Wheel of Fate Read Free Page B

first knock, staring at me for a moment as though uncertain who I was – her sight was not as good as it had once been – before her features settled into lines of accusation and disapproval. At the same time, in response to a bark from Hercules, my daughter, Elizabeth, pushed past her grandmother and flung herself into my arms.
    â€˜Father! Father! Tell Mother and Nicholas to come back! And Adam, too,’ she added generously, ‘if we have to have him. I miss them so much!’ And she burst into tears.
    My quondam mother-in-law pursed her lips. ‘So you’re home at last, are you?’ she said grimly. She pushed the cottage door wider. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in.’

TWO
    I picked up Elizabeth – no mean feat for she took after me in both colouring and physique and was nothing like her dark, delicate, small-boned mother – and stepped into the cottage.
    â€˜Where’s Adela?’ I demanded, wasting no time on pleasantries.
    But it was a question not destined to be answered immediately. For a start, Hercules’s thirst would no longer be denied and he began barking on a high, shrill, begging note, pawing the ground and refusing to let up until his need was attended to. He had been very patient, but enough was enough.
    â€˜He’s thirsty,’ I said in reply to Margaret Walker’s impatient glance, and Elizabeth, her sobs turning to giggles, wriggled to the ground, found an old bowl of her grandmother’s and filled it from the water barrel. Hercules fell on it, slopping water in all directions and noisily drinking his fill.
    â€˜Where’s—?’ I began again, but was not allowed to finish.
    â€˜It’s gone ten o’clock. It’s dinner time,’ Margaret announced, moving towards the fire over which hung an iron pot full of what smelled like rabbit stew. ‘Bess, my sweetheart, put out the spoons and bowls. I daresay your father will be eating with us. I’ve never known him when he isn’t hungry.’ She added with some asperity, ‘As for you, Roger, just make yourself useful and move that basket of wool out of the way and pull the table clear of the wall.’
    â€˜Where . . .?’ I tried for the third time, keeping a grip on my temper.
    But Margaret had turned her back and was busily stirring the stew, and I knew her sufficiently well to realize that repeated questioning would only lead to further delay. She would answer me in her own good time and not before, so I turned my attention to moving the basket of unbleached wool that stood beside her spinning wheel and shifting the table so that it could accommodate three instead of two. Elizabeth, meanwhile, was running between it and the cupboard with bowls and knives and spoons, touching me every so often to reassure herself that I really had returned and stooping occasionally to pat Hercules on the head. (He, of course, having slaked his thirst, had smelled the stew and was busy ingratiating himself with the cook by rubbing himself against Margaret’s legs.) Finally, I drew up two stools to the table, fetched Margaret’s low-backed sewing chair from its corner and sat down to wait, containing my impatience as best I could.
    Margaret brought the pot to the table and began ladling out the hot, delicious-smelling broth. I realized suddenly how hungry I was, tore a crust from the loaf and fell to with a will. My daughter filled another bowl for Hercules and for a moment or two there was no sound but the chomping of our jaws.
    â€˜You’ve heard the news, I suppose?’ Margaret asked eventually, and I nodded, my mouth too full to speak. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘I daresay we shall survive and things will settle down just so long as the queen’s family don’t make too much trouble. But His Grace of Gloucester will no doubt keep them in check.’
    â€˜He’ll have to be quick, then,’ I mumbled,