Heart of the Matter

Part 5

Her...

“Someone has made you cry, Marian. Was it Gisborne? Did he say something as we left the meeting? Threaten you in any way?”

I could lie, tell my father it’s the cold wind stinging my eyes or that I have developed a sudden reaction to the advent of spring, but we have done this journey many times in similar conditions; he will not believe me. Even so, I am not ready to tell him about my quarrel with Robin or our meeting in the armoury just a short while ago, not until I can better understand myself what is happening between Robin and me. So, a half-lie, then.

“No. It wasn’t anything Guy said or did. I am just disheartened. No one is willing to stand up with us and object to the sheriff’s ridiculous taxes. I hate feeling so powerless.”

“There is no point in getting worked up about it,” my father says.

I smile. Not so long ago I’d said the exact same thing to him.

“I know, Father. I think I am simply tired and hungry. I’m sure I will feel better when we are home and supper is on the table.”

My father sinks back into his seat with a weary sigh. “I’m inclined to agree. Those meetings go on interminably and never do they offer us refreshment; not even a cup of water.”

“The sheriff would probably charge for it if he did,” I say.

My father chuckles.

Moments later, he is slumped in the corner of the carriage asleep and I am free to wipe my tear-filled eyes and think my own thoughts. Except that those thoughts are all over the place, flitting from what happened – or rather, what did not happen – in the armoury, to the sheriff’s latest extortionate and ludicrous taxes and, finally, to Guy and my proposed duping of him. One moment I am sure what to do, the next full of doubts. Why is life so complicated?

Once home, however, I start to feel better. Tonight I shall be the Night Watchman, distributing food and medicines to the poor and the sick. This part of my life at least seems easy in comparison with the rest.

Bessie serves supper: a simple affair of bread and cheeses, fruit and wine.

My stomach grumbles and I tear off a piece of bread, but before I have taken more than a couple of mouthfuls there is a knock on the door.

My father grunts in annoyance and starts to rise from his chair.

“Sit and eat,” I tell him. “I will answer it.”

The caller raps again, three times. I recognise the knock. I catch Bessie heading for the door and tell her that I will answer it myself and she may return to the kitchen.

“Guy,” I say, summoning a smile and hoping I don’t have crumbs around my mouth. “I would not have expected to see you at this late hour.” I make it sound as though his call is a pleasant surprise, when in fact I mean the opposite.

“Apologies,” he says, “but I needed to see you.”

Without waiting for an invitation, he pushes past me and makes for the hall. I follow, quietly cursing.

“Father,” I say with false brightness. “We have a visitor.”

My father stabs his knife into a piece of cheese and stands. Guy glances uneasily about him.

“Forgive me, Sir Edward. I did not realise you were in the midst of a meal.”

Guy looks at me somewhat helplessly and then turns his attention to our supper. I wonder if he has had a chance to eat since the meeting ended.