eyes flashed with annoyance. ‘I did knock, but received no answer, so I came round here and found the door unlocked.’ He paused. ‘Have you reported the attack to the constable? If I did not mishear Sir Gawain yesterday, then you were attacked last year in Oxford, as well as in London.’
‘So you were discussing me,’ said Nicholas, frowning.
‘Only because of your book. Will you be staying here long?’
‘Until this latest attack is dealt with I will be remaining in Witney.’ He thought that Godar looked none too pleased with that news.
‘How many of them were there? Were you robbed?’
‘Fortunately I managed to escape with my possessions intact as there were only two men.’
‘Then you were fortunate.’ Willem walked over to the loom and gazed down at it. Watching him, Nicholas experienced a flash of anger. It seemed to him that this weaver was making himself at home much too early. He wished he could kick him out, but sensed the weaver would not be so easy to get rid of and had a strong feeling Jane would resent him taking charge in such a fashion.
As if aware of Nicholas’s eyes on him, Willem turned and met his gaze. ‘Perhaps Oxfordshire isn’t the safest of places for you, Master Hurst? Do you think the two attacks are in any way connected?’
Nicholas shrugged and a flash of pain crossed his face. ‘Unlikely, although I didn’t believe myself to have so many enemies.’
There was a long silence.
Willem hesitated before saying, ‘Mistress Caldwell...?’
‘She has gone to the bakery and should soon return,’ said Nicholas. ‘Perhaps it is best that you remain in here whilst you wait. The children are asleep in the other room.’
Willem nodded and went over to one of the baskets and fingered the wool. Nicholas decided to leave the weaver to his own devices, wondering what else he might have discussed with Sir Gawain. He doubted the knight had mentioned the names of the men involved and the reason why they wanted him dead.
He checked the contents of the pot and ladled out more broth for himself and then sat down at table, wondering whether Jane would welcome Willem Godar’s offer to weave for her. If so, would that mean she would give him a definite nay to his proposal?
Hell, he wished the weaver had not chosen today to arrive. Conscious of his aching head and painful shoulder, he closed his eyes and went over yesterday’s attack on him. He thought of Berthe and how she had seemed genuinely fond of Matilda. Could it be that her grief for her husband and baby had overturned her mind and she had decided that she must have a baby to replace the one she had lost? But why wait until they arrived in England to abduct his daughter? She could have taken her any time. It didn’t make sense!
His thoughts drifted to his conversation with Willem Godar and he wondered whether Mortimer would be Jane’s next visitor. He was still a bit of a mystery to Nicholas. After an absence of twenty years, the older man had returned to England a rich man in search of the woman he had loved and the daughter he had left behind. Anthony’s twin brother had tricked that woman into marrying him and Rebecca had been reared as his daughter. He had come to work at the Hurst family shipyard every summer and that is how Nicholas and his brother knew her. It was because of Anthony Mortimer’s actions in seeking out his daughter that Nicholas had decided to return to Flanders and take responsibility for his own child. He sighed, considering that despite the emotional turmoil of what had taken place in Bruges, he did not regret any of his actions.
He yawned and was on the edge of falling asleep when a noise close by disturbed him. Fully awake now, he became aware not only of the faint clacking of the loom in the other room, but that he was being watched by Margaret, Jane’s elder stepdaughter.
‘It wasn’t a dream after all and you are here,’ she said.
He returned her smile and pinched his wrist. ‘Well, I’m certainly flesh and blood.’
She laughed and cocked her head to one side. ‘What is that clacking noise?’
Nicholas wished that Willem Godar was a dream. ‘A weaver has come to see if your mother wishes to avail herself of his services.’
Margaret’s eyes rounded. ‘I wonder what she will say to him! I will have a peek at him in a moment.’ She pushed back the blanket and stood up in her chemise. Nicholas looked away and only faced her when she spoke his name. She was rolling up her pallet. ‘How is your shoulder today, Master Hurst?’ she asked politely.
‘Better than yesterday, thank you, Margaret,’ he replied. ‘And how are you feeling this morning?’
‘I’m pleased you are here and that you remember my name. Master Mortimer gets our names muddled up,’ she said, looking chagrined. ‘Perhaps it is because he is old like my father was. You’re not going to die, are you, Master Hurst? You’re not as old as either of them.’
‘I certainly hope to live a lot longer,’ said Nicholas, unaccustomed to such conversation, but wanting to reassure the girl.
‘Mama says that when you are properly Simon’s godfather it will be as if you are one of our little family. Does that please you?’
Had Jane really told Margaret that? The thought warmed him and he said, ‘It pleases me very much.’
‘Good!’ Margaret sighed happily. ‘I am hoping that Mama will say that we can have a small feast to celebrate your being here.’ She smacked her lips. ‘Maybe she will kill one of the hens. It will make a change from fish or cheese or just vegetables and barley as is customary during Lent. Although one less hen will mean less eggs once they start laying again. Still, the hens are sitting on eggs and so there will be chicks in the hen house that will grow into more hens.’ She beamed at him and skipped over to the window and climbed onto the seat beneath. ‘Most of the snow has melted. Good. I will go and tend to the poultry as that is my first task of the day. Oh, and here is Mama with the bread and ale and Simon or...’ She scrambled down and looked into the cradle before turning to Nicholas. ‘Perhaps it is your baby because there are no babies here?’
Nicholas agreed that it most likely was his daughter, Matilda. He forced himself to walk over to the front door and opened it and smiled down at Jane. ‘May I help you?’
She frowned up at him and hesitated before carefully placing his daughter in the crook of his unaffected arm. ‘You should be resting. Matilda is fed and changed. I notice you still have no shirt on. Is there one in your saddlebags?’
He nodded, gazing down at his sleeping daughter.
‘Good. You really should be resting.’
‘I will rest soon enough.’ He kissed Matilda’s cheek before carrying her over to the cradle and placing her down.
‘Have you eaten?’ asked Jane, thinking that he really did look drawn and weary.
‘I was about to do so when we had a visitor and Margaret woke up,’ he replied.
Jane looked startled. ‘A visitor?’
‘Aye, can you not hear the loom clacking? The man says he has come from Kent with Sir Gawain. His name is Willem Godar.’
Chapter Four
Jane stiffened and stared across the room to the door of the workroom as if in a trance. No, no, no! she thought, hoping her face had not changed colour. ‘How is it that Sir Gawain has involved himself in my business?’ she cried, scowling.
‘Presumably Rebecca wrote to his wife about your need for a weaver. They are numerous in that part of Kent.’
‘Of course, that will be it! Beth and Rebecca will want to help me,’ she said, wishing they had not interfered. Slowly she walked over to the table and placed the bread and jug of ale down, hoping against hope that Willem had not mentioned to anyone what they had once been to each other.