They travelled at a walking pace through the city to the bank of the smaller of York’s two rivers. The inn was nestled into the walls, close enough to allow easy access to the tournament grounds and festivities that would accompany the summer pageant, yet far enough away from the stench of the city and the early-morning cries of street hawkers selling their wares.
Robbie settled into his quarters in the inn that had been commandeered by Sir John’s steward for the household. He was sharing a room with Cecil, two pages and four of the menservants. He would have preferred more space and privacy than the cramped attic room of eight men would allow.
‘I still would have preferred the camp with the other knights,’ Cecil grumbled. ‘Don’t you wish sometimes that Sir John was young enough to compete and had the inclination?’
Robbie made vague noises of agreement. He was fond of his elderly master, who had long since retired from active service to the King. The squires and servants had been dismayed to discover they would be quartered in an inn rather than the tents beside the ground itself. As Robbie inspected the straw mattress that was to be his bed for the month for obvious fleas, he had to admire the steward’s choice. The room was clean, the straw likewise. Robbie unlocked the small chest where he kept his personal effects and checked his savings. Rowenna’s ribbon, faded with age, was nestled in a corner. Robbie ran his fingers over it, remembering the night she had given it to him.
The night he had learned of his true birth. Even now the bitterness of Roger’s betrayal and his blundering attempt to act as if the secret was of little consequence made Robbie’s stomach lurch and fill with acid. Since they had parted that night with Robbie furious and Roger refusing to comprehend why, Robbie had seen Roger only once. That had been Roger’s brief visit to Wallingdon four years previously, where they had spoken stiffly and publicly, aware of Sir John’s presence and neither mentioning their argument. He would have to visit Wharram and see Roger at some point, but the idea filled him with anxiety and could wait.
He made his way downstairs and busied himself unpacking and polishing the armour Sir John no longer wore, until he was summoned to the main room of the inn, where the household would eat. He took his place at the table. His mind was only half on the prayers that Sir John intoned before they ate and half on when he might catch a glimpse of Mary. Unfortunately the litter bearing Sir John’s wife and her attendants had travelled at a slower pace and would not arrive until the following day. Even when it did, the women would be eating with Sir John in the small chamber that had been set aside for their private use.
Robbie ate with enthusiasm, scooping up barley-thickened pork stew, and listened to the other men trading insults and jokes. Their language was coarse and their wit quick. Even without the affliction that caused his words to become trapped behind his tongue he did not have much to add. The meal was drawing to an end and the household beginning to drift away on private pursuits. The segregation between the male and female members of the household relaxed, someone struck up a tune on a pipe and Robbie sat back, contented to watch others conversing. He began composing a verse to Mary in his head, wondering if he had the courage to commit it to ink and try passing it to her. Perhaps before he fell asleep he would write it down. It was only doggerel, but he knew Mary had simple tastes and was a poor reader. He hoped the effort—and brevity—would gain him some standing.
Before long, however, he tired of the heat and bustle and allowed Cecil to persuade him to join a game of jacks in their attic room. As they were halfway to the staircase, a rapid and insistent knocking on the door to the street sounded throughout the room. The innkeeper hurried to open it.
‘We’re full. No rooms to spare.’
‘I don’t need a room,’ came the reply. ‘Is there a Master Danby here?’
Robbie stopped, surprised to hear his name spoken and in a female voice. He could make out the form of a cloaked figure in the doorway, partially masked by the innkeeper. Cecil, who was three steps ahead of him, grinned and whistled.
‘You’ve lost no time in finding yourself a diversion for the night! I thought you didn’t know where to find women and you’ve called for one already.’ He thrust his crotch out and made an obscene gesture with his fist.
‘I didn’t call for a w-woman. There m-must be a m-mistake.’ Robbie glared at Cecil in outrage as humiliation caused his cheeks to burn.
He gestured fiercely to Cecil to go on up the stairs, then walked back down, his curiosity piqued. He crossed to the doorway where the woman stood. She was clad in a deep blue cloak of light wool with the voluminous hood pulled over her face, obscuring her identity. Her head was downcast and her hands folded neatly in front of her.
‘Who w-wants me at this hour?’ he asked. ‘I’m M-Master Danby.’
The woman drew her hood down to reveal neat black curls caught beneath a simple white cap. She raised her head and her dark-lashed eyes travelled upward and met Robbie’s. They widened briefly and her face broke into a beaming smile, small dimples appearing in each cheek.
‘Of course you are Master Danby,’ she said. ‘Don’t you recognise me? I’m Rowenna.’
‘D-Dumpling?’
Robbie couldn’t help himself. The old name he used to call her slipped out amid the words that caught in his throat. With her arched brows, straight nose and high cheekbones she looked so unlike the round-faced Rowenna he had nestled in his memory and even further from the grey-pallored mouse Cecil had described. He was not even sure she was who she claimed to be.
This woman was stunningly beautiful.
She also looked furious at being reminded of the childhood name. Her eyes glinted. Her smile froze. Vanished completely. The smooth forehead ruffled into a familiar scowl.
Robbie knew then, in no uncertain terms, this was his childhood friend. He prepared himself for a smack on the arm and began to blurt out apologies, but Rowenna gave an imperious wave of her hand to silence him and her smile returned much quicker than Robbie was expecting. She lifted her chin and set her shoulders back, all sign of displeasure gone from her expression, which was tinged now with aloofness. The mannerism reminded Robbie of his grandmother.
‘I had hoped your years away would have taught you how to speak to a lady,’ she said.
Her voice sounded oddly dignified, coming from the girl who used to bellow in his face when they argued.
‘I’m sorry! I w-was just s-s-s—’
‘Surprised to see me?’ Rowenna finished for him. Robbie stiffened instinctively, his eyes narrowing, and her expression became one of anguish. She put one hand to cover her lips, which Robbie noticed had become fuller and redder over the years, and placed the other on his arm in entreaty.
‘Oh, Robbie, I’m sorry!’ she gasped. ‘I know you hate people finishing your speech. Forgive me!’
Her fingers slid slowly down his sleeve, coming to rest on his bare wrist. Her fingers were warm against his flesh. He was acutely aware of how the hairs on his arm stood on end at this unexpected contact. He shook his head, smiling to show she had not offended him, though inside he writhed with shame that he could not even greet his old friend with ease.
‘I think we have both offended each other adequately so the s-score is s-settled.’ He managed to spit out his words without too much faltering and was touched to see Rowenna waited patiently for him to finish, watching him with bright eyes that called to mind an inquisitive blackbird watching a worm. She inclined her head gracefully to one side, displaying an elegantly curved neck that made Robbie think of fresh cream.
‘I agree. Greet me properly, then, Cousin Robbie,’ she said.
And waited.
Fingers of fire raced over Robbie’s body. Clearly she expected him to take the lead and set the tone of their reunion, but he had no idea where to start, being so unprepared for this moment. He leaned forward instinctively to embrace her and show how glad he was to see her again, but drew back as his heart gave a violent throb. Taking her in his arms after