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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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