Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)

by Meriel Fuller

  The blow came out of nowhere, a large fist slamming into the side of Alinor’s cheek.

  The maid’s body reeled sideways at the violent impact, limp in Guilhem’s arms, unconscious. Her head lolled forward on to his shoulder, linen veil fanning out across his surcoat. He didn’t even have time to step back, to pull her away from Edward’s damaging swing, the full force of his blow. ‘I’m sorry,’ Edward said, staring with dismay at the senseless maid in Guilhem’s arms, ‘but that infernal screeching was crawling under my skin; it made me mad.’

  ‘Really?’ Guilhem replied, his tone constrained, dry. He adjusted his arms so that the girl’s body was more evenly balanced against him. God, when would Edward learn to control his temper? He swung her legs up towards his chest, so that she lay secure against him, her weight light, surprisingly delicate. Her voluminous gown concealed a trim figure, a slender indent of waist. The curve of her hip nudged against his forearm. ‘It was completely unnecessary. To hit a woman, Edward, and not only a woman, a lay sister!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Edward said, pale eyes immediately contrite. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’

  Guilhem’s eyes lowered, scowling at the mass of purple bruising on the woman’s cheekbone. Blood trickled down towards her wimple, staining the white cloth, blooming steadily across the fabric like a blossoming flower. Her eyes were closed, long velvet lashes fanning her cheeks. But her breath puffed against his jawline, warm and regular. Thank God. Ignoring Edward, he carried her over into the shade of a beech tree and laid her down, carefully, on the ground.

  He walked over to help the other soldiers unload the grain sacks, stacking them neatly at the side of the bridge. Unhitching the oxen, they led the animals over to the trees, securing their reins to the lower branches. Watched by Edward, grim and unsmiling on his horse, they managed to half-drag, half-carry the ailing cart from the bridge, depositing it safely on the river bank.

  ‘What I can’t understand is, what was the stupid chit doing on her own?’ Edward said suddenly, exasperated, trying to mitigate his guilt, as if he were less likely to hit a woman if she had a man with her. ‘I mean, what woman travels alone, these days? It’s unheard of. Foolish. Stupid.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Guilhem said. ‘But apparently she told the soldiers she had sent her man to fetch help with the broken axle.’ He flicked his gaze over to the spreading beech tree, at the prone, motionless figure, the stark white face.

  ‘My mother would tear a strip off me if she found out that I’d hit a woman,’ Edward said, his narrow mouth turning down ruefully.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Guilhem replied. ‘The Queen adores you and well you know it. She would blame the girl for bringing it upon herself.’

  Edward threw him a curious lopsided smile. ‘Well, her behaviour was completely out of order...’

  ‘It was certainly...unusual,’ Guilhem replied. Most women would have run away at the first sight of the soldiers, rather than guarding the cart with its mediocre haul of grain. She had been horribly frightened, but had held her ground, hitting out like a cornered animal. Admiration threaded through him, a grudging praise; although she had been foolish, it had taken a great deal of courage to do what she had done.

  ‘Anyway...’ Edward adjusted his leather gauntlets around his wrists ‘...let’s move; we’ve wasted enough time in this godforsaken place. Let’s rideto Knighton. To the palace.’ He looked around the clearing, satisfied that the other soldiers were mounting up. ‘Where’s your horse?’

  ‘I’ll catch you up,’ Guilhem said bluntly.

  ‘Wh-what? Please don’t tell me you intend to shilly-shally around a common nun? Her manservant will be back in a moment!’

  Guilhem patted the neck of Edward’s horse, rubbing his calloused thumb against the soft pelt. ‘I want to make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘An attack of conscience, Guilhem? What’s the matter, feeling guilty on my behalf?’

  Guilhem shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, merely concerned.’ The feeling of guilt was nothing new to him, hanging constantly from his shoulders like a grey shroud. ‘She’s vulnerable lying there like that, unconscious; any woman would be.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, leave her! Get on your horse and come with me’

  ‘I’ll follow on.’

  Edward’s mouth drooped with disappointment. ‘You’ve gone soft, Guilhem,’ he said bitterly. ‘Ever since that day at Fremont—’

  Guilhem shook his head, a swift, decisive moment, stopping Edward’s speech. He had no wish to be reminded of that awful day. Remorse lurched through his heart. The burning castle. That child...

