Fateful Encounter

by June Francis

  ‘Niall could tell you much about our past. It is a pity he is not with us,’ Kathleen said regretfully.

  ‘You are fond of your foster-brother?’ Constance asked with the barest hint of curiosity.

  ‘I love him,’ answered Kathleen simply, ‘as if he were my blood brother.’ Her eyes shone. ‘When Niall is around, life is never dull! Lately, he is not home often, but in the hills guarding his captain’s borders since his cousin Dermot was taken. He lives by hunting and warfare now.’ She added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Although he sometimes puts his freedom in danger by daring to do what many men would not, entering the towns of the English to discover what King Richard and his lords are about. He has been to Dublin, and was captured once, but he escaped.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured Constance drily. Really, Kathleen was taking a chance telling her all this about her resourceful foster-brother! ‘How was it that he came to live with your family?’

  Kathleen wrinkled her nose. ‘His mother was a cousin of my mother. They were both O’Tooles. I do not know the whole story, only that Niall’s mother took the veil after his father died, and he and his brother Dougal came to live with my family. I was not born then. My father was Anglo-Irish, serving as — what would you say? — a steward to an English milord, who left Ireland years ago, even before Brigid was born. Father had plans for Niall to take his place, as he had no son, not only as steward but also with the horses.’

  ‘Horses?’

  ‘Horses were my father’s first love. He bred and reared them, and even went to the great fairs in England and Italy to sell them, when he could. It is a great pity that Niall went to the hills not long after Father was killed, because, like the Fiann of old, he has a rare gift when it comes to handling animals.’

  ‘Perhaps he will return.’

  ‘Brigid hopes so. She has plans for them both, although I do not think that Niall feels for her the way she does for him. He looks upon her as he does upon me — as a sister.’

  ‘Well, I pray that Brigid gets what she wants,’ said Constance, losing interest in the foster-brother. ‘Where should I go first? To the castle — or in search of the party I travelled with yesterday?’

  ‘I could direct you to the finest lodging-house,’ replied Kathleen happily.

  ‘Then do so.’ She was a little surprised that Kathleen was no stranger to the town, having thought that there would not be such familiarity with the English, but it seemed that English and Irish mixed quite well, when they wanted to.

  It was as she looked along the crowded streets that she saw a man she recognised. She uttered a cry, and was glad when he turned and came towards them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘MASTER BRANDON, how glad I am to see you!’ Relieved to see a familiar face, Constance employed more warmth in her tones than she would normally use to address a man she had met only three days before.

  The man’s green eyes gleamed as he took her extended hand, to hold it between his own. ‘No more glad than I am to see you, Mistress Constance! I considered you to be in the clutches of the native Irish, and lost to us.’

  ‘Fortunately I escaped, sir.’ Her brow clouded. ‘But my kinsman was taken. I fear they hold him to exchange for a hostage in English hands.’

  ‘That is unfortunate, indeed!’ He pressed her hand gently. ‘They told you that much before you escaped?’ She gave a brief shake of her head. ‘The barbarian who first captured me did so, but I escaped from him to a family who showed me great kindness. Now I am uncertain what to do next.’

  ‘Surely there is little you can do but wait for them to contact those who have charge of the hostages? But I know little of these matters.’ He released her hand to ease the high curled neck of.the scarlet houppelande he wore. Its bagpipe sleeve brushed her knee.

  ‘There must be something I can do?’ She bit her lip, and her eyes were suddenly moist with tears. ‘A — A way of discovering just where they hold him? Surely there must be some way of contacting the tribesmen that hold Robin a prisoner?’

  He stared hard at her, seeming to hesitate before saying, ‘Perhaps. But you must be hungry — and your apparel ...’ His eyes ran swiftly over her. ‘You will surely wish to change it?’

  She grimaced. ‘I wandered into a bog! I had hopes of finding Master Upton and my baggage here.’

  He reassured her quickly. ‘Master Upton is here.’ She smiled in delight. ‘Well, that’s a relief! But you said “perhaps”. Does that mean that there is something I can do?’

