The Marsh King's Daughter by Elizabeth Chadwick Read Free Book Online Page A

been doing on the estuary, he was probably part of the rebel force that had recently been ravaging Lincolnshire. As such, he ought to be chained up in prison and was doubly fortunate to have literally washed up on St Catherine's threshold.
    Taking a linen square from a pile on a nearby shelf, she began drying a container and tiptoed past the slumbering dragon to look at the young man.
    He was asleep, but when his eyes were open they were a dark blue-green. His hair had dried to the hue of dark oak polished with a hint of bronze, and was in dire need of barbering. Since last night his jaw had grown a crop of strong, golden stubble. His mouth was tender; his nose had a slight kink in profile as if it had once been broken. Miriel slowly rotated the jar in her hand and gazed upon him while a warm glow spread through her body.
    'What are you doing?'
    Miriel jumped and spun so swiftly that she almost smashed a second clay jar. Sister Margaret was sitting up in her chair, her eyes narrow and suspicious.
    'I was just making sure he was all right, Sister.' Miriel hastened from the bedside and setting the dried pot on a trestle, collected the next one. 'His breathing is swift and 'He's a little flushed.' The same could be said of herself, she thought wryly. Jesu, the woman had eyes in the back of her wimple.
    Well, in future leave that duty to myself or Sister Godefe.' The infirmaress gave a convulsive heave. 'Hand me my stick and I will look now.'
    Dutifully, Miriel did as she was bid. Arguing would only cause aggravation and at the moment she was full of fresh resolve to keep her tongue behind her teeth. Sister Margaret might be grumpy with gout and out of sorts because the young man had interrupted their routine, but she was still a thousand times better than that harridan Euphemia.
    Sister Margaret struggled out of her chair and hobbled over to the bed to study the patient. 'Aye,' she said grudgingly, 'he's a mite feverish. Most likely he's taken a chill on the lungs.' She sucked her teeth and gave an infinitesimal shake of her head.
    'What's to be done?'
    The nun shrugged. 'Dose him with feverfew and put a mustard plaster on his chest to draw out the evil humours.
    Wrap him well and keep him warm.' She looked sidelong at Miriel. 'And pray.'
    Miriel swallowed, misliking the tone of Sister Margaret's answer. 'Will he recover?'
    'That is in the hands of God.'
    After yesterday's discussion, Miriel had arrived at the conclusion that God's hands must be enormous to encompass all that they did, and human endeavour so small that some things must surely slip through the gaps between his fingers. Gazing at Nicholas, she began to understand why prayers held so much value to some people - as reminders to the Almighty.
    Sister Godefe returned from her errand to the cellaress, and within the quarter candle she and Miriel departed to tend the ailing shepherd whom they had missed in yesterday's excitement.
    Today a stiff breeze had rolled away the fog and the land stretched uninterrupted to the coast in dull shades of green and brown and grey. Stabs of sunlight between the scuds of cloud edged the colours in bright gilding and filled Miriel with pleasure, even while she worried about Nicholas. She had paused in the chapel to say a quick prayer on her way out, which had earned her a suspicious glance from a passing Sister Euphemia. But Euphemia's distrust was nothing compared to the necessity of calling God's attention to the young man's plight and entering a plea for his safe deliverance. It was a test of faith. He had to survive.
    There was no sign of old Wynstan the shepherd at his hut, nor of his wife or dogs. Miriel dismounted and pushed open the dwelling door. Inside it was warm, but the peat fire was covered by a metal curfew lid, denoting that the occupants expected to be gone some time. Smoked mutton sausages dangled from the beams side by side with skeins of homespun wool dyed in rich shades of honey and copper. The bed bench was neatly