the snow has been cleared are slippery.’
Cicely’s pulses leapt. ‘Have you measured the deepness of the snow?’ she asked.
His hazel eyes creased at the corners as his gaze rested on her heart-shaped face. ‘I have been no further than the stables. You have it in mind to go somewhere?’
Had she? ‘I would like to go to the village. It is but half a mile away. I need to speak to the priest.’ She paused and felt a lump in her throat. ‘I deem he needs to know what has happened to Father as soon as possible so prayers can be said for his soul in church.’
He looked thoughtful. ‘I am willing to attempt a ride that far with you. If the snow proves too deep, then we will return.’ He picked up the pail of ashes.
Before Cicely could protest at his doing such a menial task, he had gone. She presumed they would break their fast before attempting to reach the village and went with Tabitha to speak to Cook.
It was just over an hour later that Mackillin and Cicely left the confines of the yard. The surface of the snow was frozen and crunched beneath the horses’ hooves as they picked their way gingerly towards the track of beaten earth. It was only recognisable as such by the stark outline of the leafless trees that grew on one side of it; on the other was a ditch. Cicely noticed that Mackillin had a staff and a coiled rope attached to his saddle and wondered what use he would make of them. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink with cold and her breath misted in the icy air; even so she was glad to be out of the house. For extra warmth she had wound a length of thick woollen material over her head and round her neck and her legs were encased in her lamb’s-wool bags beneath her skirts.
Even Mackillin had made a concession to the freezing weather by wearing a russet felt hat with a rolled-up brim. Neither of them spoke, although each were extremely aware of the other. Mackillin was questioning his reason for offering to accompany her when Tom could have easily done so. It would have been wiser to spend less time in her company, not more. Yet he was glad to have her at his side. She was a delight to look upon and surprisingly she rode astride her mount. He wondered if she had had cause to ride like the wind to escape an enemy at any time or because she enjoyed a good gallop and was more likely to remain in the saddle that way. He thought of last evening and of her reading the book her father had bought her. He mentioned the fact that she was able to read now.
She glanced at him. ‘Sometimes Father would be away for months on end and Mother never learnt to read or write, so he had the priest teach me along with my brothers. They were skills she seemed unable to grasp, so I kept the housekeeping accounts and she dictated messages to me to send to him.’ She hesitated. ‘I would like to read the gospel in English some day. Father told me once that his grandfather was imprisoned because he had read one of John Wycliffe’s translations. He was a follower of the Lollards. Have you heard of these men?’
Mackillin nodded. ‘Because they read the gospels in their own tongue, they began to question not only the Church’s interpretation of God’s word, but also the structure of society itself. They stirred up the common people to revolt and were ruthlessly put down at the instigation of the Church.’
She nodded, thinking he had surprised her again by being so well informed. ‘Some believe the movement has died out, but others have spoken of it having gone underground.’
His gaze washed over her face. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. Dissatisfaction with the Church’s teaching is growing in some quarters in Europe too. There are men in the Low Countries determined to print copies of the gospels in their own tongue on the new printing presses. I do not doubt they will find a market and sell in their hundreds.’
Cicely’s eyes widened. ‘Is this possible?’
‘Aye. Although, no doubt, the Church will try to prevent it.’
‘Then there must be some truth in what the Lollards taught,’ she said firmly, ‘if the Church is so determined to prevent men reading God’s word for themselves.’
‘Men doing so could turn the world upside down.’
She did not say so, but she agreed with him. The Church had such power that it would surely fight any challenge to its authority.
Mackillin said, ‘Does Master Fletcher share your interest in reading the gospels in English?’
‘It is a matter we’ve not touched upon,’ she said in a stilted voice.
Mackillin frowned. ‘Yet you want to marry him. Do you have a day in mind?’
She flushed, sensing a criticism of either herself or Diccon in his comment. ‘Eastertide,’ she muttered. ‘If the quarrels between the houses of York and Lancaster do not spoil my plans and Master Husthwaite keeps his nose out of my affairs.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Master Husthwaite! You speak of that lantern-jawed cur who claimed to be your father’s new man of business?’
‘The very same! I do not trust him.’
‘You show sense. In my experience, it is not unknown for such men to act inappropriately with their clients’ funds. You would do well—’ He broke off as his mount lurched to the right and, steadying it with a firm hand, he looked down to where the wind had blown the snow into a drift that blocked the path. Their conversation was forgotten as he dismounted.
Cicely watched as he unfastened the straps that held the staff to his saddle. She hazarded a guess that he intended to test the depth of the drift. His booted foot sank into the snow past his knee as he plunged the staff into the snow a few inches in front of him. The staff disappeared from sight and he lost his balance, toppling face down in the snow. She bit back a laugh.
He lifted his head. ‘Don’t you dare!’
She giggled.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘Stop your cackling, woman. It’s not helpful.’
‘I’m not cackling,’ she said indignantly. ‘I was about to dismount and offer you my hand. Now I’ve a good mind to leave you to your fate and ride back. Perhaps someone will find you after the thaw.’
He groaned. ‘You have to be jesting. I’ve a plan.’
‘So have I. I’ll fetch Robbie.’
‘And have him laugh his boots off? That’s not kind, Cissie.’
He had called her Cissie! ‘I don’t see why it isn’t,’ she teased. ‘Laughter is good for the soul.’
‘Cissie, if you dare fetch him, I’ll…’
He had called her Cissie again and his doing so gave her an odd feeling, as if a barrier had been removed. ‘You’ll what?’ she said sweetly. ‘You’re in no position to threaten me, Mackillin.’
He twisted his head and sighed. ‘That is no way to speak to a lord. You’ll have to help me, but don’t make a move until I say so.’
For a few moments Cicely had forgotten both that he was a lord and her decision to keep him at a distance because she had so enjoyed mocking him. ‘I beg your pardon, Lord Mackillin. Sing loud when you want my help.’
She dismounted, waiting for his command. It was obvious that he could not get up unaided. The snow might be hard on the surface, but it was soft underneath. If he tried to push himself up, then his arms would plunge beneath the snow and he would sink deeper into it.
‘Take the rope from my saddle and tie one end to the pommel and throw the other end to me where I can reach it.’
Instantly she realised what his plan was and wasted no time obeying him, reminded of a day on the fells when she had come upon a sheep that had wandered into a mire. She had wanted to help the poor creature, but couldn’t, and it had vanished beneath the surface. Mackillin’s situation was fortunately different because she was able to help him.
Having fastened the rope to the pommel, she watched Mackillin ease the other end of it round his chest and back