  Edward eyed his friend’s stony expression. ‘Don’t let it affect you so, Guilhem. You paid the price.’

  ‘I set the fire that killed him,’ Guilhem replied tonelessly. A child’s life lost through his thoughtless actions. ‘I’ll follow on.’

  Edward slumped in the saddle. Hazy shadows cast by the beech trees dappled his skin, sunburnt and freckled. Guilhem was indispensable, his best commander. But he had no authority over him: Guilhem was not a knight in Edward’s pay, he was a rich man in his own right, a man who chose to ride by the Prince’s side from a sense of loyalty, of friendship. Because Edward had helped him. Saved him.

  ‘Oh, if you insist,’ Edward said finally, resigned. Raising his arm, he gave the order for his soldiers to mount up and follow him. Kicking his heels into the destrier’s flanks, he rode away, clattering across the flat square stones of the bridge, horse’s tail swishing in his wake.

  * * *

  The sun had moved behind the clouds again. Beneath the tree the light was dim, streaked in shadow. Ducking his head beneath the low swaying branches, Guilhem crouched beside the girl’s prone figure, pillowed in a mass of spent beech leaves, her gown billowing out from a girdled waist, the cloth sinking down around her limbs to display the rounded curve of her hips, slender thighs. Leather boots poked out from a rickety hemline. And hanging from her belt, a dagger, carried in a leather scabbard! Surprising, for a lay sister to carry a blade; he thought they believed that prayers and the Cross would protect them in all circumstances. Obviously, this one had other ideas.

  He knelt in down in the spongy ground, shins sinking into the mess of decaying coppery vegetation. A single leaf, burnt orange, fluttered down from above, landing on the coarse cloth covering her midriff, the concave hollow of her stomach. His nails dug into his palms, resisting the urge to brush it away.

  ‘Come on,’ he said brusquely, stroking the side of her cheek. His breath hitched at the silky sensation spiralling upwards through his blood. Her skin was like goose down, delicate, milk-white, a single freckle above her top lip. His big body hulked over her fragile frame, awkward, graceless, like some giant about to devour its prey. Most of his life had been spent bawling at soldiers, training them to fight, to battle harder, faster, longer. He’d been fighting for so long, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent in the company of a woman, had forgotten how to treat them. ‘Come on!’ he repeated, more loudly this time. Moving closer, his knees snaring her skirts, he seized her shoulders, shaking her gently. Her head rolled back against the leaves; she moaned softly.

  Her eyes opened slowly.

  * * *

  At first, Alinor’s vision was hazy, clouded; above her head, a trembling latticework of leaves, yellow, brindled, scuffing gently in the breeze. Where was she? Why was she lying here? Damp seeped upwards from the ground, soaking through the thin fabric of her gown. She wriggled her shoulders, trying to reduce the uncomfortable feeling. Her cheek ached incessantly; she examined the smarting skin with tentative fingers.

  ‘No,’ a gruff voice said, ‘leave it.’ Firm, decisive fingers pushed away her hand.

  Alinor’s stomach lurched in recognition. Oh, God, not him again! The man knelt above her, face tough and brutal, slanted grooves carving down fr
om his cheeks to the square angularity of his jaw. Fear whispered through her veins. She pushed her hands down into the ground, trying to push back from him. ‘You, go away!’ she stuttered out. His knees pinned her skirts; she was trapped. ‘Get away from me, you...you barbarian!’

  To her surprise, he laughed. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ His voice was low, melodious, curling through her veins like velvet smoke.

  ‘You hit me!’ she spat out weakly, eyes flaring with accusation.

  ‘Not me,’ he replied calmly. ‘The Prince. You wouldn’t stop screaming.’

  ‘And that makes it all right, does it?’ she flung at him, her tone brittle. ‘To hit a woman because she’s making too much noise?’ Anxiety knotted her heart; she wished she had the strength to leap up, to push the man away.

  ‘I don’t agree with what he did...’ the man hulked over her like a huge bear, shining chainmail wrinkling across his shoulders ‘...but you must admit, your behaviour was extreme, and discourteous. It’s customary to defer to royalty, to show respect, but you, you showed anything but!’ His eyes pierced her, twilight blue, intense and predatory.

