there on a grander scale and work on the riverside site had already begun.
But that was all it was: a quiet little borough by the sea, with a building site for a church.
And he had left her there. Not with a knight – there was no castle nor even a manor house. Not even with a person of the slightest consequence – only four of the most decrepit priory canons had remained in residence while the building went on. He had left her with a common merchant whose son made flour at the priory mill.
“I had to pay him, you know,” Walter had explained crossly.
“But how long am I to stay here?” she had cried.
“Until I come for you. A month or two, I should think.”
Then he had ridden away.
Her quarters could have been worse. The merchant’s household consisted of several wooden buildings around a small yard, and she was given a chamber of her own over a storeroom beside the stable. It was perfectly clean and she had to admit that she would not have been any better housed in a manor.
Her host was not a bad man. Nicholas of Totton – he had come from a village of that name that lay fifteen miles away on the eastern edge of the Forest – was a burgess of the borough, where he owned three houses, some fields, an orchard and a salmon fishery. Though he must have been over fifty, he retained a slim, almost youthful build. His mild grey eyes only looked disapproving if he thought someone had said something cruel or boastful. He spoke sparingly, yet Adela noticed that, with his younger children, he seemed to have a quiet, even playful sense of humour. There were seven or eight of these.Adela supposed that it must be dull to be married to such a man, but his busy wife seemed to be perfectly contented. Either way, the Totton family were hardly relevant to her.
There was no one to talk to and nothing to do. The site where the new priory church was to be built, beautifully set by the river, was a mess. The old church had been pulled down and soon dozens of masons would be hard at work there, she was told. But at present it was deserted. One day she rode around to the headland, which protected the harbour. It was very peaceful. Swans glided on the waters; wild horses grazed in the marshes beyond. On the other side of the headland a huge bay swept round to the west, while to the east the low gravel cliffs of the New Forest shore extended for miles until they receded up the Solent channel from which there interposed the high chalk cliffs of the Isle of Wight. It was a lovely sight but it did not please her. On other days she walked about, or sat by the river. There was nothing to do. Nothing. A week passed.
Then Edgar came. She was surprised he had known she was there.
“Walter told my father you were staying here,” he said. He did not tell her that already, all the way up the Avon valley as far as Fordingbridge, people were calling her “the deserted lady.”
Things got better after that. He would come to see her at least once a week and they would ride out together. The first time they rode up the Avon valley a couple of miles to where a modest gravel ridge known as St Catherine’s Hill gave a splendid view over the valley and the southern part of the Forest.
“They nearly built the new priory up here,” he told her. “Next time I come,” he pointed to one area of the Forest, “I’ll take you there. And the time after that, over there.”
He was as good as his word. Sometimes they rode up the Avon valley; or they might wander along the Forest’s coastline with its numerous tiny inlets, as far as the village of Hordle, where there were salt beds. Wherever they went he would tell her things: stopping by some tiny dark stream, hardly more than a trickle: “The sea-trout come to spawn up here. You’d never think it, would you, but they do. Right into the Forest.”
On their third trip she had met him near Ringwood and hehad conducted her across the heath to a dark little hamlet in a woodland dell called
But that was all it was: a quiet little borough by the sea, with a building site for a church.
And he had left her there. Not with a knight – there was no castle nor even a manor house. Not even with a person of the slightest consequence – only four of the most decrepit priory canons had remained in residence while the building went on. He had left her with a common merchant whose son made flour at the priory mill.
“I had to pay him, you know,” Walter had explained crossly.
“But how long am I to stay here?” she had cried.
“Until I come for you. A month or two, I should think.”
Then he had ridden away.
Her quarters could have been worse. The merchant’s household consisted of several wooden buildings around a small yard, and she was given a chamber of her own over a storeroom beside the stable. It was perfectly clean and she had to admit that she would not have been any better housed in a manor.
Her host was not a bad man. Nicholas of Totton – he had come from a village of that name that lay fifteen miles away on the eastern edge of the Forest – was a burgess of the borough, where he owned three houses, some fields, an orchard and a salmon fishery. Though he must have been over fifty, he retained a slim, almost youthful build. His mild grey eyes only looked disapproving if he thought someone had said something cruel or boastful. He spoke sparingly, yet Adela noticed that, with his younger children, he seemed to have a quiet, even playful sense of humour. There were seven or eight of these.Adela supposed that it must be dull to be married to such a man, but his busy wife seemed to be perfectly contented. Either way, the Totton family were hardly relevant to her.
There was no one to talk to and nothing to do. The site where the new priory church was to be built, beautifully set by the river, was a mess. The old church had been pulled down and soon dozens of masons would be hard at work there, she was told. But at present it was deserted. One day she rode around to the headland, which protected the harbour. It was very peaceful. Swans glided on the waters; wild horses grazed in the marshes beyond. On the other side of the headland a huge bay swept round to the west, while to the east the low gravel cliffs of the New Forest shore extended for miles until they receded up the Solent channel from which there interposed the high chalk cliffs of the Isle of Wight. It was a lovely sight but it did not please her. On other days she walked about, or sat by the river. There was nothing to do. Nothing. A week passed.
Then Edgar came. She was surprised he had known she was there.
“Walter told my father you were staying here,” he said. He did not tell her that already, all the way up the Avon valley as far as Fordingbridge, people were calling her “the deserted lady.”
Things got better after that. He would come to see her at least once a week and they would ride out together. The first time they rode up the Avon valley a couple of miles to where a modest gravel ridge known as St Catherine’s Hill gave a splendid view over the valley and the southern part of the Forest.
“They nearly built the new priory up here,” he told her. “Next time I come,” he pointed to one area of the Forest, “I’ll take you there. And the time after that, over there.”
He was as good as his word. Sometimes they rode up the Avon valley; or they might wander along the Forest’s coastline with its numerous tiny inlets, as far as the village of Hordle, where there were salt beds. Wherever they went he would tell her things: stopping by some tiny dark stream, hardly more than a trickle: “The sea-trout come to spawn up here. You’d never think it, would you, but they do. Right into the Forest.”
On their third trip she had met him near Ringwood and hehad conducted her across the heath to a dark little hamlet in a woodland dell called
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