The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [24]
The village lay in a long valley. It was very different country from the Forest. On each side huge fields of wheat and barley, neatly divided into strips, swept up the slopes until they rolled over the valley’s crests. At the near end a small stone Saxon church rested on a green by a pond. The cottages were neatly fenced, more ordered than most such places. Even the village street looked tidy, as though swept by some unseen controlling hand. And finally the long lane led to the gatehouse to the manor itself. The house was set some distance back. Perhaps it was a trick of the light but as they rode through the entrance the close-cropped grass lawns, which lay on each side of them, seemed to Adela to be a darker green than the grass they had passed before. Ahead to the left was a large, square range of farm buildings, timber frame over stone, and to the right, set apart behind a large, well-swept open courtyard, stood the handsome hall with its accompanying buildings, all in knapped flintstone and topped with high, thatched roofs with not a straw out of place. This was no ordinary squire’s house. It was the base of a large territorial holding. Its calm, rather dark order said quietly, but just as clearly as any castle: ‘This land is the feudal lord’s. Bow down.’
A groom and his boy came out to take their horses. The door of the hall opened, and Hugh de Martell stepped out alone and came swiftly towards them.
She had not seen him smile before. It was warmer than she had expected. It made him more handsome than ever. He extended his long arm and held out his hand to help her down. She took it, noticing for a moment the dark hairs on his wrist, and stepped down beside him.
He quietly moved back and, before Walter could say anything remarked: ‘Just as well you came today, Walter. I was called away to Tarrant all day yesterday.’ Then he led the way, with an easy stride, towards the hall, holding the door for her as she went in.
The hall was large, as high as a barn with great oak-beamed rafters and woven rush matting on the floor. Two large oak tables, both gleaming, flanked the big open hearth in the centre. The wooden shutters were pulled back; the high windows let in a pleasant, airy light. She looked around for her hostess and almost at once, from a smaller doorway at the far end, that lady came in and went straight to Tyrrell.
‘You are welcome, Walter,’ she said softly, as he took her hand. ‘We are glad you could come.’ After only a short pause, she turned to Adela also. ‘You too, of course.’ She smiled, although with just a trace of doubt, as if faintly uncertain as to the younger woman’s social status.
‘My kinswoman, Adela de la Roche,’ said Walter without enthusiasm.
But it was not the cool reception that claimed Adela’s attention. What really struck her was the other woman’s appearance.
What had she expected Hugh de Martell’s wife to look like? More like him, she supposed – tall, handsome, nearer his age, perhaps. Yet this woman was only a little older than herself. She was short. And she wasn’t handsome at all. Her face, it seemed to Adela, was not exactly bad-looking but it was irregular; certainly her lips, which were small, weren’t straight – as if they had been slightly pulled up on one side. Her gown, although good, was too pale a shade of green and made her look even more pasty-faced than she was. A poor choice. She looked meagre, insignificant. That, Adela decided, was what she thought.
She had no chance to observe more just then. The manor house boasted two chambers where guests might sleep, one for men, another for women, and after her hostess had shown her the women’s chamber she left Adela to her own devices. But a little later, returning to the hall and finding Walter alone there, she quietly asked him: ‘When did Martell marry?’
‘Just three years ago.’ He glanced round and went