  ‘It is possible. But first let us adjourn this conversation until we have had food and drink, and you can take possession of your baggage.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Who is this girl?’

  Constance clapped a hand to her cheek. ‘It is Kathleen, who has been of great help to me. She speaks no English, only French and Irish, but she has been a true friend.’

  ‘Here, girl,’ he called in French, tossing Kathleen a coin, which she caught deftly. ‘You may go.’ He turned to Constance, placing his hands about her waist and smiling up at her. ‘You will come down? Because really, Mistress Constance, I cannot continue to converse with you in such a manner.’

  ‘Of course I understand that, Master Brandon, but allow me first to thank Kathleen.’ She gasped as he swung her down, not certain whether she liked his presumption.

  ‘You have but a moment, my dear Mistress Constance.’ His searching stare was bold. ‘I must travel on today, and if you desire my help, we must talk while we eat.’ With some reluctance she turned to Kathleen to thank her, before bidding her farewell.

  ‘It was a pleasure,’ responded the girl in a cheery voice. She raised a hand, and soon had disappeared in the crowds that mingled in the street.

  Constance stared after her until she was roused by Master Brandon’s hand on her sleeve. ‘Come, I cannot delay much longer.’ He already had Maeve’s reins in his grasp. She nodded, and went with him.

  On reaching the lodging house, Master Brandon called sharply to an ostler lounging against a wall, who slowly came over. ‘You will take good care of this horse, and see if you can find the lady a saddle.’

  He nodded, his gaze ranging over Maeve, and the expression on his thin face brightened. ‘From Connemara is she, mistress?’ addressing Constance.

  ‘I believe her sire was.’ She smiled. ‘You will see that she is fed and watered, and clean the mud off her?’

  ‘Surely, ‘twould be an honour.’ He gave her a wide grin.

  ‘Half Irish,’ said Master Brandon disparagingly, as he led the way through an open doorway. ‘They’re mad about horseflesh, as you’ll discover if you still intend settling over here.’

  They entered a small low-pitched room, which was unoccupied except for the maid sweeping the floor with a besom, and a man of enormous girth sitting on a bench against a wooden wall. He looked up at their entering, and his jowls quivered as he chomped his jaws before speaking. ‘Mistress de Wensley, you are here!’ His voice expressed his astonishment.

  ‘Master Upton.’ She inclined her head, coming to a halt in front of him. ‘I trust you have my baggage safe?’

  He bumbled to his feet. ‘Of course, of course. And Master Milburn, where is he?’ His gaze reached beyond her to the doorway.

  ‘He is a prisoner of the native Irish,’ Master Brandon answered before she could answer. ‘But you may fetch Mistress de Wensley’s baggage, for she has need of it, Upton.’

  The man bowed and nodded. ‘Right away. I will fetch it right away.’ His small round eyes went from his face to hers, and back again. ‘You want it down here?’

  ‘Of course, man, damn you!’ exclaimed Master Brandon in vexed tones. ‘She wishes to ascertain that it is all there.’

  Constance saw the man flush, and she stayed him with her hand. ‘It is upstairs, Master Upton?’

  ‘Ay, mistress. In the tiny chamber Master Brandon and I had to share,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I will fetch it, and you shall see that not even a riband is missing.’

 
‘There is no need.’ She faced Brandon. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall take this opportunity to change my clothes.’

  There was a brief pause before he nodded, and his thin mouth lengthened. ‘Of course. I shall order us some food and wine. You will not delay?’

  She forced a smile. ‘I shall make all speed.’ She turned to Master Upton. ‘You will show me the way?’

  He chomped his jaws, nodded several times, and lumbered across the room with amazing speed for one of his girth. She followed swiftly, having to slow down only when they reached the stairs to give him time to hoist himself up the steep ascent.

  The chamber turned out to be as tiny as Master Upton had hinted, being only a small space behind a partition in a larger room. In a corner was what she supposed was Master Brandon’s baggage. Beneath the window stood hers and Robin’s. She hurried over to it, making room for Master Upton’s bulk.

  ‘There it is, mistress, and not a riband or a pin missing,’ he wheezed.

