had been over this ground many times before, and Nicholas shook his head impatiently. 'Impossible. I have no legal rights and if I dared show myself publicly to try to retrieve them, I would be dead within the day. There are too many supporters of the Count of Mortain around to risk it - to say nothing of that bastard de Revellel'
Once again, they talked the problem through, up hill and down dale, without coming to any conclusion.
'Some new approach is the only hope,' he said with anger, for this emotion was never far below the surface with de Arundell. 'I have even thought of seeking out the king in Normandy to ask for justice.'
Joan looked frightened at this. 'The risks of trying to escape the country and finding King Richard are too great, Nicholas. You are as much an outlaw in Normandy as you are over here.'
'It may be the only path open to us, Joan,' he muttered.
'But would you ever get audience with him?' she persisted. 'You are just a poor knight, with even the small manor of Hempston snatched from you now. You need a strong champion to plead your case - or even to get it noticed by those in high places.'
Nicholas moodily had to agree with her. 'What champion could I find?' he said bitterly. 'Though I was in Sicily fighting for our king as well as in the Holy Land, I never distinguished myself in anyway. I was just another country knight amongst thousands. I never even got within shouting distance of the Lionheart, I've only ever seen him from afar.'
Joan gripped his arm and hugged him to her, desolate at seeing him so
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