  ‘I had to protect the grain,’ she mumbled. The rounded bulk of his knees brushed against her midriff, hot through the thin stuff of her dress. Too close! What was she thinking of, lying sprawled out beneath him, like some wanton? Vulnerability surged through her, her pulse fluttering insanely. ‘I need to sit up,’ she muttered. ‘And you’re on my skirts!’

  He looked down to the point where his knees trapped the fabric of her gown, mouth twitching with humour at the nun’s temerity, her constant spurning of any help from him. Surely she should be pleased that he had stayed? Ignoring her, he clamped strong fingers around her elbow.

  ‘I can do it myself!’ she hissed at him, jerking irritably at his hold. But to no avail. He released her when she was sitting upright. Her vision wobbled dangerously, but she compelled herself to concentrate on the details in front of her: his horse, the bridge, the oxen waiting patiently.

  ‘What have you done with my grain?’ Raising her knees, she planted her boots flat on to the ground, scrabbling to stand, fighting the bubbling sickness in her stomach. ‘If you’ve done anything, you’ll...oh!’ Collapsing back, she clutched at her mouth. ‘I don’t...’

  ‘Take it easy,’ Guilhem said, pressing down on her shoulder. ‘Your grain is safe, stacked by the side of the bridge.’ In contrast to the maid’s hostile behaviour, her collarbone was fragile, bird-like against his palm. He had a sudden urge to unwind the cumbersome fabric of her veil, her wimple, and trace the line of bone into the dip of her throat. He frowned, rising swiftly and strode over to his horse, extracting a leather water bottle from the saddlebags.

  ‘Here.’ Pulling the cork stopper as he walked back, he held the bottle out to Alinor.

  Reaching upwards, she was shocked to see that her hand was shaking. Inadvertently, her fingertips jogged against his wrist, muscled and sinewy, and she snatched her hand away, horrified at the flare of sensation arcing straight to the pit of her belly. Hell’s teeth, the Prince must have really punched her hard to make feel so strange!

  ‘Take it!’ he insisted, gruffly. ‘Stop acting as if I’m about to poison you!’

  She glared at the firm, tanned fingers holding the bottle out to her, then reached up to grab the flagon quickly, to avoid all touch. He raised his eyebrows at her desperate movement, but said nothing. She took a sip, relishing the cool water slipping down her throat, quelling the unstable feeling of nausea in her belly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, giving the bottle back. Tilting her head on one side, the fawn linen of her veil draping across one shoulder, she swept the empty clearing with a wide-eyed, luminous glance. ‘Where have all the soldiers gone?’ And him, she wanted to add. Prince Edward, the thug who had punched her.

  ‘They carried on.’ The knight stood over her, his expression stern, implacable, long legs planted wide, arms crossed over his chest. His calf-leather boots were scuffed, well worn. The woollen trousers that clung to his knees and the lower half of his thighs emphasised the bulky, contoured muscle of his legs. Pinioned beneath his blue gaze, Alinor drew a deep shuddery breath. She hated the way his sheer size made her feel self-conscious, her outer layers peeled away: a quaking shadow of her former self.

  ‘Then why didn’t you go with them?’ She switched her eyes away from him abruptly, a flag of colour staining her cheeks, annoyed at her reaction. Having lived with the unwanted advances of her stepbrother in the last few years, not to mention the harsh callousness of her father for all of her life, she prided herself on being able to ignore or dismiss most men. They were dispensable, as was this man. She frowned intently at a silver-backed beetle crawling slowly across the coppery leaves on the ground.

  ‘You were unconscious. It wasn’t right to leave you alone.’

  The note of care in his voice startled her. ‘Well, I’m fully conscious now,’ Alinor replied with finality. She fiddled with the plaited strings of her girdle, her leather scabbard. ‘So you can go.’

  Laughter blossomed in Guilhem’s chest. Her outright repulsion of him was so blunt, so churlish. ‘I could,’ he replied, infuriatingly, his eyes twinkling. The chit made him curious, keen to linger; she was feisty and obdurate, and not at all grateful for the fact that he had elected to stay and make sure she was safe.

