Excerpt Three:
The Constable’s Solar, the Lucy
Tower, May 1168
Nicola’s heart pounded. Papa’s
dawn summons could mean only one thing: trouble. Had it something to do with
the leech-man she’d glimpsed earlier, crossing himself as he’d slipped out
through the castle gate?
For two long weeks, Death had
stalked the shadows of the constable’s chamber, ready to snatch Mama into his
icy grasp. Feverish and frail, Mama had hovered near the brink whilst Nicola
and Gyda had kept vigil—mopping her brow, spooning broth between cracked lips,
whispering desperate prayers. But even after Mama’s confession and shriving,
Nicola had clung to hope, refusing to surrender her mother to the grave.
And yesterday, by some miracle,
Mama had rallied. She’d sipped a soupy pottage; even propped herself up in bed.
Julia had finally visited, though she’d stayed away before, claiming the stench
of sickness offended her delicate nature.
So why now? Why this urgent call?
“Papa, what’s wrong?” Nicola
asked, her voice tight with dread as she approached the weary-looking figure in
the window seat.
“Hush,” he murmured, taking her
hand. He sighed; shadows etched deep beneath his eyes. “There’s something you
need to hear.”
Ice gripped Nicola’s chest. “Is
Mama...?”
“The leech says she’ll live—for
now.” Papa’s voice softened, but his eyes remained rimmed with fatigue.
Nicola took a seat next to him,
exhaling sharply. She stared at her hands, reluctant to speak the thought that
had gnawed at her mind. “Papa… Mama can’t bear more children. I know you need a
son, but…” Her voice faltered. If only she’d been born a boy.
He ran a hand through his
silvering golden hair, managing a faint smile. “I’m no monster, Nicola. We’d
hoped for a son, but God had other plans. Mama will retire to our Normandy
estates, then to Blancheland Abbey. It’s best for her.”
Her heart lifted. “Can I go with
her?”
His face hardened, his pale eyes
turning to ice. “No. Julia inherits Normandy. You are bound to Lincolnshire.
This castle, these lands—they’re yours. You cannot leave.”
She swallowed. To him, everything
was duty, legacy, loyalty. But there was more to life than that. Why couldn’t
he see that? “But Papa, I need to be with her—”
“No, Nicola,” he cut in. “We’ll
travel to Normandy for Julia’s wedding, and Mama will stay. You and I will
return. You’ve no brother, and you’re old enough to become the woman you were
born to be. You’re the heiress to this castle and my Lincolnshire estates.”
Her gaze moved to the embroidery
hanging on the lime-washed wall, its threads glowing in a spear of sunlight.
Stitched by her long dead grandmother Muriel, it depicted a horrifying scene of
a castle, just like Lincoln, under siege—blood pooling, swords clashing, bolts
raining down on an army below. A chill skittered down her spine. Was this
Papa’s legacy to her?
Papa reached behind a stool and
lifted something heavy and wooden. He smiled. “I’ve a gift for you.”
“A crossbow!” she gasped.
“Yes.” He twanged the whipcord. “I
had it repaired. It belonged to your grandmother Muriel, who was herself the
hereditary constable here—although of course, your grandfather acted in her
stead. It’s a smaller model, crafted for a woman. Only ceremonial, of course.
But you should have your own weapon, as a symbol of leadership.” He snorted.
“Of course, your husband will rule this castle, and the Haye lands, in your
name. A woman could hardly do that, but it is you that will hold the Haye
name.”
Her husband. She pushed the
thought aside. She had plenty of time. She ran her fingers along the carved
maple stock. It was beautiful. “Did Grandmama ever use it?”
“I don’t suppose so. As I said,
it’s only ceremonial.”
“I want to learn.”
He scoffed. “You? Learn crossbow?”
Her jaw clenched. “Why not?”
He shrugged. “Ask Edwin, if you
must. But remember your honour and duty. I’m trusting you to keep the Haye red
sun flying over Lincoln. Our name was dishonoured once. It must never be
again.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I named you after the city, after all.”
Nicola’s lips twitched. Nicola, or
‘Nicole’, the Norman-French term for Lincoln. It seemed this was the fate God
had intended for her.
“I’ll ensure your husband values
our name,” he said. “That’s why I summoned you.”
Blood rushed to Nicola’s head.
“No…” Surely he wasn’t trying to arrange a marriage for her yet? Julia was two
years older. Surely she had two more years?
“You’re of an age now—”
The words burst from her lips
before she could stop them. “Papa, I want to choose my husband.”
His eyes widened. “Dear God,
Nicola. Where did you get such a foolish idea?”
“Bella’s marrying someone she
loves.”
“God’s Bones! She’s a Jew. You’re
a noblewoman. It’s not the same.”
Nicola jutted her chin. “The king
and Queen Eleanor loved each other before they wed.”
“Utter nonsense. This isn’t a
ballad. You’re a child. What do you know of love or marriage?”
Her head throbbed. He wasn’t even
listening. “Please, Papa. I don’t want to marry some ugly old man!”
“Don’t be absurd!” he barked. “The
responsibilities are too large to trust to whatever popinjay takes your fancy!”
He lowered his voice, but it was still tight and clipped. “You need a mature,
seasoned man the king can trust to rule this castle, my lands—and you—when I’m
gone.”
“What about my happiness?”
His hand shot out and cracked
across her cheek. She put her hand to her face, staring at him in shock, tears
brimming as her cheek burned.
“I will choose your husband,” he
growled. “Know your duty.”
She blinked through her tears. She
did know her duty, but she’d also listened to the jongleur’s songs, and their
tales of romance and courtly love. “Papa,” she said, keeping her voice level,
“I wouldn’t marry against your will. But if you let me go to court, I could
find a nobleman or knight from an honourable family.”
“Over my rotting corpse! The
king’s court’s a nest of scheming sycophants—men who’d sell their own mother
for a chance of marrying a wealthy heiress like you.”
Nicola flinched.
He sighed and reached out to touch
her still burning cheek. “Your eyes… they’re like Muriel’s. Pale green; full of
fire. She was headstrong and beautiful, just like you. What man wouldn’t want
you?”
She straightened her spine. “Then
let me find the right one. Just give me the chance.”
“No.” His voice brooked no
argument. “I’ve chosen already. A mature man, honourable, and proven. God
willing, he’s steadfast enough to take even you in hand. The contract’s almost
agreed. You can meet him before the betrothal ceremony, but you will obey.”
Nicola turned toward the narrow
window, searching for air. In the yard below, a mange-ridden tomcat pounced,
trapping a mouse beneath its claws. Nicola’s breath caught, watching as the
tiny creature struggled, stiffened, then went still.
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