‘I hope Matt reached York before the snow came,’ said Jack, his youthful face grim as he addressed his sister. ‘Perhaps he won’t ride on to Kingston-on-Hull when it clears, but come home.’
She nodded, gazing at the path that had been cleared through the snow to the outbuildings. Mackillin, Robbie and Tom had seen to the horses and Jack had fed the hens housed in the barn.
‘Even Father’s steward won’t be able to reach us while it is like this,’ said Cicely, chewing her lower lip. ‘His concern will be for the tenants’ flocks.’
‘And who can blame him? Even the best of shepherds will have difficulty keeping all their sheep alive in this weather. We can manage here without him.’ Jack stamped snow from his boots and glanced at their guest as they went indoors. ‘I pray you’ll forgive me, Mackillin. It’s my fault you’re stranded here.’
Mackillin shook his head. ‘Nay, lad. It is the fault of those murdering curs in Bruges. Besides, you have no control over the weather. We could have been on the road when the blizzard came and we’d have been caught out in the open. If I’m to be delayed, then best it be here.’
‘Come and warm yourselves by the fire,’ said Cicely. ‘I’m mulling ale and have asked Cook to fry some bacon collops. I thought you might be in need of a second breakfast.’
‘That’s a grand notion,’ said Mackillin, rolling the ‘r’ and smiling down at her. ‘Yet you must be cursing me at a time when you need peace and quiet to mourn your father.’
‘I deem the house is big enough for all of us to find peace in solitude if need be,’ said Cicely, her calm expression concealing the turmoil his nearness caused her. ‘As soon as possible we’ll have to get a message to Diccon, informing him of Father’s death, albeit we’ll most likely have to get in touch with Owain ap Rowan first.’
Mackillin’s brow furrowed. ‘I have heard the name of ap Rowan before.’
‘Owain ap Rowan is a horse breeder and has stud farms in the palatines of Chester and Lancaster,’ said Jack.
‘He’s a good man,’ said Cicely, fetching cups from a cupboard and placing them on a table. ‘He has travelled Europe, too. Diccon told me that the ap Rowans supplied horses to the present King Henry’s armies during the wars with France. He and Father were great friends.’
‘I deem that Master ap Rowan has several excellent qualities—but who is Diccon?’ asked Mackillin, watching her graceful figure return to the fireplace.
‘Our stepbrother,’ replied Jack.
‘We had hoped he would be home for the Christmas festivities,’ said Cicely, ladling the brew into cups, ‘but he never arrived.’
‘Cissie fears he might have got himself involved with the Yorkists’ cause,’ said Jack, grimacing.
Cicely tried to frown her brother down, not wanting Mackillin to know too much about Diccon’s affairs, but it was too late.
‘I met the Duke of York’s heir in Calais the other year. I can understand your stepbrother’s involvement with him,’ said Mackillin, catching that frown of hers and wondering what was behind it. ‘He spent a great deal of time talking to merchants and mariners. I saw your father there, too.’
‘Then it’s likely you met Diccon,’ said Jack. ‘Diccon Fletcher? He would have been with Father.’
‘In that case it’s highly likely that I did. I just need to think back to that time and I will remember him.’ Mackillin accepted the cup of steaming ale from Cicely. His hazel eyes washed slowly over her lovely pale face and he remembered the feel of her mouth beneath his and would have liked to have repeated the experience, but knew he had to resist such urges. Mary was to be his chosen bride. He did not love her, but then what had marriage to do with love? His father had supposedly fallen in love at first sight with his mother and what good had that done him? Mary would be grateful to him and get on with his mother and together they would organise his household. He would never beat Mary like her father did and he would do his best to make her happy. Although he did not care for Sir Malcolm Armstrong, it would be better to have him as an ally than an enemy.
‘Well, have you remembered Diccon?’ asked Jack.
Mackillin smiled. ‘Not yet. So what is it you fear? That in the power struggle between Lancaster and York, he will be caught in the middle and be lost to you?’
‘Aye. That is exactly what I fear,’ murmured Cicely, lifting her eyes to his rugged face. ‘We are betrothed and I have no wish to have him taken from me before we are even wed.’
Before Mackillin could assimilate her words, Jack burst out, ‘Father made no mention of such a betrothal.’
Cicely turned on him. ‘You know naught about it. I tell you I could have persuaded Father to change his mind about refusing to give Diccon my hand if he had not been killed.’ Her voice broke and, dropping the ladle, she would have fled the hall if Tabitha and Martha had not entered, carrying trays, at that moment.
‘The bacon collops, Mistress Cicely,’ said Martha, looking askance at her.
Cicely pulled herself together and returned to the table. To her relief, neither man mentioned her outburst, but instead spoke of the baggage that had been unloaded from the packhorses. Mackillin asked whether Jack wanted the packages moved or unpacked first and sorted out.
Jack hesitated. ‘Some goods are for customers and others gifts for family and the church. I had thought it was probably best to leave all until Matt returns—but with the weather the way it is it’ll give us something to do, unpacking and listing everything.’ He turned to his sister. ‘You can help me with that, Cissie.’
She had calmed down somewhat and agreed, stretching out a hand for her bacon collop on the platter in the middle of the table and placing it on a slice of bread. ‘Father promised me a sheet of Flemish glass for my bedchamber window. At this time of year so many draughts manage to get through the gaps between the shutters and frame.’
Jack turned to her and his eyes were bright. ‘He kept his promise as he always did. He purchased a new kind of glass, not so thick as that in my bedchamber and much clearer. The trouble was that it was too large to load on to the packhorses—as were some of his other purchases, such as the glass he bought for the village church in memory of our stepmother. The shipping agent is sending them by cart. They were packed carefully and I pray that neither gets broken on the way.’
‘Me, too,’ she murmured, thinking the glass would be a gift worth waiting for. She took a bite of her food before getting up and wandering over to the pile of baggage.
Mackillin and Jack followed her over, but no one made a move to unpack any of the goods immediately. Cicely was remembering other such times when her father had produced gifts for his womenfolk’s delectation.
Noticing the sadness in her face and guessing the reason, Mackillin sought to detract her thoughts. ‘There is a fine thirteenth-century stained-glass window in the Cathedral of St Maurice in Angers,’ he said.
His mention of the saint roused Cicely’s interest. ‘St Maurice is the patron saint of cloth-makers. Do they make cloth in Angers?’
He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I only know that the women are skilful in tapestry work.’
He had surprised her. ‘How do you know this?’
‘My mother visited her French kin in Angers as a young girl and a few years ago she asked me to purchase a tapestry for her.’
‘Isn’t Angers the main city of Anjou?’ she asked.
Mackillin nodded. ‘The Queen of England’s father, King René, has his court there.’
‘You have visited his court?’ asked Cicely.
A slight smile lifted the corner of Mackillin’s lips. ‘If I said aye, admit that would surprise you, lass.’