“Don’t listen to him, Gilbert,” said the woman, her face set in well-worn lines of hostility. “They will both be vagabonds.”
To Palmer’s huge relief, Gilbert lowered his hefty blade. “Hush, Gwendolyn,” he said. “The knight has disarmed. His poor wife is in great peril.” He retrieved Palmer’s dagger from the floor and handed it back. “Your property, sir knight. Bring your lady inside. ’Tis far warmer there than in here.”
Palmer bent to Theodosia and lifted her soaked body into his arms. Her eyes opened and his heart surged in relief.
“Isssit time for dancing?”
“No, my love,” he said. “But maybe later.”
Gilbert nodded. “She still has hope. Let us make haste.”
Palmer followed the couple out of the cowshed and across the yard to the main building. Theodosia’s head tipped back over his left arm. She was lost to the world once more. They entered a side door, and Gilbert gestured for him to come through.
Palmer stepped into what appeared to be a shuttered shop. The light of a single candle placed on the narrow counter showed different pelts and skins fastened to wooden shelves and frames, ready to be put on show. The scent of new, good leather hung sweet in the air.
“Gwendolyn, go and put some water on to heat,” said Gilbert.
His wife did as he asked, but with a displeased set of her jaw. As she went to mount the narrow staircase, she addressed her husband. “I’m not having these people in my home. We don’t know a thing about them.” She stamped up the wooden stairs without waiting for an answer.
Gilbert gave a soft sigh. “Good sir, bring your lady through here.” He picked up the candle and indicated to a room at the back.
As Palmer carried Theodosia in, he noted whitewashed walls and clean, swept floorboards. Windowless, it contained no furniture but instead stored bales of more pelts and skins.
Gilbert entered behind him and placed the candle on a wooden wall shelf. He bent to one bale. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” His breath rattled loud in his chest with effort as he untied the twine. “Here.” He unrolled a half dozen spotless, combed sheepskins. “Put her in those. I’ve not tanned for years, only sell ’em. As my wife says, less smell, better money. But I can still tell a good one.”
Palmer nodded as he placed the anchoress on the soft cream wool. “Thank you, it’ll surely help. But I need to get this wet clothing off her.”
Theodosia’s eyes opened once more to scan the room, empty of sense. “This place pleases me. No windows to the world.”
Gilbert went to the door. “I’ll give you your privacy. Call me when you’re ready for the water.”
“Thank you again, sir,” said Palmer. “With all my heart.”
“Thank me when she’s ready for that dance, eh?” With a brief smile, the older man shut the door.
♦ ♦ ♦
Gilbert Prudhomme made his breathless way up the stairs to his home above the shop, his heart sobered by the strangers’ plight. The young woman looked at death’s door, so she did. A plague on that river. But he could never move from this house, not with its memories of Catherine, of Isobel.
His long-drowned little Izzie, her soaked curls stuck to her lifeless forehead. Her tiny hands, still like a babe’s, with plump wrists and dimples across the knuckles, but cold as stones as he kissed them and cried and cried. His only consolation had been that Catherine hadn’t lived to see that terrible day. He blinked the memory away, as painful now as it had been all those years before. He entered the orderly long room, where his second wife bent to an iron pot over the fire lit in the central hearth.
Gwendolyn straightened up and gave him her sourest look. “Before you ask, it’ll be a while. There’s nothing to break your fast, neither, not with all this bother.”
Gilbert had already noticed the table. Well scrubbed as ever, but empty. “It’s no matter this once.”
She nodded at the floor. “I suppose you think it’s all right to leave that pair down there? With all them furs and skins, ready for market day and worth a pretty penny?”
“I’ll go down as soon as the lady’s out of her wet clothes,” he said. “You can’t expect me to stay in there for that.” He gave her a little smile, but to no avail.
“I don’t know what to think. Two complete strangers turn up in our cowshed at the crack of dawn, and what do you do? Bring them straight in here.” His wife’s mouth contorted as if she tasted sour milk. “If those two are married, Marigold’s a prize bull.”
Gilbert laid a placating hand on her arm. “It doesn’t matter about that. The young lady’s near drowned. We have to try and save her.”