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Authors: Melinda Hammond
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restaurant in the village, not another pub.”
“No, you’re right,” she agreed, much struck, “that would be pretty awful. So what are you going to do?”
“Hang on a bit longer. Something will turn up.” Stan Kemerton grinned. “And going back to what we were saying, if that lad gets the job at the Towers, he’ll be around for the pageant. You should have reminded him about the Samson auditions. He looks as if he’d fit the bill.”
“ If he gets the job. There’ll be plenty of people going for it and we don’t even know if he’s any good.” But something inside told Deb he would be.
She shook her head, thinking of the coffee-stained poster.
“Anyway, I mentioned the pageant on Thursday, when the whole group of them were in here, but they weren’t interested.” She moved away. “I’d better get ready to open up.”
***
Birdsong roused Maude from her deep sleep, and almost immediately she was aware of a dark cloud oppressing her spirits. Hugo was gone. She did not need to run to the undercroft to see for herself the empty space where his saddle and harness had been. The manor was subdued that morning, many of the men, including Lord Andrew, too drunk to find their beds and spending what was left of the night amongst the remains of the feast in the great hall. It was noon before the last of the revellers crept sheepishly away, and Maude ordered the floor to be swept and fresh summer herbs to be strewn with the new rushes. By that time she had already visited the kitchens and the stillroom and, with her household in good order, she slipped away to the little chapel, to light a candle and offer up a prayer for Hugo.
Coming out into the sun, Maude was reluctant to return to the house and went instead to the riverbank, making her way along the beaten path between the wood-and-thatch houses of the villagers. There was an air of busyness about the little settlement. Housewives carried their spinning wheels out of doors to enjoy the warm sunshine, and on the rise beyond the manor teams of oxen dragged ploughshares along the narrow strips of earth. By the river the local fishermen paid little heed to Lady Maude, their attention fixed on mending their nets. She walked along the riverbank until she reached the edge of the churchyard, and the old yew tree screened her from the fishermen and the village.
“Such a good land,” she murmured.
With a sigh she looked down at the river, wide and deep, flowing slowly just feet away. Two more steps would take her into its cool grey waters. She imagined slipping off the bank into the river, the water soaking her soft woollen robe and linen undergown until the weight of the cloth would drag her down beneath the surface. A few moments’ struggle, and her misery would be ended.
Hot tears welled up and spilled over her cheeks. It could not be. However much she wished for oblivion, she could not end her life. Hugo had done his duty, and he would expect her to do the same. Then there was Andrew, her lord. She loved him too much to inflict such pain upon him. Her death was God’s gift and she must wait for Him to summon her. Maude drew her wide sleeve across her eyes, squared her shoulders and turned back towards the manor.
From a high window, Lord Andrew watched his wife emerge from behind the yew tree. He closed his eyes and uttered up a silent prayer.
Chapter Seven
The good weather ended on Saturday evening with a tremendous thunderstorm that shook the windows of the restaurant and caused the diners to forego their coffee and hurry off to their homes. This was followed by continuous rain for the next two days, and the lowering skies reflected Deborah’s deepening depression. Although she kept herself busy in the restaurant, Bernard was always in her thoughts.
Perhaps she had been too harsh on him, rushing off without giving him a chance to explain. After all, things were different in London. They weren’t married, and Bernard had never sworn eternal devotion to
“No, you’re right,” she agreed, much struck, “that would be pretty awful. So what are you going to do?”
“Hang on a bit longer. Something will turn up.” Stan Kemerton grinned. “And going back to what we were saying, if that lad gets the job at the Towers, he’ll be around for the pageant. You should have reminded him about the Samson auditions. He looks as if he’d fit the bill.”
“ If he gets the job. There’ll be plenty of people going for it and we don’t even know if he’s any good.” But something inside told Deb he would be.
She shook her head, thinking of the coffee-stained poster.
“Anyway, I mentioned the pageant on Thursday, when the whole group of them were in here, but they weren’t interested.” She moved away. “I’d better get ready to open up.”
***
Birdsong roused Maude from her deep sleep, and almost immediately she was aware of a dark cloud oppressing her spirits. Hugo was gone. She did not need to run to the undercroft to see for herself the empty space where his saddle and harness had been. The manor was subdued that morning, many of the men, including Lord Andrew, too drunk to find their beds and spending what was left of the night amongst the remains of the feast in the great hall. It was noon before the last of the revellers crept sheepishly away, and Maude ordered the floor to be swept and fresh summer herbs to be strewn with the new rushes. By that time she had already visited the kitchens and the stillroom and, with her household in good order, she slipped away to the little chapel, to light a candle and offer up a prayer for Hugo.
Coming out into the sun, Maude was reluctant to return to the house and went instead to the riverbank, making her way along the beaten path between the wood-and-thatch houses of the villagers. There was an air of busyness about the little settlement. Housewives carried their spinning wheels out of doors to enjoy the warm sunshine, and on the rise beyond the manor teams of oxen dragged ploughshares along the narrow strips of earth. By the river the local fishermen paid little heed to Lady Maude, their attention fixed on mending their nets. She walked along the riverbank until she reached the edge of the churchyard, and the old yew tree screened her from the fishermen and the village.
“Such a good land,” she murmured.
With a sigh she looked down at the river, wide and deep, flowing slowly just feet away. Two more steps would take her into its cool grey waters. She imagined slipping off the bank into the river, the water soaking her soft woollen robe and linen undergown until the weight of the cloth would drag her down beneath the surface. A few moments’ struggle, and her misery would be ended.
Hot tears welled up and spilled over her cheeks. It could not be. However much she wished for oblivion, she could not end her life. Hugo had done his duty, and he would expect her to do the same. Then there was Andrew, her lord. She loved him too much to inflict such pain upon him. Her death was God’s gift and she must wait for Him to summon her. Maude drew her wide sleeve across her eyes, squared her shoulders and turned back towards the manor.
From a high window, Lord Andrew watched his wife emerge from behind the yew tree. He closed his eyes and uttered up a silent prayer.
Chapter Seven
The good weather ended on Saturday evening with a tremendous thunderstorm that shook the windows of the restaurant and caused the diners to forego their coffee and hurry off to their homes. This was followed by continuous rain for the next two days, and the lowering skies reflected Deborah’s deepening depression. Although she kept herself busy in the restaurant, Bernard was always in her thoughts.
Perhaps she had been too harsh on him, rushing off without giving him a chance to explain. After all, things were different in London. They weren’t married, and Bernard had never sworn eternal devotion to
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