  ‘Go then!’ she snapped as he continued to stand beside her. ‘I’m fine, can’t you see that? I’m sure your Prince Edward would have something to say about you wasting time over me.’ Shuffling her legs impatiently, Alinor tried to ignore the chill creeping in from the wet leaves on the ground, through her skirts, her silk hose.

  ‘He’s already said it,’ Guilhem replied. ‘And he’s your Prince as well. You would do well to show him a little more respect. He is in charge of the country now that his father King Henry has been taken prisoner.’

  Alinor flinched, pursing her lips. Tipping up her neat, round chin, she flicked her eyes briefly across his lean, impassive face, regretting her runaway tongue. ‘Well, he certainly didn’t act like a Prince!’ Defiantly, she probed the pulpy bruise on the side of her cheek as if to emphasise her point. Throwing her knees to one side, she clambered messily on to all fours, struggling to her feet, clamping her weak arm to her side. Her head swam, shifting unsteadily, iridescent points of light bobbing before her eyes. The knight seized her and, to her dismay, she clung to him, gripping tightly for support as she swayed, fighting for balance.

  He pulled her towards him, manacling her wrists. His face loomed close to hers. ‘And you, chit, do not act like a nun. So I would be careful if I were you.’

  Her heart quailed beneath the questioning look in his eyes, the suspicion held in those glittering depths. Eyes like the sea. His eyelashes were black and long, almost touching his high cheekbones, silky threads splayed out across tanned skin. Yanking away, Alinor forced herself to breath evenly, making a great play of adjusting her linen veil around her shoulders.

  A shout caused them both to look across to the bridge and she sagged with relief. Her scattered senses gathered, her mind clearing, focusing on the need to pull away from this man. There was Ralph, grinning, one arm raised in greeting as he plodded towards them carrying a piece of wood, and what looked like a hessian sack of tools. Thank God.

  ‘That’s him!’ she almost shouted at the knight beside her. ‘That’s Ralph!’ In her eagerness to reach the lad she charged past Guilhem, jogging her elbow into his forearm.

  He watched her go, her step light and purposeful across the grass, flowing skirts dragging brindled leaves in her wake. He smiled softly; why, she had practically shoved him out of the way in her eagerness to reach the boy. A maid half his size, who barely reached his shoulder! She couldn’t wait to be rid of him! He should have been annoyed, furious with her for her lack of courtesy and respect, and yet, he was not. Curiosity
chipped the mantle of his soul, dug beneath the impenetrable crust that had lain numb, dormant for all these months. Mounting up, he steered his horse towards the bridge, and up over it, his horse’s hooves clattering over the cobbles, glancing down briefly at the maid and the boy beside the broken cart. They didn’t look up and he had the distinct impression that the little nun was studiously ignoring him. Something else was going on here; it was a pity he wouldn’t be around to find out what it was. Kicking his heels into the destrier’s flanks, he rode off without a backwards glance.

  Chapter Three

  Layers of mist veiled the huge, creamy moon: a harvest moon, full and orange, inching upwards above the horizon. Brilliant stars pinpricked the dimming sky. The chapel bell attached to Odstock Priory tolled slowly for the last service of the day, sweet, melancholy notes ringing out across the flat, undulating land, the occasional screech of an owl disrupting the regular chimes. Crosses swinging from their girdles, the nuns walked in single file, heads bowed, towards the chapel from the Priory; their fawn-coloured veils shone white in the moonlight.

  Hidden in the shadows of the gatehouse, Alinor watched them, pale wraiths silent as ghosts, some hunched over with old age, others graceful with spines ramrod straight, gliding across the cobbled courtyard and into the light-filled chapel. At this hour, every windowsill, every niche in the stone walls held a flaming candle, shining on the pewter plate, the jewelled cross on the altar, on the nuns’ faces bent in prayer. Alinor knotted her fingers across her stomach. As an honorary lay sister, she had the choice as to whether she would join them or not; tonight, she would not. As the last nun stepped over the chapel threshold and the great arched door closed against the night, Alinor darted out, skipping across to the main Priory: three double-height rectangular buildings constructed from limestone blocks, arranged around cloisters and an inner courtyard garden. Climbing the wooden steps, she pushed open the iron-riveted door which led directly on to the first-floor hall, open to the roof rafters.