  ‘I do not doubt your honesty, Master Upton.’ She removed her pallet from on top, setting it down on the floor.

  ‘That Master Brandon,’ he declared indignantly, ‘giving himself airs and graces! He might be a messenger for the Earl of March, but he’s only a servant like me.’

  ‘That is true,’ she said gravely, seeing beyond his irate manner to the hurt beneath. ‘I’m sure he did not intend to offend you.’

  ‘That he did,’ he said indignantly. ‘Him and his peculiar shoes! A man in his position shouldn’t be wearing the like. Fancies his chances, he does.’

  Constance sought to hide a smile. ‘They are out of the ordinary, but very fashionable at court — so my father says.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but Master Brandon’s no lord, for all he’d like to be. You be careful of him, Mistress de Wensley. I wouldn’t be doing my duty by your father’s agent in Dublin if I didn’t warn you that he has some strange friends.’

  Constance’s smile faded. ‘I think you have said enough, Master Upton. Master Brandon’s friends are his own affair. All this, because he wears pointed shoes!’

  ‘Extremely long, pointed shoes,’ muttered Upton, his jowls wobbling.

  She suddenly lost patience, feeling inexpressibly weary. ‘What does that matter?’ she snapped. ‘You will leave me now, for I wish to change my gown.’

  He nodded, opened his mouth tentatively, then shut it again and left her alone. She frowned as she watched him go. He really was an unusual type to have as a guide, but he had come recommended as trustworthy by her father’s agent. What had he meant about Master Brandon’s friends? She stared unseeingly out of the window before shaking herself and beginning to undress as she moved away.

  She chose a green gown of fustian and, to wear over it, an old favourite cote-hardie of scarlet — the elbow-length wider sleeves of which showed the green of the tight-fitting sleeves of the gown. It was with relief that she found some shoes of soft red leather with pointed toes — but which were not as pointed or long as Master Brandon’s. His were so long that they had to be tied to bands about his calves to prevent them from tripping him up!

  She sat on her baggage, a comb in her hand, pondering on Master Upton’s words, and remembering the first time she had seen Master Brandon. He had worn a blue houppelande cut extremely short so that it barely covered his buttocks. Since it was tight fitting and padded with a high curled-over neck, which came just below his bobbed reddish hair, one could not help noticing him. His slender legs had been clad in scarlet hose — his shoes had also been red. He was nice-looking rather than handsome, with well defined features. His nose was a trifle long and thin.

  She caught herself up, realising how carefully she had detailed so much about him. How different he was from the man who had rescued her from the bog after chasing her! How different from the man she had watched sporting in the river! She found herself remembering how intense his grey eyes were, and the fullness of his mouth — the feel of it as it had claimed her lips — the way his hair curled about his head, and the strength in his legs and the broadness of his shoulders. She shook herself. This would not do: he was a rogue, and — worse than a rogue — a man who would not accept responsibility for his actions. Her cheeks burned. Cast him out of your mind, Constance, with all that he accused you of! She slotted him and Master Brandon neatly into the back of her mind, before bundling her discarded clothing in a corner. Only the barbarian’s mantle did she set apart. She sat on her baggage and began to undo her untidy braids.

  Her fingers worked quickly, and it was not long before she had combed and rebraided her hair. It was as she was fastening their ends with scarlet ribands that she glanced out of the window. Her hand stilled, and she drew back swiftly, her heart seeming to leap into her throat. Cautiously she peered out of the window, feeling the slightest breeze cooling her hot cheeks. It was he! She would recognise that stance anywhere. There was arrogance in every line of him — from the tilt of his tawny head to the way his feet firmly trod the ground. But who was that he was talking to? Ah, the ostler who had taken change of Maeve. She heard another voice joining the conversation: a girl’s voice. She leaned a little further, trying to see who it was, and as she did so, the riband slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the ground.

  The movement caught Niall’s eye, and his head slewed round. They stared at one another in a moment of awareness that seemed to last an age. Then she leaned back swiftly, wondering, with a heavily beating heart, how he had found her and what she feared he could do to her here in an English-occupied town. It was not as though she were alone or defenceless.

