“Not as strange as your outdated ideas. Nicholas, I am cold and hungry and getting wetter by the minute. Help me on your horse and let’s go see your mother.”
Nicholas gave a bit of a smile at her insolent attitude, then held down his hand for her. Dougless took it, put her foot on his, and swung onto the back of the horse—not into the saddle with him but onto the hard, unsteady rump of the
horse. Dougless put her arms around Nicholas’s waist, but he pried her loose and pushed her hands down to the high back of the saddle, then handed her the umbrella.
“Hold this over me,” he said, and kicked the horse forward.
Dougless wanted to make a retort, but all her attention was on holding on to the horse. She had to use two hands to hold on, so the umbrella hung uselessly to the side as they sped along. Through the rain she saw more hovels, more people working in the rain, apparently oblivious of it. “Maybe it’ll wash them,” she muttered, hanging on as best she could.
Because she was behind Nicholas and he was too tall to see over, she didn’t see the house until they were in front of it. There was a tall stone wall before them, and behind it stood a three-story stone house.
A man wearing clothes somewhat like Nicholas’s—no burlap dress but no diamonds either—came running to take the horse’s reins. Nicholas dismounted, then stood impatiently by, slapping his gloves against his palm, while Dougless struggled down by herself, lugging her heavy bag and the umbrella.
When she was down, the servant opened the gate and Nicholas went through it, seeming to expect Dougless to follow him. She hurried after him, down a brick path, up a flight of stairs, across a brick terrace, and into the house.
A solemn-faced servant stood inside, waiting to take Nicholas’s cloak and wet hat. When Dougless closed the umbrella, Nicholas took it from her and looked inside, obviously trying to figure out how it worked. After the way he’d been treating her, she wasn’t about to tell him. She snatched the umbrella from his hands and gave it to the wide-eyed servant. “This is mine,” she said to the servant. “Remember that, and don’t let anyone else have it.”
Looking at her, Nicholas snorted. Dougless hitched her bag onto her shoulder and glared back at him. She was beginning to believe that he was not the man she’d fallen in love with. Her Nicholas wouldn’t have made a woman ride on the back of a horse.
Turning away, he started up the stairs, and Dougless, dripping and cold, followed him. She had only a brief glimpse of the house, but it didn’t look like the Elizabethan houses she’d seen on guided tours. For one thing, the wood wasn’t darkened from being four hundred years old. The walls were paneled in golden oak, and everywhere there was color. The plaster above the panels was painted with scenes of people in a meadow. There were bright, pretty new tapestries and painted cloths hanging on the walls. There were silver plates gleaming from tabletops. And under her feet, oddly enough, there seemed to be straw. Upstairs there were carved pieces of furniture in the hall, looking as new as though they’d been made last week. On one table was a tall pitcher that had beautiful, deep fluting on it. It was of a yellow metal that could only be gold.
Before Dougless could ask about the pitcher, Nicholas opened a door and strode inside.
“I have brought the witch,” she heard Nicholas say.
“Now, just a minute,” Dougless said, then, hurrying into the room behind him, she stopped. She had entered a beautiful room. It was large, with tall ceilings, the walls paneled with more of the beautiful oak, the plaster above painted with colorful birds, butterflies, and animals. The furniture, the window seat, and the enormous bed were draped with hangings of brilliant silk, and dotted with cushions, all of it embroidered in gold and silver and brightly colored thread. Everything in the room, from cups and pitchers, to a mirror and comb, seemed to be a precious object, made of gold or silver, encrusted with jewels. The whole room glittered beautifully.
“My goodness,” Dougless said in awe.
“Bring her to me,” said an imperious voice.
Dougless pulled her eyes away from the room to look at the bed. Behind its exquisitely carved posts, behind scarlet silk hangings that twinkled with flowers embroidered in gold thread, lay a stern-looking woman wearing a white nightgown with black embroidery on the cuffs and ruffled neck. About her eyes Dougless could see a resemblance to Nicholas.
“Come here,” she commanded, and Dougless moved closer.
The woman’s voice, for all its command, sounded tired and stuffy, as though she had a cold.
It was when Dougless was closer to the foot of the bed that she saw that the woman had her left arm stretched across a pillow, and a man, wearing a long, voluminous robe of black velvet, was bending over her and tending to . . .
“Are those leeches?” Dougless gasped. Slimy little black worms seemed to be stuck on the woman’s arm.
Dougless didn’t see Lady Margaret exchange looks with her son.
“I have been told you are a witch, that you make fire from your fingertips.”
Dougless couldn’t take her eyes off the leeches. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Aye, it hurts,” the woman said in dismissal. “I would see this magic of fire.”
The distaste Dougless felt at seeing the leeches on the woman’s arm overrode her fear of being called a witch. She walked to the side of the bed and put her tote bag on top of a table, pushing aside a pretty silver box that had emeralds across the top. “You shouldn’t let that man do that to you. It sounds to me like you just have a bad cold. Headache? Sneezing? Tired?”
Wide-eyed, the woman stared at her and nodded.
“That’s what I thought.” She rummaged in her bag. “If you’ll make that man take those nasty things away, I’ll fix your cold. Ah, here they are. Cold tablets.” She held up the package.
“Mother,” Nicholas said, stepping forward, “you cannot—”
“Be still, Nicholas,” Lady Margaret said. “And remove those from my arm,” she ordered the physician.