London - Edward Rutherfurd [80]
So it was that, late at night as he lay in Ricola’s arms, Offa, still profoundly moved by the day’s events, murmured to his wife: “I was thinking about the master and mistress.”
“Yes.”
“We owe her so much. I mean, she saved our lives.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s such a shame. If only we could do something.”
“Like what I said the other day? Is that what you mean?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
While her husband slept, Ricola lay awake, thinking, for a long time.
The main feast of Yuletide fell on the eve of the year’s shortest day, two days after Mellitus had left.
The eve of the shortest day, the year’s midnight. How brief the hours of daylight seemed. Grey clouds came in from the west, closing over the river like a blanket. As the men set up the trestle tables in the hall and banked up the fire, they all agreed that there would be a blizzard before the feast was done. Indeed, by midday the western sky had taken on that orange tinge that signals the coming of snow.
Ricola was busy. She baked bread, made the oatcakes, and helped the two women turn the great haunches of venison over the fire. How good the meat smelled as it slowly hissed and the smoke rose into the thatch. But all the time she was doing these things, the girl was thinking about her plan. And the more she did so, the more she told herself it would work, whether Offa believed her or not.
The plan that Ricola had formed, and which had so horrified her husband, rested on two very simple assumptions. The first, that she knew men. The second, that she understood her mistress.
“It’s this way,” she had explained to Offa. “I’ve watched her. She can’t make up her mind. She thought she’d lost him; now she knows she could have him back. She wants to give in, but she’s so afraid of losing him again that she can’t bring herself to make the move. And he won’t either because . . .” She searched her mind for the reason, was not sure if she saw all the possibilities, and settled on: “Because he’s a man.” Then she grinned. “You know what she’s like?” She stood up and gave a wonderful imitation of a woman teetering on a riverbank, unable to make up her mind whether to jump into the stream. “That’s how she is,” the girl concluded. “She’s so close. All she needs is a little push.” She smiled at him again. “Just one little push, Offa. That’s all.”
“And who’s going to do that?” he had asked.
“We are,” she had replied, almost severely.
Now, it seemed, was time to do it.
“I understand her,” Ricola had claimed again. “And as for him, that’ll be easy enough.”
“But if it goes too far. If it doesn’t work . . .” The possibilities were horrifying.
“It will,” she promised. “Just do as I say.”
There were about a dozen guests at the feast. They had gladly come to Lundenwic, to Cerdic’s generous table.
In the hall, many lamps were lit. The long table was crowded. Even the household slaves – Offa, Ricola and four others – had been allowed in to join the festivities. All around were merry faces flushed with ale. One of the stockmen had just given the company a song. As the light faded, a few tiny flakes of snow had fallen, lying like a powdery frosting upon the thatched roof before slowly dissolving. The sky was still orange.
Offa was still nervous. All the time, Ricola’s words kept echoing in his ears.
“It’s nothing, silly. He’s just been giving me the eye recently. It’s only natural. But we can use that. Don’t you see?”
Was his wife right? The dangers seemed so terrible to him, but Ricola had been reassuring: “She’s my friend. She won’t be angry with me. If we do nothing and the mistress gets sent away,