Free The Forest by Edward Rutherfurd

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, the 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 on in a low voice: “He lost his first wife, you know.” She had no idea. “Lost her and their only child. Heartbroken. Didn’t marry again for a long time, then thought he’d better try once more, I suppose. Needs an heir.”
    “But why the Lady Maud?”
    “She’s an heiress, you know.” He gave her a quick, hard look. “He had two manors, this one and Tarrant. She brought him three more, same county. One of them marches with his land at Tarrant. Consolidates the holdings. Martell knows what he’s doing.”
    She understood the bleak reminder of her own lack of manors. “And has he got an heir now?”
    “No children yet.”
    Shortly after this the Lady Maud appeared and conducted her to the solar, a pleasant room up a flight of steps at one end of the hall. Here she found an old nurse, who greeted her courteously, and she sat and made polite conversation while the two women worked on their needlepoint.
    Their talk was friendly enough. Dutifully following Walter’s earlier advice, she paid close attention to all that her hostess said and did. Certainly the lady of the manor seemed quite easy company in this setting. She clearly had a complete grasp of everything relating to the household. The kitchen where the beef was already on the spit, the larder where she was making preserves, her herb garden, her needlework, of which both she and the old nurse were quite rightly proud – all these things she spoke about with a quiet warmth that was pleasing. But if Adela asked her about anything outside these boundaries – about the estate or the politics of the county – she would only give a slightly twisted smile and answer: “Oh, I leave all that to my husband. That’s for the men, don’t you think?”
    Yet at the same time she obviously knew all the