  ‘Mistress de Wensley, may I speak with you?’ His dulcet tones caused her to flatten herself against the wall. ‘Mistress de Wensley, let us not play games! We have seen each other, and I only wish to speak to you. Come to the window, if you please.’

  Slowly she did as he requested, looking down on his upturned face. He smiled, so that the creases at the corners of his grey eyes deepened and the scar zig-zagged into the laughter lines. Unexpectedly, her knees trembled and she had to grip the window-ledge tightly.

  ‘Kathleen told me that you are still anxious about your kinsman. I come to reassure you that nothing will happen to harm him. Once my cousin is freed, so will your kinsman be.’

  ‘Kathleen?’ she said in a low voice, and instantly she realised who he must be. ‘You are her foster-brother?’

  ‘Ay! Niall O’More, at your service.’ He bowed.

  ‘I don’t consider myself in need of your services, Master — O’More,’ she said coolly. ‘Did Kathleen guide you to me.’

  The girl, recognising her name, came forward. She beamed up at Constance as she put her hand through Niall’s arm. ‘He was concerned for you.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ she said drily. ‘Concern for me, Master O’More — or for your own safety? I should leave this town, if I were you.’ She brushed back her braids, which had fallen forward. ‘But tell me, how are you after your sojourn in the river?’

  His eyes sparkled, and his smile set rigidly. ‘I should have left you in the bog for thefomor to delight in,’ he said harshly.

  She smiled sweetly. ‘I told you, Master — O’More, that I don’t believe in them, but there are other devils about ready to prey on a defenceless woman.’

  ‘If you are referring to me,’ he countered hotly, ‘I would add that you are not defenceless, but more like a wild beast. A cat with claws unsheathed, ready to attack.’

  ‘A cat doesn’t attack unless — unless,’ she was floundering, lost for words to parry his insult, ‘unless it has to defend itself.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ A bark of laughter escaped him. ‘Cats prey on creatures smaller than themselves, mauling them for pleasure before consuming them.’

  Her eyebrows lifted. ‘You are hardly smaller than me, sir. And if we are speaking of mauling ...’ She stopped abruptly, aware of Kathleen’s upturned, puzzled face, and was glad that the girl could not understand English. What was she thinking of to band
y words with this Irishman?

  ‘You were speaking of mauling, mistress,’ he prompted, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes gleaming. ‘Last night you were glad of my holding you, snuggling against me like a kitten does against its mother.’

  She gasped indignantly. ‘I was frozen — and, besides, I had little choice, if you remember!’

  ‘I make no complaint, mistress.’ His voice was suddenly as gentle and soothing as a caress. ‘It was a night I’ll never forget.’ His gaze caught and held hers.

  Constance was suddenly aware of the beating of her heart, and she remembered how he had whispered words of love. She swallowed. ‘It was a night I would rather forget,’ she replied acidly. ‘Good day to you, Master O’More. And to you, Kathleen.’ Withdrawing her head, she closed the shutters firmly.

  She listened for a moment to the indistinct murmur of their voices, before finding another riband. Then she hurried downstairs, still agitated over what had occurred between Master O’More and herself.

  Master Brandon, sitting on a bench alone, had already begun his meal. His eyes gazed at her over the rim of his cup, and she saw the admiration leap into them. It pleased her, remembering how she must have appeared earlier.

  ‘You have been a long time,’ he murmured, making room for her beside him. ‘But it has been worth the wait.’

  ‘I am gratified that you consider it so,’ she said demurely, lowering her eyes to watch the manservant pour red wine into her cup.

  ‘I consider you a beautiful woman.’ He picked up a knife to carve a chunk of beef from the haunch on the table.

  ‘You flatter me, sir.’ She took a sip from her cup. ‘That looks appetising.’

  ‘Burnt on the outside, but raw within — just how I like it.’ He placed the meat on a trencher in front of her. The juices ran on to the thick bread. ‘You misjudge your own charms, and my honesty, if you consider that I speak insincerely. You are a woman that any man would be proud to have by his side.’